Page 42 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

HARPER

H arper stared into her wine glass, watching the burgundy liquid catch the warm light from Lavender's string lights. The monthly community celebration buzzed around her, but Harper felt like she was watching it all from behind glass, present but not participating.

"You're doing that thing again," Alice said, sliding into the seat beside her at their corner table. "The brooding thing where you stare into your wine like it holds the secrets of the universe."

"Maybe it does," Harper replied, taking another sip that tasted like regret and poor choices. This was her third glass, though she'd lost count of how many times she'd refilled it from the bottles Alice and Piper had ordered for their table.

"The secrets being 'drink more wine and feel sorry for yourself'?" Piper asked, rejoining them with a fresh plate of appetizers from the bar. "Because I have to say, as secrets go, that one's pretty transparent."

Harper managed a weak smile. Her friends had been trying to cheer her up all evening, dragging her to Lavender's community event with the kind of determined optimism that suggested they thought alcohol and lesbian solidarity could cure heartbreak.

They meant well, but Harper wasn't sure anything could cure the hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in her chest.

"Come on," Alice said, bumping Harper's shoulder with gentle persistence. "Tell us what's really going on. You've been different for weeks—distracted at work, avoiding social events, and now you're treating wine like it's your new best friend."

Harper looked around the café, taking in the celebrations happening at every table.

A couple near the window was sharing a dessert, feeding each other bites while they dissolved into giggles.

Two women at the bar were planning their upcoming vacation, voices low but excited as they scrolled through photos on a shared phone.

Everywhere Harper looked, she saw the kind of easy intimacy she'd thought she'd found with Carmen.

"There was someone," Harper said finally, the words coming out rougher than intended. "Someone I thought I had a future with. But it turned out she valued her reputation more than she valued me."

"Ouch." Piper's expression shifted to genuine sympathy. "How long were you together?"

"Not long enough to matter, apparently." Harper drained her wine glass and reached for the bottle. "A few weeks. But it felt...significant. Like maybe I'd found something real."

"What happened?" Alice asked gently.

Harper considered how much truth to share. Her friends knew nothing about Carmen, the professional complications that had made their relationship feel impossible, or the way Carmen had looked at her like she was both everything and nothing simultaneously.

"She got scared," Harper said, which was true enough. "When things got complicated, she chose the easy path instead of fighting for us."

"Her loss," Piper said firmly. "Anyone who doesn't fight for you doesn't deserve you."

The words were meant to be comforting, but they made Harper's chest ache with fresh recognition of everything Carmen had been too afraid to risk.

Harper had been ready to face professional complications, family disapproval, and community gossip.

Carmen had retreated at the first sign of real challenge.

"The worst part," Harper continued, surprising herself with her honesty, "is that I know she felt something real. It wasn't just physical attraction or convenience. There were moments when she looked at me like I was exactly what she'd been searching for her whole life."

"But?" Alice prompted.

"But when it came time to choose between her safe, controlled life and taking a risk for love, she chose safety.

" Harper's voice carried the bitterness she'd been trying to swallow for days.

"She treated our relationship like something disposable that could be tossed aside instead of something worth fighting for. "

Around them, the community celebration continued with the kind of joyful energy Harper wished she could feel.

Lavender moved between tables with her usual warmth, checking on customers who felt more like family.

The older woman caught Harper's eye and offered an encouraging smile that suggested she remembered their previous conversations about love and worthiness.

"You know what?" Harper said, raising her refilled glass with sudden determination. "Here's to women who are too cowardly to fight for love. May they enjoy their perfectly controlled, emotionally sterile lives."

"Harper," Piper said gently, "maybe we should slow down on the wine?—"

"I'm fine," Harper insisted, though her voice carried an edge that suggested otherwise. "I'm celebrating my freedom from someone who saw loving me as a professional liability."

Alice and Piper exchanged concerned glances over Harper's head, the kind of look that passed between friends who recognized when someone was going too far down an unhealthy path.

"How about we get some food?" Alice suggested. "Lavender's got those amazing flatbreads tonight, and I'm pretty sure wine tastes better with actual sustenance."

Harper nodded absently, her attention drifting back to the couples around them. Everywhere she looked, she saw evidence of what she'd lost—or more accurately, what she'd never really had. Carmen's love had been conditional, contingent on circumstances that were impossible to maintain.

Harper had been ready to risk everything for what they'd built together. Carmen had been ready to risk nothing. The realization made her feel tired and foolish.

"Maybe I should go home," Harper said, but her voice lacked conviction. The thought of returning to her empty apartment felt more depressing than staying here drowning her sorrows in wine.

"Not yet," Piper said firmly. "Give the evening a chance. Sometimes the best things happen when we're not expecting them."

The purple door opened with a soft chime that cut through the ambient noise of celebration, drawing Harper's attention. She looked up expecting to see another community member arriving fashionably late, but instead found herself staring at the last person she'd expected to see.

Carmen stood in the doorway, scanning the crowd.

She was still wearing her work clothes—tailored slacks and a burgundy blouse that brought out the amber flecks in her dark eyes— but something fundamental had changed.

Gone was the careful control Carmen usually wore like armor.

Instead, she looked nervous, determined, and completely out of her comfort zone.

"Hey, isn't that Dr. Méndez from cardiology?" Alice said, glancing toward the door with mild curiosity. "I wonder what she's doing here."

Harper's throat went dry. Carmen had spotted her across the crowded café, and their eyes met with the kind of electric recognition that made Harper's pulse spike despite days of trying to forget how it felt to be seen by this woman.

Alice and Piper turned back to Harper and immediately noticed her reaction—the way all color had drained from her face and the way her hand had gone still around her wine glass.

"Harper?" Piper asked, concern creeping into her voice. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh my god," Alice breathed, understanding dawning in her expression as she looked between Harper and Carmen. "She's the one, isn't she? Dr. Méndez is the woman who broke your heart."

"Harper." Carmen's voice carried across the space between them, clear enough to cut through conversation at nearby tables. Several community members turned to look, sensing drama unfolding.

"What is she doing here?" Piper asked under her breath, her protective instincts clearly activated.

Harper didn't answer because she couldn't speak. Carmen was walking toward their table with purpose, ignoring the curious stares from other patrons. Each step brought her closer to Harper's carefully constructed emotional defenses, threatening to undo days of healing with her mere presence.

"Can we talk?" Carmen asked when she reached their table, her voice steady despite the obvious nerves.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Alice interjected before Harper could respond. "Harper's had a rough time, and showing up here uninvited?—"

"It's okay," Harper said quietly, finding her voice despite the chaos in her chest. She looked up at Carmen, taking in the slight tremor in her hands and the way she was holding herself with visible determination. "What do you want, Carmen?"

"To apologize—publicly—for being the biggest coward in Phoenix Ridge and almost losing the best thing that ever happened to me."

The words carried across the cafe with startling clarity, and Harper became aware that conversations at surrounding tables had quieted. The entire café seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

"You're drunk," Carmen said, noticing Harper's wine-flushed cheeks and the empty bottle on the table.

"Not drunk enough, apparently," Harper replied, surprised by the steadiness in her own voice. "Since I can still see you clearly."

Carmen winced at the barb but didn't retreat. Instead, she pulled out an empty chair and sat down without invitation, bringing herself to Harper's eye level.

"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness," Carmen said, her voice carrying to the now-silent café. "I know I hurt you by choosing to flee over fighting for us. I know I treated what we had like it was something to be ashamed of instead of something worth celebrating."

Harper felt tears prick behind her eyes but refused to let them fall in front of half the Phoenix Ridge lesbian community. "Then why are you here?"