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Blaire sits beside me with her bag on her lap, looking out the window as if the city suddenly requires her full concentration. I give her several minutes before speaking.

"You can stop pretending the traffic is fascinating."

She turns toward me.

"I'm not pretending anything."

"You've been staring at the same delivery van for three blocks."

"That's because we've barely moved."

"Fair."

She looks back toward the window, and the silence stretches again. Then she says, "Why are you doing this?"

I look at her.

"Doing what?"

"Showing up."

Her voice is calm, but the question isn't casual.

"You have a company to run," she continues.

"You have offices in multiple countries, acquisitions, boards, investors and whatever else takes up your day. You don't need to be sitting in collection meetings or inspecting condition reports."

"No," I say. "I don't."

That brings her attention back to me.

"Then why are you?"

There is no point pretending I don't understand what she is asking.

"Because you're here."

Her expression changes immediately.

"That isn't an answer."

"It is."

"No, Ross, it isn't."

"It's the honest one."

She exhales and looks away. I watch her for a moment. Her anger is obvious. What sits beneath it isn't. The more time I spend around her, the more certain I become that something else is there. She isn't simply irritated by my presence. There are moments when she looks tense in a way that has nothing to do with old resentment. I haven't decided what that means. I do know I'm not going to force the answer out of her.

Blaire folds her hands over her bag.

"You could have stayed out of this," she says.

"Yes."

"But you didn't."

"No."