He hadn't expected her apology in return. It gave him pause and he watched her for a second, brow drawn low. She was sorry. It could have meant so much, or it could have meant nothing at all, in practice. Sorry for the way things had ended, sorry that things had ended? That could have been something to talk about. Sorry that things had begun at all between them, when they were bound to end? Ezra had thought that too on occasion over the past year, but he had yet to convince himself of it. Even when he'd been exceptionally low, even when he'd been sure he was going to die or go mad, he couldn't force himself to regret having met Rosalie, having known her or loved her.

Did she think he was here tonight because he wanted to be? Did she think he could possibly care about any of these girls beyond the superficial task of checking off boxes to stave off his mother's lecture? She couldn't possibly think he'd already moved on. She had to know how deep the cut had been when she left, he thought. She had to know it couldn't heal in such a little span of time as a year. She had to know — didn't she? — how much hope the words I'm sorry too could give him, coming from her in a moment like this.

He had just opened his mouth to respond when she pointed out the music. His face fell. Judging only by his expression, one might have suspected that he thought Rosalie had summoned the music up deliberately to hurt him, to twist the knife in the fresh cut her admission had made. But he owed someone a dance, as she said. "Yeah," he agreed. "I suppose I do."

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