Yesterday, I only had a mild, unfounded panic attack that I might see Jordan. Today, faced with the actuality of her in front of me in the flesh—rounded belly and all—I’m too flustered to even panic. Then I notice the smug face and corded arms of the person standing behind her. Doug, our once joint yoga instructor, now my ex-fiancée’s baby daddy. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of me, along with any thoughts, vocabulary, basic brain functionality (oh God. Am I going to pee my pants?).

“Hi, Miles. I didn’t think you were still coming here.” Jordan smiles at me in the way that sometimes has those celebrity twinning apps telling her she looks like Julia Roberts.

“Hi,” is all I can muster. And then a very stilted, “Jordan.”

“Hey there, buddy. Long time no see,” Doug says. He looks like he’s smirking but, honestly, he could just be one of those people who is totally oblivious to anything that doesn’t directly relate to his chakras or whatever. I never could tell before and I’m certainly in no frame of mind to make astute character observations now.

Jordan places her hand on her back as she eases into the chair across from me. Doug plops down next to her. “So, how have you been?” she asks.

Fuck me six ways to Staten Island. Is this really happening? Are they really expecting me to make small talk?

“Fine.” A pause. “You?” Because despite the alarm bells, my brain seems to have reverted back to the vocabulary level of Jordan’s fetus. I can’t think of anything to say: anything original, anything biting, anything with any meaning.

“Oh, you know. They say the second trimester is the best one. But it’s like, what’s the best day of a prison sentence, you know? I’m still so freakin’ nauseous.” She looks over at Doug and gives that tinkly laugh that I used to think sounded like bells and I now think sounds like the tinny music that comes out of singing Christmas lights.

See, Miles, the kind of brainpower that comes up with that sort of analogy would be great right now. What was going to be on my business card again? Sarcastic quips? Passive-aggressive rejoinders?

“Though, thankfully, the actual heaving is over,” Doug says with a cadence that sounds like it would be right at home in a Beavis and Butt-Head revival.

“Thankfully for you,” Jordan responds, with a little bit of bite. “I still feel like shit. You just don’t have to hear it.” She gives another laugh, one I recognize as not being entirely filled with humor.

Doug’s returned chuckle makes me think he has no such realization.

But “Sure,” is all I can think of to say. God, I want to vomit.