Page 39 of Crossing the Line
Twenty minutes. Enough time to practice what she wanted to say, to prepare for Harper's questions and her own admissions. Carmen had spent her career making life-or-death decisions with clear thinking. She could handle one difficult conversation with a woman who'd already seen her at her most exposed.
Even if that woman had the power to destroy everything Carmen had spent years rebuilding.
The coffee finished brewing just as her doorbell rang, punctual and professional as everything else about Harper. Carmen opened the door to find her standing on the cobblestone steps, still wearing the navy slacks and cream blouse from their hospital encounter but somehow looking less guarded than she had in the lobby.
"Thank you for coming," Carmen said, stepping aside to let Harper enter.
"Thank you for inviting me," Harper replied, her voice carrying cautious neutrality. "I wasn't sure you would."
They stood in Carmen's entryway for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid settling between them like fog rolling in from the harbor. Carmen could offer coffee, suggest they sit in the living room, and make polite conversation about the weather or hospital politics. All the safe options that would keep this interaction professional and appropriate.
Instead, she looked at Harper directly and said the only thing that mattered, "I owe you an explanation for this morning. And an apology."
Carmen led Harper into the living room, the space feeling different with Harper's presence—less like a museum exhibit, more like a place where people actually lived. Harper settledonto the couch as if she belonged there, and Carmen felt something twist in her chest at how right it looked.
"Coffee?" Carmen offered, gesturing toward the kitchen.
"Please." Harper's voice carried none of the defensive edge Carmen had expected. "Though I have to admit, I was surprised by the invitation. After this afternoon..."
Carmen busied herself with mugs, grateful for the familiar ritual. "This afternoon was..." She paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound like excuses. "Unprofessional. The way I treated you."
"Professional," Harper corrected quietly. "Exactly what anyone would expect from a supervisor addressing an intern. That's what made it so devastating."
The honesty hit Carmen between the ribs. She'd thought professional distance would protect them both, but Harper was right that it had been devastating precisely because it erased everything real between them.
Carmen returned with coffee, setting Harper's mug on the table before settling into the chair across from her. Close enough for conversation, but far enough to think clearly. "Your mother told you about my ex-partner during lunch."
It wasn't a question. Harper's expression confirmed what Carmen had suspected.
"She mentioned a professional betrayal," Harper said. "Someone who stole your research and published it as their own work."
"Dr. Claire Ashford." The name tasted like bitter almonds even now. "We worked together for three years developing minimally invasive cardiac techniques. Published papers, presented at conferences, built a reputation as innovative partners. Both professionally…and personally."
Carmen stared into her coffee, watching steam rise between them, then continued, "I trusted her completely. With myresearch, my techniques, and my career. When she submitted our joint work to the Journal of Cardiothoracic Surgery under her name only, claiming solo development...it destroyed everything."
Harper's fingers tightened around her mug. "The professional betrayal wasn't just professional."
"No, we'd been together for two years. We lived together and were planning a future. I thought we were building something real, but she was building her career on the back of my innovations while systematically undermining my reputation with colleagues."
The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of Carmen's admission. Carmen let her process the revelations and the reality of the personal devastation underneath—the reason she had built walls so high that not even Harper's honesty could scale them.
"I'm sorry," Harper said, and Carmen heard genuine grief in her voice. "Not just for what she did, but for how it's affected everything since. Including us."
Carmen looked up sharply. "Harper?—"
"No, let me say this." Harper leaned forward, her voice gaining strength. "I lied to you about my name, my age, and my job. I created an entire false identity because I wanted one night where someone might choose me without knowing whose daughter I was. And when you found out the truth, I handled it terribly."
Carmen felt her defenses rising, but Harper continued before she could interrupt.
"But I need you to understand something. Everything I felt that night was real. The way you made me laugh, the conversations we had, the connection between us—none of that was a performance. I wasn't lying about who I am underneath all the expectations."
"How can I know the difference?" The question came out rawer than Carmen intended. "How can I trust that any of it was genuine when you lied about everything else?"
Harper set down her coffee and stood, moving to the piano that dominated the corner of Carmen's living room. She rested her fingers on the shiny, closed fallboard protecting the keys.
"Because I'm still here," Harper said quietly. "After you treated me like a stranger and I realized how badly I'd damaged something precious and had every logical reason to walk away and protect what's left of my professional reputation, I'm still here because what we have is worth fighting for."
Carmen's chest tightened. "Harper, the complications?—"
