Page 44 of Crossing the Line
The hospital lobby buzzed with the morning shift change as nurses in colorful scrubs moved between elevators and residents clutching coffee like lifelines. Harper's eyes found Carmen immediately—she was standing near the information desk reviewing charts with Dr. Hassan, her dark hair catching the fluorescent lighting and her professional composure absolute.
Carmen looked up as Harper passed, their eyes meeting for exactly the amount of time appropriate between supervisor and student. No lingering glance, no secret smile, nothing that would suggest they'd been tangled in bedsheets twelve hours ago whispering promises against each other's skin.
The distance should have felt professional and mutual. Instead, it felt like erasure.
Harper made it through morning rounds without betraying anything, participating in case discussions with the samefocused attention she'd always brought to medical education. But she was hyperaware of every interaction with Carmen—the way she addressed Harper as "Ms. Langston" with perfect neutrality, how she explained procedures with the same thorough competence she showed every student, and the absence of any acknowledgment that they'd crossed every boundary they were now pretending didn't exist.
By lunch, the performance was wearing thin.
"You seem distracted today," Alice observed as they settled at their usual table in the cafeteria. "Everything okay?"
Harper's fork paused halfway to her mouth. The question was innocent, the kind of casual concern friends showed each other. But Harper couldn't answer honestly without revealing everything she was supposed to keep hidden.
"Just tired," she said, which was partially true. She'd barely slept after leaving Carmen's bed, her mind spinning through everything that had changed and everything that would have to stay exactly the same.
"Late night studying?" Piper asked, joining them with a tray laden with coffee and what looked like her third energy bar of the day.
"Something like that." Harper took a bite of her sandwich, but it tasted like cardboard. Around them, other interns were discussing their weekends, supervisors, and tentative plans for evening social activities. Normal conversations between people who could share the basic facts of their lives without worrying about professional ruin.
"We're thinking about checking out that new wine bar downtown tonight," Alice continued. "You should come. When's the last time you did something that wasn't work-related?"
The thought came immediately:Last night, when I fell in love with my supervisor and agreed to keep it secret for the foreseeable future.
"Maybe," Harper said instead. "I'll see how tired I am after rounds."
She watched Alice and Piper exchange a look—the subtle communication of friends who'd noticed someone pulling away but weren't sure how to address it. Harper wanted to explain that she wasn't withdrawing from their friendship, that she valued their connection more than they knew. But explaining would require revealing the thing she couldn't reveal, and the circular logic made her chest feel tight.
The afternoon brought trauma cases and surgical consultations, opportunities to work alongside Carmen in professional settings where their careful distance felt less artificial. But even there, Harper found herself noticing the things she couldn't do: the way she had to step back when Carmen moved close to examine a patient, how she couldn't let her fingers linger when passing instruments, and the absence of the easy banter they'd developed during their private simulation sessions.
By six o'clock, Harper's apartment felt like a cage. She'd planned to spend the evening reviewing surgical procedures or maybe calling her mother for their weekly check-in. Normal intern activities that wouldn't require her to navigate questions about her personal life or feelings she couldn't name.
Instead, she found herself walking toward downtown Phoenix Ridge as evening settled over the harbor. She told herself she needed fresh air and the warm atmosphere of Lavender's Café where she could blend into the background and think.
But as she approached the familiar purple door, Harper realized what she really needed was to be around people who could love openly and who didn't have to measure every glance and calibrate every word. She needed to remember what it felt like to want something without having to hide it.
Through the large café windows, Harper could see the community she'd only glimpsed before: women clustered around tables, couples sharing dessert, the easy intimacy of people who belonged exactly where they were.
Harper stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching the scene inside. A week ago, this place had represented freedom and possibility. Tonight, it looked like everything she wanted but couldn't have—not completely or honestly, not without the careful editing that was already making her feel like she was disappearing from her own life.
She pushed open the purple door anyway, because sometimes the thing you needed most was also the thing that hurt to look at directly. And sometimes, if you were lucky, someone inside would have the wisdom to help you navigate the space between what you wanted and what you could have.
The evening crowd at Lavender’s hummed with familiar energy—conversations flowing over wine glasses, laughter echoing off exposed brick walls, the comfortable chaos of women who’d claimed this space as their own. Harper found an empty stool at the bar, grateful for the anonymity that came with sitting alone in a room full of couples and groups.
She ordered wine without really tasting her choice, watching the easy interactions around her with something approaching hunger. At a corner table, two women shared a dessert, one feeding the other a spoonful while they dissolved into giggles. Near the window, an older couple sat with their fingers intertwined, reading different books but occupying the same comfortable silence.
It was everything Harper wanted but couldn’t have, at least not openly.
“You look like someone wrestling with complicated thoughts,” a warm voice said beside her.
Harper turned to find Lavender approaching with a bottle of wine and the kind of perceptive smile that suggested she'd been watching from across the room. Her silver hair caught the ambient lighting, and her eyes held the patient curiosity Harper remembered from their previous conversation.
"Is it that obvious?" Harper asked, accepting the generous pour Lavender offered.
"Only to someone who's seen that particular expression before." Lavender settled onto the adjacent stool, creating a pocket of privacy in the busy café. "The look of someone who's gotten what they wanted and discovered it's more complicated than expected."
Harper's laugh was rueful. "You're very perceptive."
"Occupational hazard of running a place where people come to figure out their lives." Lavender's voice carried gentle humor. "Want to talk about it?"
