I probably did both Farhad and this girl a favor.

There is no such thing as love anyway. Not to get all hair metal power ballad about it, but love is an illusion. It’s just a smokescreen for future heartbreak. Why do it to yourself? Why? Either they’ll leave you, or you’ll leave them or—best-case scenario—you live together happily until one of you dies and leaves the other one completely destroyed and a shell of their former self.

Why the fuck bother?

A message pops up from Leanne.

Leanne T: Miles? I think you need to come into the office for a meeting.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

Miles I: I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Is that okay?

Leanne T: Yes.

And then, before I can think better of it.

Miles I: Hey, Leanne. Question for you. Do you know what a six-week pregnant belly looks like?

* * *

Leanne’s office is in a building that was clearly a warehouse until maybe three minutes ago, when some enterprising real estate mogul realized he could create about 450 closet-sized offices in there and charge people an exorbitant amount of rent for the privilege of working right next to the West Side Highway, which is at least a fifteen-minute, windswept walk from any subway line.

I wait for her to buzz me up, and then take one of the many freight elevators up to the ninth floor, until I end up in front of Leanne’s cupboard.

Up until two and a half months ago, Tell It to My Heart was located in a small, but airy office space in the Meatpacking District. Full-length glass windows looked out over the cobblestone streets where high-end shoppers in designer sunglasses and Jimmy Choos and/or hungover clubbers in designer sunglasses and taller Jimmy Choos hobbled to and fro. I used to look out and think it was very possible one of those clubbers was a client of ours, coming back from a successful date night that ended at seven a.m., rushing to get home and change and look presentable for work, but unable to hide that secret smile only a hot date with someone new was able to conjure up. It wasn’t a walk of shame, it was a walk of pride. Who wouldn’t feel proud and exhilarated to have come off of a night of passion and connection? And, maybe, just maybe, I’d had a hand in that. It used to make me feel proud and exhilarated, by association.

Now I know better.

Now I know one hot night will probably turn into agony somewhere down the road—whether it’s because of unreturned text messages, or fights over the other one’s overbearing parents, or splitting up and trying to figure out who gets the houseplants. I’m facilitating nothing but ruin and damnation.