“And I’m going to get blamed for this, I’m sure.” She could feel the sadness welling up in her, the familiar unfairness of being the broke loser who couldn’t quite hang. The killjoy. “I always do.”

“No one is going to blame you.”

“Yes, they will.” She sighed. “If I hadn’t come, none of this would have happened.”

“That’s not true.” He could barely speak, his weak voice lost in the street noises surrounding them.

“Just please, please leave me alone. Just let me have a nice vacation.”

“I wasn’t trying—” the words caught in his throat. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to help you.” He sounded pathetic.

“I don’t want your help.” She put her hand to his shoulder, moving them both to the side as a group of tourists squeezed by.

“Alex—”

“What?” Her voice was barely more than a hiss.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned slightly in her direction.

She took a long look at his face, drawn and ashamed and slick with the sweat of intoxication. And she realized only then that her hand was still on his arm, radiating with heat, as if glued in place. Perhaps sensing the same thing, his face turned down toward their point of contact. He opened his eyes, silently taking in the sight of her touching him.

“Sorry for what?” she asked, still with that menacing quiet in her voice, her face now inches from his.

For a moment he said nothing, only taking a deep breath before expelling it in a great, heaving sigh. They could pretend it was just about the fight in the bar, but she knew—and felt certain he knew—exactly what she was asking. She wanted him to apologize for what happened between them ten years ago, and she was just loose enough to demand it.

His eyes were still fixed to her hand on his bicep, which twinged involuntarily beneath her touch.

“I’m…” his breath was heavy as he finally turned his gaze to hers, brows knitted in anxiety. He looked physically pained, his lower lip hanging the slightest bit open, his head shaking as if to rid his own mind of unwanted thoughts. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.” As soon as the words left him, he looked away again, avoiding her.

A river of contempt flooded her body, at his inability to acknowledge the damage he had done—even a full decade later, even after a night like this.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she clinically replied, full of anger and anxiety and another, third thing she couldn’t quite place. “And then I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” he breathed, his presence so heavy she could almost feel it.

“And you can come after me,” she declared.