"I'm not taking the test yet." Claire's voice is barely a whisper, the kind that suggests she's been having this conversation with herself for days. "I can't because if it's positive, everything changes. If it's negative, I've been making myself sick over nothing."
She sits on the edge of the bed, still clutching the box with white-knuckled determination. I sit carefully in the room's only chair—floral upholstered nightmare that probably witnessed a dozen infidelities—giving her space because crowding her feels dangerous.
"How late are you?"
"Three weeks." She won't look at me, focusing on the box like it contains nuclear codes instead of pee sticks. "But I've been stressed, barely eating, working too much. Bodies are weird when you're emotionally destroyed."
"Or it could be something."
Her laugh sounds like breaking glass trying to pretend it's wind chimes. "It could be that one time we—" She stops, swallows hard. "Do you remember? Two months ago, the night after Caroline left, I worked late, and you kissed me and we ended up—"
I remember. My office couch, desperate and hungry, both of us using sex as emotional anesthesia; her nails in my shoulders, my mouth on her throat, neither of us thinking about consequences beyond the immediate need to feel something other than empty.
"We used protection," I say, grasping for logic in emotional chaos.
"Condoms aren't perfect, and you know that. I've been feeling sick for weeks and thought it was stress, but then I missed my period and the nausea got worse and I realized this might not be stress—"
She can't finish, just sits there holding the box with both hands, body curved protectively around it.
I want to go to her, want to pull her into my arms and promise everything will be okay. But I'm not sure that's true. What any of this means beyond the immediate fact that I've potentially fathered a child with a woman I can't stop hurting.
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Why hide in a motel instead of—"
"Because!" She's on her feet now, pacing the small room with manic energy. "You're in love with Caroline. Finding out I might be pregnant would trap you in the world's worst obligation. I didn't want to be the anchor that ruins your happiness."
"Claire—"
"Don't say you'd choose me because of a baby, do the right thing, and commit and marry me out of some archaic sense of responsibility." Her voice rises, loses control. "I won't be your duty. I won't be the mistake you're stuck with because biology decided to complicate everything."
"You're not a mistake—"
She spins to face me and her expression is devastation with edges. "I've always been the backup plan. And I'm so fucking done being second place in everyone's priorities."
She moves to the bathroom, still holding the test with grim determination. "I'm taking this now. And whatever it says, you're leaving. You're walking away and letting me make my own choices about my own body and my own future."
"I can't do that—"
"You will." She's in the bathroom doorway, hand on the frame with enough force I'm worried about structural damage. "This is my life, my choice, and my future. I won't let you be part of it just because you feel obligated by outdated gender norms and biological accidents."
She closes the door. I hear water running, her muffled crying, the sound of packaging being opened with shaking hands. Three minutes of agonizing silence where I count my heartbeats and they're all too fast, too loud, too everything.
When she emerges, the test is in her hand. She won't show me, won't even look at it, just stands there with tears streaming down her face and her entire body shaking.
"Leave." Her voice is empty, scraped clean of everything except exhaustion. "Please, just go."
"Tell me what it says. I need to know—"
"No." She sets the test face-down on the nightstand with careful precision. "You need to go now, before I say something I can't take back."
"I'm not leaving you like this—"
"THEN I'LL LEAVE!" She's grabbing her suitcase, moving with frantic energy that makes the room feel smaller. "I'm done. With you, with Denver, with pretending any of this is salvageable."
She's at the door, hand on the knob, when I catch her wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop her momentum.
"Don't run. Whatever that test says, whatever you're feeling—don't run."
She looks at me with eyes that are empty of everything except bone-deep exhaustion.
"That's all I've ever done with you, Lysander. Run. Running toward you when I should've run away, after you when you were chasing someone else. Running in circles trying to be enough." She pulls free gently. "Time to run away instead."
"Where will you go?"
"Does it matter?" She's opening the door, cold air rushing in. "Anywhere you won't find me and try to fix things with pretty words and empty promises."
"Claire, if we're having a baby—"
"We're not having anything." She steps into the hallway, suitcase in one hand, my potential future in her pocket. "I might be having a baby. You're having whatever life you choose with whoever you actually want."
"I want you—"
"No you don't." She's backing away now, toward the stairs. "You want to want me. To feel like a good person who does right, but you don't actually want me. You never have."
"That's not true—"
"Then prove it." She stops, studies my face with clinical precision. "Right now. Me or her?"
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. The silence stretches long enough to answer.
"Exactly!" She turns, starts down the stairs. "Goodbye, Lysander. Tell Caroline I hope she makes you happy. One of us should be."
"Wait—"
But she's already gone, disappearing into the stairwell with my potential child and absolutely no intention of letting me be part of whatever decision she makes.
My phone buzzes. Caroline: My father died this morning. I'm coming back to LA to settle the estate. Can we talk?
Perfect timing. Absolutely perfect.
Claire's right—I don't deserve to know. Don't deserve to be part of this decision when I can't even answer a simple question about who I'd choose. Some answers you don't get to have when you've spent too long refusing to choose.