“What I said at dinner was wrong.” Some of the tension eases when she finally turns from the window to look at me. “I’m sorry.” As a man in my position, I don’t often find myself having to apologize. But with Lexie, it doesn’t just feel necessary, it feels right. “Thank you,” she replies, her eyes steady on mine. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again.” Even as she says it, in the deepest most visceral part of me, I know I never will. I can’t.
