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"You never called."

"I know."

"You never came after me."

"No."

Her voice stays controlled.

"Then you don't get to act like showing up in meetings now fixes it."

"I'm not asking you to think it does."

She looks away again. The city moves slowly beyond the glass. I let the silence stay. After a moment, Blaire says, "You're very calm about this."

"I've had time to think about it."

"That must have been nice."

The bitterness in her voice is deserved.

"I'm not going to argue with you about that," I say.

She turns back toward me, and for the first time since we got into the car, the anger in her expression is cleaner than the anxiety. I prefer it. At least I understand anger. I glance down at her left hand before I can stop myself. Still no ring. Blaire notices, and her eyes drop almost immediately to my hand. I see the moment she realizes I noticed that too. Neither of us comments on it.

I wonder whether there is someone in California. A partner. Someone who knows her habits, shares her bed, gets the parts of her life she has made clear I'm not entitled to ask about. The thought bothers me more than it should. I keep it to myself.

Blaire shifts slightly against the seat.

"For what it's worth," she says, "I'm not interested in reopening the past in every room we happen to share."

"Neither am I."

"Good."

"But I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen."

Her eyes meet mine.

"I didn't ask you to."

"No," I say. "You didn't."

The car turns onto a quieter street and begins slowing near the Trust counsel's building. Blaire looks toward the entrance.

"This changes nothing," she says.

"I know."

She reaches for the door handle as the car stops. I look at her.

"But I meant what I said."

Blaire glances back at me.

"I know," she says.

Then she gets out. I follow a moment later.