Page 60 of Crossing the Line
Carmen nodded, feeling something like determination beginning to replace the despair that had consumed her evening.Julia was right—she'd been hiding from her life instead of protecting it. But it wasn't too late to choose differently.
It wasn't too late to choose Harper.
16
HARPER
Harper's first day under Dr. Riley Parker's supervision felt like performing surgery in a foreign language. Everything was different: the rhythm of trauma cases, the controlled chaos of emergency medicine, the way Parker barked instructions that left no room for hesitation or interpretation.
But the hardest part wasn't adapting to trauma surgery. The hardest part was catching glimpses of Carmen in hospital corridors and watching her pretend Harper didn't exist.
"Langston!" Dr. Parker's voice cut through Harper's distraction as she sutured a laceration on a construction worker's forearm. "Where's your head today? That stitch spacing is inconsistent."
Harper's hands steadied immediately, muscle memory taking over while her mind remained fractured. "Sorry, Dr. Parker. I'll maintain better focus."
"See that you do. In trauma, distraction kills patients."
The words hit harder than Dr. Parker had probably intended. Harper had been distracted since walking out of Carmen's office three days ago, carrying the devastation of loving someonewho'd chosen professional safety over everything they'd built together. Every surgical procedure felt mechanical, and every interaction with colleagues required a performance she could barely sustain.
Through the trauma bay's glass walls, Harper caught sight of dark hair at the nurses' station. Her pulse spiked before rational thought kicked in; Carmen never came to the trauma wing. But the reflexive hope followed by crushing disappointment had become Harper's new normal, a constant emotional whiplash that made concentrating on medicine feel impossible.
"Nice work on the arterial repair," Dr. Parker said as they finished with their patient. Her voice had softened slightly, the kind of encouragement Harper had once craved but now felt hollow. "You've got natural instincts for trauma surgery. Your surgical technique is solid, but something's affecting your focus."
Harper managed appropriate responses about adjusting to the new department, but Riley's sharp eyes suggested she wasn't fooled. Everyone at Phoenix Ridge General knew about the confrontation—hospital gossip traveled faster than infection—but no one mentioned it directly. Instead, Harper felt the weight of speculative glances and whispered conversations that stopped when she approached.
The worst part was how thoroughly Carmen had severed their connection. No accidental encounters in elevators, no brief professional exchanges, no acknowledgment that Harper existed beyond the reassignment paperwork that had shifted her to trauma surgery. Carmen moved through the hospital like Harper was invisible, and the complete erasure felt more devastating than anger would have been.
During lunch break, Harper found herself walking past the cardiac wing. She told herself she was taking the long route to the cafeteria, but her feet stopped outside Carmen's officeanyway. Through the frosted glass, she could see Carmen's familiar silhouette bent over paperwork.
Harper raised her hand to knock, then let it fall. What was the point? Carmen had made her position clear: Harper was a mistake to be resolved. The woman who'd whispered "I love you too" against Harper's lips might as well have been a dream.
"She's in surgery this afternoon," a voice said behind her.
Harper turned to find Dr. Hassan approaching with patient files, her expression kind but knowing. The emergency medicine attending had always been perceptive, and Harper wondered how much she'd pieced together from hospital gossip and careful observation.
"I was just..." Harper started, then stopped. There was no innocent explanation for standing outside Carmen's office like a ghost haunting her own past.
"Sometimes we need closure even when we can't have it," Dr. Hassan said gently. "But lingering in hallways won't provide what you're looking for."
The kindness in her voice nearly undid Harper's composure. She nodded without trusting herself to speak and walked quickly toward the stairwell, anywhere that would take her away from the cardiac wing and the woman who'd taught her that love could feel like drowning.
Back in trauma, Harper threw herself into work with intense focus. She assisted with a motorcycle accident victim, managed multiple lacerations from a kitchen fire, and handled each case with the competence that had earned her this position. But competence felt meaningless when the person whose approval had mattered most now treated her like a stranger.
By evening, Harper's professional mask was cracking around the edges. She'd proven she could function without Carmen's mentorship and excel under different supervision. The realization should have felt empowering.
Instead, it felt like the loneliest achievement of her life.
As she changed out of scrubs at the end of her shift, Harper caught her reflection in the locker room mirror. She looked composed, professional, and exactly like the capable intern everyone expected her to be. But her eyes held a hollowness that makeup couldn't cover—the look of someone who'd learned that being right about your own worth didn't matter when the person you loved was too afraid to see it.
Harper had spent weeks fighting to be recognized as more than Dr. Langston's daughter and another intern seeking approval. She'd won that battle through competence that no one could question.
But victory meant losing everything that actually mattered.
She grabbed her jacket and headed for the exit, no longer able to pretend the hospital felt like home. Outside, Phoenix Ridge was settling into its evening rhythms, normal people living normal lives without the weight of loving someone who'd chosen fear over fighting.
Harper needed a drink. She needed perspective. Most of all, she needed to remember who she was before Carmen Méndez had made her feel like she might be worth loving completely.
The harbor fog was beginning to roll in, and somewhere in the distance, a familiar purple sign promised the kind of safe space where broken hearts went to find their strength again.
