Chapter 3: What the Results Said
Brandon said her name a third time.
Lauren finally looked up.
Her eyes were red at the edges, not from crying — not yet — but from the effort of not crying in front of him.
"Tell me right now," Brandon said.
His voice had dropped.
The performance was gone.
"Tell me that boy is mine."
Lauren's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"Brandon —"
"Yes or no."
She looked at the folder on the table.
Then at me.
Then at the floor.
"No," she said.
The word landed like something physical.
Brandon took a half step back.
His hand found the edge of the stroller and gripped it, not to comfort the child — the little boy was still reaching for his toy giraffe, unbothered — but because Brandon needed something solid to hold onto.
"That's not possible," he said.
"The test was conducted at a certified lab," Douglas said.
"The sample was collected six weeks ago.
The chain of custody is documented.
The results are not in dispute."
"I want my own test."
"You're entitled to request one.
The filing will remain in place while you do."
Brandon turned back to Lauren.
Some of the color had returned to his face, but it was the wrong kind of color.
Hot.
Rising.
"Who?" he said.
"Who is the father?"
Lauren wrapped both arms around herself.
"Please don't do this here."
"Who is he?"
"Brandon, there are people —"
"I don't care about people." He stepped toward her.
"I left my marriage for you.
I told everyone — I told my family — I told her —" He gestured at me without looking at me.
"I stood in this hallway twenty minutes ago and told her that boy was mine.
Who is his father?"
The nurse behind the desk had stopped pretending to type.
The older man with the magazine had set it face-down on his knee.
Lauren's voice came out very small.
"His name is Marcus."
"Marcus." Brandon repeated the name like he was testing whether it was real.
"Marcus who?"
"Marcus Webb.
We were — it was before you and I were — it was complicated."
"Complicated." Brandon laughed once, a short hollow sound.
"You let me believe for over a year that I was that child's father.
You let me move out of my house.
You let me file for divorce.
You let me stand here today and —" He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
"You used me."
"That's not what happened."
"Then what happened, Lauren?
Because from where I'm standing, you lied to me for fourteen months."
She flinched.
"I didn't know for certain.
Not at first.
And then when I did know, I didn't know how to tell you."
"You didn't know how to tell me." He said it slowly, each word separate.
"So you just didn't."
Douglas placed one hand lightly on the folder.
"Mr.
Foster.
There are additional matters in this filing that concern you directly.
I'd recommend you review them with your own counsel before responding further."
Brandon's eyes moved to the folder.
"What additional matters?"
"That's between you and your attorney."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm telling you to retain counsel." Douglas's voice was even.
Not unkind.
Simply final.
Brandon looked at me for the first time since Douglas had arrived.
Really looked.
Not performing.
Not calculating.
Just looking.
"You knew," he said.
"You already knew all of this."
I didn't answer right away.
I let the silence sit where it needed to sit.
"Douglas reached out to me three months ago," I said.
"When the filing was initiated."
"Three months." His voice was quieter now.
"And you said nothing."
"You didn't give me the chance.
You were too busy telling a waiting room full of strangers what kind of woman I am."
He had nothing to say to that.
For the first time in the twelve months since our divorce, Brandon Foster had nothing to say.
The little boy in the stroller made a soft sound and dropped his giraffe.
It bounced once on the floor and landed near Douglas's shoe.
Douglas picked it up without a word and set it back in the child's lap.
Brandon watched him do it.
Then he picked up the diaper bag from the stroller handle, set it on his shoulder, and walked to the elevator without looking at Lauren again.
She called after him.
"Brandon.
Brandon, we need to talk about —"
The elevator doors opened.
He stepped in.
The doors closed.
Lauren stood very still in the middle of the waiting room.
The baby reached for the giraffe again, found it, and settled back against his blanket.
I picked up my tablet from the chair where I'd set it down.
"Gwen," Lauren said.
I looked at her.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I know that's not enough.
I know it doesn't —" Her voice broke.
"I'm sorry."
I looked at her for a long moment.
At the woman who used to know my coffee order.
Who had held my hand in the parking lot of a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon when I couldn't make myself go inside.
Who had told me, more than once, that I was the strongest person she knew.
"I know you are," I said.
Then I walked toward the staff corridor, badge in hand, twelve minutes late for my meeting.
Douglas fell into step beside me.
"There's more in the folder," he said quietly.
"I know."
"We should talk today.
Not tomorrow."
I pushed open the staff door.
"My last patient is at four.
Come at five."
He nodded once.
I let the door close behind me.
May you like
I didn't look back.
But I knew, the way you know things after twenty years of reading rooms and people and the spaces between what someone says and what they mean — that the folder on that table was only the beginning of what Brandon Foster was about to find out.
