He almost said the first question that came to his mind, almost let it slip from his lips like a fool. He wanted to ask if she still loved him, but at the same time even he could see that a white-knuckled, crying woman did not need to be asked some fool question like that. Maybe he would one day... but not right now.
"I... can only disagree that it does not matter," he said, shaking his head firmly. "The past is done, but... if we are any proof, it travels behind us, haunts us, snickers in the background behind us at our faults, and warms us with comforts of better days. It... matters that I came that close to hurting you more."
He sighed and shrugged. "I had a thought that there would have been no hope then," he added. "How could I have assumed with no doubts that you would take me back after what I had done in the past, how I'd lied? Pete... I still do not like him, but I do not think I could have forgiven myself, had I caused the harm I tried to cause in a moment of selfishness."
He allowed himself a small, faintly bitter laugh. "This is a conversation meant to be had over vodka, I think Kitty," he said, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. He reached out towards her hand, offering his own if she wanted to clasp it.