I was three minutes late for the train. My fiancé knew I was twelve weeks pregnant and had booked a window seat because the nausea had been brutal—but when I boarded, his new intern was sitting there with his blazer over her shoulders. “Sit in the back,” he told me. “She needs it more.” I got off before departure and canceled our wedding. He still thought I’d be waiting for him in Boston.

No jacket.

No tie.

Two glasses of water.

I sat across from him.

He reached for my hand.

I moved it.

His jaw tightened.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“About canceling the wedding.”

“Yes.”

He looked stunned.

Almost offended.

“Because I gave someone your seat.”

“No.”

“Then explain it.”

“I have been explaining for months.”

“No.”

“You’ve been accusing.”

I held his gaze.

“Fine.”

“Let’s make this simple.”

“You knew I was nauseous.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I booked that seat for a reason.”

“Yes.”

“You gave it away without asking.”

“Yes.”

“You gave your blazer to Maya.”

He rolled his eyes.

“She was cold.”

“You touched her face.”

“She was sick.”

“You told me she was actually sick.”

“That was bad wording.”

“You told me to sit in the back.”