Page 51 of Crossing the Line
Natalie set down her coffee cup, giving Harper her full attention in the way that had always made Harper feel simultaneously cherished and exposed. "What is it, sweetheart?"
Harper took a sharp inhale, steeling herself. "I'm seeing someone. It's serious and it's complicated…and it's the best thing that's happened to me since I moved to Phoenix Ridge."
"That's wonderful," Natalie said, her face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "Tell me about her. How did you meet? What's she like?"
The easy acceptance made Harper's chest tight with love and guilt. Her mother's immediate assumption that Harper was dating a woman, her obvious joy at Harper's happiness—it would make what came next even more devastating.
"She's brilliant," Harper began, surprised by how easily the truth spilled out once she'd started. "Incredibly talented, passionate about medicine, but also vulnerable in ways that make me want to protect her. She's been hurt before, so trust isdifficult for her. But when she lets her guard down..." Harper's voice caught slightly. "When she lets me see who she really is, it's like watching someone come alive."
Natalie's smile was warm and encouraging. "She sounds perfect for you. You've always been drawn to complexity, even as a child. What's her name?"
Harper's mouth opened, the confession balanced on her tongue like a diving board she was finally ready to jump from. "Her name is?—"
Natalie's phone exploded into sound, the shrill hospital ringtone that meant emergency. Without hesitation, Natalie grabbed it, her expression shifting to the focused intensity Harper recognized from years of watching her mother save lives.
"Dr. Langston," she answered, already reaching for her jacket. Harper could hear the urgent voice on the other end, medical terminology that meant someone was dying and needed Natalie's immediate attention. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Natalie was standing before she'd even ended the call, maternal warmth replaced by professional urgency. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Emergency C-section, complications with twins. We'll have to continue this conversation later."
"Mom, wait—" Harper started, but Natalie was already kissing her cheek, gathering her things with the efficient movements of someone who'd learned to prioritize life-or-death situations over everything else.
"I want to hear everything," Natalie called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "Dinner this weekend? I'll cook, and you can tell me all about this mysterious woman who's made you glow like this."
The door closed behind her mother with a soft chime, leaving Harper alone at the table with the weight of unfinished confession and the growing certainty that waiting for the perfect moment was a luxury she could no longer afford.
Outside, Phoenix Ridge was waking up to another ordinary day. But Harper sat surrounded by the debris of interrupted honesty, knowing that the next time she saw Carmen, she'd have to pretend the most important conversation of her life had never been attempted.
The bitter irony wasn't lost on her: she'd finally found the courage to tell the truth, only to discover that courage without opportunity was just another form of waiting.
And Harper was done waiting.
Harper's morning frustration followed her through Phoenix Ridge's streets as she made her way from Cafe Luna to the hospital. The interrupted conversation with her mother had left her raw and restless, but seeing Carmen would help, she told herself. Last night, Carmen had promised to try. They'd figure out what that meant together.
The hospital lobby felt different under the fluorescent lights, sterile and exposed after their shared intimacy on the rooftop garden. Harper's eyes found Carmen immediately. She was standing near the surgical board reviewing the day's schedule, her dark hair pulled back in her usual severe style, every line of her posture screaming professional competence.
Last night, Harper had traced the curve of that neck with her tongue and had felt Carmen's pulse racing beneath her lips. This morning, Carmen looked like a stranger wearing a familiar face—and worse, she was acting like Harper meant nothing more than any other intern rotating through her service.
Harper approached the surgical board, studying Carmen's body language for any sign of the woman who'd whispered "I want to try" against her lips just hours ago. But Carmen's shoulders were rigid with professionalism, her movements sharp and efficient, her expression carefully blank. If anything, she seemed more guarded than usual, as if their rooftopbreakthrough had made her retreat even further behind her clinical facade.
Harper approached the surgical board with measured steps, hyperaware of how her body moved through space and how her voice would sound when she spoke. The careful choreography they'd perfected over weeks of hiding felt grotesque now, like performing a lie that suffocated with every breath.
"Good morning, Dr. Méndez," Harper said, the formal address feeling foreign on her tongue after whispering Carmen's name in the darkness. "I see we have the Morrison valve replacement at ten."
Carmen looked up from her tablet, and for a split second—so brief Harper might have imagined it—something raw and vulnerable flickered across her face before the mask snapped back into place.
"Ms. Langston." Carmen's voice was steady and professional, but Harper caught the slightest pause before she spoke, as if Carmen, too, was struggling with the careful distance between them. "Yes, Mr. Morrison will require close monitoring. His cardiac output has been irregular, and we'll need to watch for arrhythmias during the procedure."
They discussed the case with the same thorough professionalism they'd always maintained, but now Harper felt every clinical word like a betrayal. Carmen's hands moved as she gestured to the patient imaging, and Harper found herself staring at those fingers that had mapped her body with reverent precision, that had made her arch and gasp and forget every reason why loving Carmen was complicated.
"Any questions about the surgical approach?" Carmen asked, and Harper wanted to scream that yes, she had questions. She had a thousand questions about what happened when they left this hospital, about whether Carmen would text her tonight with something other than professional courtesy, about when theycould stop pretending that the most important thing in Harper's life was just a supervisor-intern relationship.
"No questions," Harper managed. "The approach seems straightforward."
Dr. Hassan joined them at the surgical board, her presence forcing Harper to step back from Carmen, to widen the careful distance between them. The movement felt like abandoning something sacred.
"Morning, ladies," Dr. Hassan said with her usual warmth. "Harper, I heard about your excellent work on the trauma cases yesterday. Dr. Parker was very impressed."
Harper felt a flush of pride that immediately curdled with frustration. Her professional achievements felt hollow when she couldn't share them with the person whose opinion mattered most. Carmen remained focused on her tablet, but Harper caught the slight tightening around her eyes that might have been approval or might have been something else entirely.
