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For several minutes, the conversation stays safely neutral. We talk about Charlotte's delayed arrival, the Geneva records, and the revised schedule. Ross mentions that his New York team has finally closed one of the acquisition issues that kept him moving between continents for most of the past year. Then the professional topics run out.

Ross leans back slightly.

"You've gotten very good at keeping every conversation about work."

I look at him.

"I'm here for work."

"You're at dinner with me,” he reminds me.

"I'm aware."

"That wasn't a criticism."

"It sounded like one,” I say.

"It was an observation."

"Those are usually worse with you,” I say.

Ross almost smiles. I hate that I nearly do too.

The waiter appears again to clear the first course and refill our water glasses. Ross waits until he leaves before speaking.

"I meant what I said in the car."

The softness in his voice changes the atmosphere immediately. I set my fork down.

"I know."

"I'm not trying to repeat the conversation."

"Good."

Ross nods once.

"But there's something I didn't explain."

I don't answer. He takes that as permission to continue.

"When I ended things, I genuinely believed leaving you alone afterward was the least selfish thing I could do," he says.

"I'd already made the decision without you. I wasn't going to compound that by deciding I was entitled to keep watching what happened next."

My fingers tighten slightly around the stem of my glass.

"You could've called," I say.

"I could have."

"You could've apologized."

"I should have,” he says.

I look at him carefully. There's no defense in his expression, and that makes it harder to stay angry in the clean, uncomplicated way I prefer. Ross continues before I can say anything.

"I knew enough to know you'd moved forward professionally because your name appeared in places I would've seen anyway. Beyond that, I left it alone."