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“No,” she said finally, “I need to go alone.”

Matt tried to absorb that. The knot in his stomach grew even larger.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Amanda’s stomach growled.

“Sorry,” she said. “That’s nerves, I guess.”

She took a healthy swallow of wine.

> He said, “Do you want to get something to eat?”

She shook her head slightly.

“I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Haven’t really had an appetite for some time.”

“I understand.”

“But you should eat. I’ll go—”

“No,” he interrupted, softly. “It’s okay. I guess I’m really not hungry, either.”

He drained his wine stem, then walked over to the bar. He took one of the squat heavy crystal glasses that Amanda had ordered for him—the monogram MPM was etched in an elegant, bold roman typeface—and reached past the bottle of black-label Irish whisky and grabbed the Macallan eighteen-year-old single malt. He filled the glass half full, then added water almost to its rim.

He took a big sip of the scotch whisky as he walked over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Wordlessly, he looked out at the view of the Delaware River, the massive Ben Franklin Bridge reflecting off it, and, far into the distance beyond, the twinkling lights of New Jersey.

He inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly. And then he swallowed the remainder of the single malt.

“Matt . . . ?” she said, almost in a whisper.

He turned and stared at her and frowned as he nodded slightly, then walked back to the kitchen island and put the empty glass in the sink.

He put his hands on her hips, then leaned in and softly kissed her on the cheek.

“I love you,” he said, softly, before pulling his head back.

She looked in his eyes.

“I love you, too, Matt.”

“I think—” he began, but his throat caught. He cleared it and went on. “I think it’d be best if I stayed at my place tonight.”

Amanda did not respond.

Matt looked deeply into her glistening eyes.

She is not exactly rushing to stop me.

He nodded gently. His eyes drifted past her toward the wall of windows, then back to her. An enormous tear was slipping down her cheek. He cradled her head as he kissed the tear, savored its warm saltiness, then lowered his hands to her shoulders, squeezed her tight, and released her.

“We can talk tomorrow?” he said, it coming out as a question.

“Certainly.”

He nodded again.

And then he turned and started down the hallway.