“But did she know that it was a deal breaker for you?” Aisha asks.

“Of course not!” I say. “We were on what would probably be considered our second real date. I mean, come on, Aisha. Have you read my handbook? Who brings up having kids as a real topic of conversation on a second date.”

“Except it wasn’t a second date. Not really and you know it,” Aisha says. “Look, I don’t know what you should do about Jordan. Only you know that. I know if you decide they’re going to be your kids, they will be. And they’d never know the difference. But I just really want you to think about this, Miles. Because is it more important to you that you have kids, or that you find the right person to have kids with?”

“You can’t make someone who doesn’t want kids have kids,” I say.

“No, you absolutely cannot,” Aisha says. “But you owe it to yourself—and Zoey—to give her a real chance to understand the stakes. Let her know it’s not a jokey question for you, not a reason for a quick comeback. It’s time you were Heart on Your Sleeve Miles again. For Zoey. She deserves that.”

* * *

After the party, I run. I’m in a button-down, slacks, and loafers. But I don’t care. It’s the only thing I can think of doing to clear my head.

I get flashes of my life with Jordan, of all the times we jogged together through Prospect Park, of pushing each other through sprints around the lake, of sometimes picnicking by the baseball fields so we could watch the Little League games. The ones with the youngest kids were our favorites, the kids who didn’t always know which way to run, or who could barely even hold up their lightweight bats. It was such a sweet moment to witness, a first.

And then I get flashes of my time with Zoey. We don’t have years’ worth of memories. What we do have is all sparks and excitement, wit and passion. Would it fizzle out after a few months? Would it ever turn into anything more than that first blush of romance? I think we’re in love . . . but can we stay there? Could we ever have what my parents do?

I don’t know.

At Union Square, I hop on the subway and I let the air-conditioning dry my sweat. I get off at the familiar stop, I walk the steps to the familiar stoop. But I no longer have a key so I have to ring the bell. The buzzer still doesn’t work and it takes a minute for Jordan to slowly make her way down the stairs. She smiles tentatively through the glass doors when she sees that it’s me.

So many things are the same, but everything’s different.