And that's that, isn't it? Short and sweet. She'd hoped as much, hadn't she?
Except she could never have been prepared for what he'd had to say.

Jo didn't know if she felt like she should say more. He wasn't wrong that she was out of line, and she hadn't been wrong; she told him she had nothing to go on to jump to different conclusions. Even knowing she was wrong, there was more of a strange wave of annoyance at the fact she was still thinking about it, whether it was heartless not to feel guilty about just that when she knew she wasn't going to reciprocate.

Not that he seemed to need it. He sat down, returning to his drink and facing the bar. Saying those few words, and how strange is it that she thinks that I'm sorry isn't right and thank you for telling me is not something she wants to set free—still reeks too much of admitting to needing charity to just be in the loop—and she ends up at only:

"Same."

Before she turns away and heads for the door,
already typing three words in the air.