“Way to go, Miles and Jordan!” from Greta, the German foreign exchange student my parents hosted one summer. Aha! At least I’m not the only one who thought the baby might be mine. Though I should probably write her . . . not that I’m exactly sure how that e-mail is going to go:

Then a simple “Congratulations” from . . . is this for real?! My aunt Fatma?

And then, as if she can sense both my impending breakdown and the incredulous thoughts I’m having about her own mother, I get a text.

How’s it going?

It’s Aisha, my cousin.

Is your Spidey sense on high alert? I write. Aisha has a knack—or I like to think we both do—for sensing the exact moment when the other person is in need of a check-in. It probably has something to do with both of us being only children. She’s the closest thing I have to a sibling, and vice versa.

I hope you are not looking at Jordan’s post. Or writing her. Or thinking about her, she writes.

Of course not, I type back. Why would I ever write her? I mean, aside from this morning, but obviously it was pure adrenaline steering that boat. But speaking of writing things, you might want to have a talk with your mother.

Oh God. What did she do now?

Oh, nothing, I type. Just congratulated my ex-fiancée on the baby she’s having with another man. On Instagram. NBD.

There’s a considerable pause before Aisha writes again. You know how they have parental lock features on phones? They should really have one that goes the other way too. FOR parents. I’ll talk to her. Again. I’m sorry.

I laugh despite myself. Honestly? It’s probably the first time I’ve laughed since Jordan’s “We need to talk.” So maybe you should thank her.

Do you need me to tell you Jordan doesn’t deserve you and you’re better off and you’ll be over her before you know it?

I type out No and then, thinking better of it, delete it and replace it with, It couldn’t hurt . . .

Well, then, she doesn’t deserve you. You are absolutely better off without her. And you’ll be over her much, much sooner than you think. It wasn’t meant to be.

I laugh, bitterly this time. I don’t believe in meant-to-be.

Yeah, right, she types back. This is Dumped Miles talking. Write me again in two months when you’re back to Secret Rom-Com-Loving Miles.

Hey, I write. It was never a secret.

True, she types back. Heart on Your Sleeve Miles. I’ll be waiting for you.

Yeah, yeah.

In the meantime . . . just delete Instagram from your phone.

I look down at my phone and hesitate. Can I really do that? I mean, can anyone really do that?