I’m up early the next morning so that I can run my errands and still have time to shower and dress. After all, when I finally saunter over to Hotel the, I want to look good.

I’ve just exited my building, shutting the heavy front door behind me, when I hear a shaky voice call out, “Miles.”

I turn around and it happens so quickly that I don’t recognize her by her voice or her face. She’s run into my arms, sobbing, and it’s honestly the sense memory of her body pressed into mine that finally makes my brain identify who she is and just what is happening.

“Jordan?” I say incredulously as she sobs into my arms. “What is it? What’s happened?” I move her a little away from me to make sure she’s still pregnant, even though I could feel her belly between us.

She looks a mess though. Liquid leaks from her eyes and nose, her dark, curly hair is wild in the way that I always liked but that she never did so she’d carefully tame it every morning. “I . . . I . . .” She takes in a deep breath and I know she’s counting to seven in her head, the way she always tells her clients to do when they’re having an anxiety attack. She finishes the breathing exercise and looks up at me, her hand going to her stomach. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“The babies?” I ask, stunned. The fact that she wants kids has never been a question. Or, at least, it wasn’t for the Jordan I knew—which, admittedly, might never have been the real Jordan.

But she shakes her head. “I want the babies. Just . . . I don’t think . . . with him.”

“Yoga Doug?” I say and Jordan starts a little at the shared nickname we once had for him. I’m guessing that’s not what she calls him anymore. Maybe she doesn’t even remember until now that we used to make fun of having such a meathead for a yoga instructor, all our jokes about how he probably thought namaste was Sanskrit for “Nah, man.”

“He . . .” she starts again, but then is racked by a fresh wave of sobs.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say as I gently move her out of the way of a swinging satchel carried by a harried businesswoman. “Do you want to come up?”

She nods and I reopen my front door. The ride up the elevator and walk to my apartment is silent, except for the occasional sniffle from Jordan. She doesn’t look at me the whole way. When we get inside I invite her to sit on the couch and offer her a glass of water, which she accepts with a nod.