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"You never looked?"

"No."

The answer comes without hesitation.

"You never asked Sebastian?"

"No."

"Never had someone find out?"

"No."

I stare at him. For years, one of the easier stories to tell myself was that Ross probably knew. Not everything, but enough. That a man with his resources could've found me in minutes if he'd cared to look, and therefore the fact that he never appeared meant he hadn't cared enough. The truth sitting across from me is more complicated.

"Why?" I ask.

Ross's gaze stays steady on mine.

"Because I'd forfeited the right."

Something uncomfortable moves through me. I look down at my wine.

"That's very noble in retrospect."

"It wasn't noble."

"No?"

"No," he says. "It was restraint after the damage was already done. I'm not pretending that makes me admirable."

The waiter returns with our second course, giving me several seconds to collect myself while plates are placed between us and more wine is poured. When we're alone again, Ross doesn't immediately resume. I appreciate that more than I should. I take a bite before saying, "You keep talking about what happened like you lost something."

His expression changes.

"I did."

"No."

The word comes out harder than I intended. Ross goes still. I put my fork down.

"You didn't lose me," I say. "You chose to end us."

He doesn't look away.

"Yes."

"You decided your life was too complicated, decided I didn't belong in whatever came next, and sent me away."

"Yes."

"You don't get to rewrite that as some tragic thing that happened to both of us,” I say sternly.

"I'm not."

My irritation sharpens.

"It sounds like you are."