Alfred’s cheeks flushed, and he hoped that between the dim lighting and the angle she was at compared to him perhaps Zelda wouldn’t notice. Should he have done something differently, between Thursday and today? He’d thought that he’d made the right choice in deciding not to write to Jo, because if he wrote it would just open up the door for another heated conversation, but maybe it would have been better if he’d found some way to tell her, before she was standing in his flat and they were both feeling miserable about it, that it didn’t even matter that she was leaving anymore.

The trouble was, he didn’t think he was capable of writing a goodbye to her that really felt as final as it should. Not yet, anyway. When he’d been writing drafts of letters on Friday that he hadn’t ever sent, he’d started a handful to Jo, but they had all the wrong themes: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wish…

“Jo’s been pretty focused on her own things, lately,” he said evasively. It wasn’t untrue, but it also didn’t come right out and say what he was thinking. He’d just expected her to know, because they were always in sync about anything that was important, and he hadn’t wanted to force himself to say or do something painful if she already knew. He hadn’t been prepared for her to ask him what happened on Thursday, when she’d done that earlier. He hadn’t been prepared for her to have to ask.