It strikes her as a bit sad that apologies have been so few and far between that, much like love, she never learned how to deal with them. A dozen different responses make it no further than the back of her throat before she presses her lips into a tight line — a perfunctory facsimile of a smile — and nods once.

Rather than let the silence stretch out uncomfortably long, Athessa leans forward and nudges her glass in Byerly's direction. Pour, please.