I don’t let the jealous twinge in my stomach consume me. Instead, I focus on Lily and her determination to fit her entire foot in her mouth. How can I be sad when I have a seven-month-old baby on my lap? I’m pretty sure her laugh is the key to solving world peace.

“Who wants to take one for the team and go get me more popcorn?”

Willa looks over at me, exhausted from a long day of entertaining Lily and Ollie. Walking the ten feet to the kitchen would surely be her demise.

“I’ll go,” I say, passing Lily off to her.

I walk the few steps to the kitchen, passing a wall of family pictures that makes my heart ache more than I care to admit. I almost didn’t come when Ana invited me over. I love spending time with her and Willa and Lily, but it’s a constant reminder of a relationship I’ll never get back.

The doorbell rings as I set the timer on the microwave and I hear a collective groan from the living room.

“Ollie!” Willa shouts. “The delivery guy’s at the door. He could be a psycho, so I think you should answer it.”

“Pretty sure Postmates doesn’t hire psychos,” he shouts back.

“Pretty sure Postmates doesn’t have an in-depth employee screening process.”

“Pretty sure if he is a psycho, he’d give you right back,” he says. “I’d be more worried about me. I’m a hot commodity, Willa. Your boyfriend’s a rock star.”

While I could listen to their back and forth banter all night, the Postmates guy is probably ready to take our dim sum home for himself.

“I got it,” I say, already walking down the hall. The apology is on the tip of my tongue when I pull open the door, but it never comes out.

Because it’s not the delivery guy standing out on the stoop.

It’s Asher. Chapped-lipped and shivering against the Park Slope backdrop. Usually surly and annoyed, tonight he looks tired and defeated.

“I’m not stalking you,” he says, his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy blue peacoat. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Funny how I show up in the most unexpected places.”

I turn around, afraid my body would deceive me if I looked at him any longer. But before I can take a step, I feel his hand brush mine.

“O,” he says softly. “You have to know—”

“I think it’s very obvious that I don’t know anything,” I say, pulling away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s funny—I don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

But what I do know is that I need to leave. Not even the best dim sum in Brooklyn is enough to convince me to stay in the same vicinity as Asher.