“You couldn’t have called?”

“I thought about it.

About a hundred times.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

She was right.

I had spent the better part of autumn composing an apology in my head, and I had still managed to make the first moment about my nerves rather than her peace.

I looked at the overnight bag.

The interstate had been slick, and I had packed in case the drive home became impossible.

Seen from her doorway, however, it looked as though I expected to be welcomed back into her life with a change of clothes and a sentimental speech.

“I didn’t come to stay,” I said quickly.

“I brought the bag because of the weather.

If this is a bad time, I’ll leave.”

“It was a bad time seven years ago, too.”

I accepted that without argument.