Page 31

False Positives

Nora

I’m halfway through calibrating the oxytocin receptor binding assay when my phone buzzes against the lab bench. Dean’s name lights up the screen.

Need to talk. Are you free?

Something about the brevity sends a chill down my spine. Dean isn’t normally cryptic.

Me: In the lab. Everything okay?

His response comes immediately.

Dean: Not really. Can I stop by?

My stomach tightens. He’s never visited me in Wexler’s lab.

Me: Of course. Neurosci building, room 306.

I set down my pipette, taking a deep breath. Focus slips beyond my grasp as worst-case scenarios cycle through my mind. Did someone find out about us? Has something happened with the Archer Initiative? Is he done doing the whole friends-with-benefits thing with me?

Twenty minutes later, Dean appears in the lab doorway. The moment I see his face, I know something is very wrong. His usual controlled expression has been replaced by something I’ve never seen before—vulnerability mixed with what looks like barely contained panic.

“Hey,” I say, pulling off my latex gloves. “What’s going on?”

He glances around the empty lab, then back to me. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

I nod, leading him to the small conference room adjacent to the lab. The space is cramped, just a table and four chairs, but it’s private. I close the door behind us.

“What happened?” I ask, my own anxiety mounting.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation I’ve rarely seen from him. “Daphne called me.”

Not what I expected. “Okay…”

“She’s pregnant.”

This news hits like a punch to the chest—sharp, fast, and completely disorienting. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

She’s pregnant?

The words hang in the air between us, deafening in their simplicity. Two words that change everything.

“W—what?”

“She thinks she’s pregnant,” he amends. “Her period’s late. She took a test. It was positive.”

I sink into one of the chairs, my legs suddenly unable to support me. “Oh.”

“I’m picking her up in an hour. Taking her to the student health center for a blood test.”

I nod mechanically, too stunned to form actual words. Dean and Daphne have been broken up for nearly seven weeks now. Which means if she is pregnant…

“We broke up right around when it would have happened,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “The timing works.”

“Right.” My voice sounds hollow, distant, like it belongs to someone else.

“And she said she hasn’t slept with anyone else, so…”

I nod. Force myself to breathe. “What happens now?”

Dean sits across from me, hands clasped tightly on the table. “I don’t know. If she’s pregnant, then I’ll do whatever she wants.”

“Whatever she wants.”

He nods. “Take her to get an abortion, if that’s what she wants. Or be a dad, help with the baby.”

The steadiness in his voice—the absolute certainty—makes my chest ache. Of course he’d step up. Of course he’d be there. It’s who Dean is. Responsible. Dependable. The one who never walks away from his obligations.

“You’re being very calm about this,” I say, trying to keep my own voice steady.

“One of us has to be.” A hint of his usual wry humor breaks through the tension. “Daphne’s freaking out. She’s already told James. He’s… not handling it well.”

James. Daphne’s new boyfriend. The investment banker who was “uncomplicated.”

“What about us?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.

Dean meets my eyes, his expression softening. “I don’t know, Nora. I genuinely don’t know. If she’s pregnant—if I’m going to be a father—that changes things.”

“Everything,” I whisper.

“Maybe.” He reaches across the table, taking my hand. “Or maybe not. I don’t think it’s fair to make any decisions until we know for sure.”

Leave it to Dean to be logical. Practical.

When I feel like things are splintering apart.

“It’s not like this is serious between us, anyway,” I hear myself saying. “Friends with benefits, right?” The words feel sour leaving my mouth.

Dean swallows, looks away. “Right,” he whispers, eyes finally returning to mine.

“You should go,” I say, gently withdrawing my hand. “Pick up Daphne. Be there for her appointment.”

“Nora—”

“It’s okay.” I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Really. She needs you right now.”

Dean stands, hesitating by the door. “I’ll call you when I know more.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

After he leaves, I sit in the conference room alone, staring at nothing. My perfectly ordered life feels like it’s unraveling around me. Just when things were going well—when Dean and I had found our rhythm, when the Archer application was nearly complete, when I’d started to believe this might actually work—reality comes crashing in.

Of course Dean will support Daphne. Of course he’ll be there for his child, if there is one. Of course he’ll do the right thing. Which will probably include getting back together with her.

And where does that leave me?

I return to the lab, forcing myself through the motions of the assay. Precision matters. Reproducible results matter. Emotional breakdowns can wait until after I finish this protocol.

Three hours later, I’m cleaning up when my phone buzzes again.

Dean: Can I come over?

My heart stutters. I haven’t heard from him since he left to pick up Daphne. I’ve been imagining them at the health center, his hand on her back, steady and supportive while she receives life-changing news. Her crying into his shoulder, him whispering encouraging words, holding her close.

Me: Yes. I’m heading home now.

The walk to my dorm feels endless. Each step, I alternate between preparing myself for the worst and desperately hoping for… what? That Daphne isn’t pregnant? That Dean won’t have to upend his life? That I won’t lose him before we’ve really even started?

The selfishness of my thoughts makes me wince.

When I reach my room, Sadie is mercifully absent—probably at her internship. I pick up a few scattered clothes, straighten my bed, wash my hands. As if these small acts of normality could somehow prepare me for whatever’s coming.

The knock on my door comes exactly seventeen minutes later. I open it to find Dean standing there, his expression unreadable.

“Hi,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

He enters, closing the door behind him. For a moment, we just look at each other, the weight of the unspoken heavy between us.

“She’s not pregnant,” he says finally.

Relief floods through me so suddenly I have to sit down on my bed. “What happened?”

“False positive on the home test. The blood test was negative.” He sits beside me, close but not touching. “The doctor said it happens sometimes.”

“So she’s… okay?”

“Relieved.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We both are.”

I nod, my own relief mingling with lingering anxiety. “And James?”

“He broke up with her. Before we even got the results.”

“Seriously?”

“Said he ‘wasn’t ready for that kind of drama,’” Dean says, voice hard with disgust. “Apparently ‘uncomplicated’ only applies when everything’s going well.”

I place my hand over his, feeling the tension in his fingers. “I’m sorry. For her, I mean. That’s a lot to deal with in one day.”

Dean turns his hand, interlacing our fingers. “She’ll be okay. Her sister’s coming to stay with her this weekend.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the gravity of what almost happened settling around us.

“If it had been positive,” I begin carefully, “what would you have done?”

“Exactly what I told you,” he says without hesitation. “Whatever she needed. If she wanted to terminate, I’d have supported that. If she wanted to keep it, I’d have been a father to that child.”

“And us?” The question feels selfish, but I need to know.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I’d have tried to make it work. All of it. But I can’t say for sure that I would have succeeded.”

The honesty hurts, but I appreciate it. Dean has never been one to offer false comfort.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, finally looking at me, “I wouldn’t have wanted to lose this. You. Us.”

He’s braver than I’ve been. I still feel guilty for implying we’re still just friends with benefits, when it’s obviously so much more.

Something in his tone makes me meet his gaze. What I see there catches me off guard—not just relief or lingering stress, but something deeper. Something that looks dangerously close to what I’ve been afraid to name myself.

“I thought it was over,” I confess. “When you told me, I thought… that’s it. We had a few good weeks, and now reality’s stepping in.”

“I know.” He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I saw it in your face.”

“I was trying to be supportive.”

“You were.” A small smile touches his lips. “You’re better at hiding your thoughts than you think. Just not from me.”

The intimacy of the statement—the idea that he sees me so clearly—sends a shiver through me.

“It would have been okay, you know,” I say softly. “If you had to… step away from us to be there for them. I would have understood.”

Dean’s hand tightens around mine. “I know you would have. But I’m selfishly very glad I don’t have to test that theory.”

I lean into him then, letting my head rest against his shoulder. His arm comes around me, solid and warm and reassuringly present.

“Me too,” I whisper.

We stayed like that for a long time, not speaking, just existing in the shared relief and renewed awareness of how quickly things can change. How fragile our carefully constructed lives really are.