I’d been about to launch into a lecture about centuries of architecture and history, but I switched gears. The Alhambra could defend itself. “Rorie, I know how you feel about being away from your friends for a couple weeks.” I held up a hand to ward off her protestations. “But I thought you liked Declan.”

Declan and I have a complicated history. We’d met because we both worked on projects related to the same family of viruses—albeit on different continents—and then, propelled by what I assumed to be mutual attraction, we’d dated for several years. From my point of view, things had gone well even though I lived in Atlanta and Declan lived in Spain. I didn’t need or want a man in my house all the time and I liked the excitement generated by our transcontinental meetups. I’d already been granted the one great love affair of my life and I could not fathom ever finding that again. With Declan, I was in it for the heat.

Well, not just the heat; also the companionship. I enjoyed Declan’s bright mind when we discussed our similar interests. He checked all my boxes: chemistry, intellectual stimulation, geographic distance that allowed me to maintain my space.

So I was a bit stunned when he dumped me.

It turned out, as these things so often do, that our relationship suffered from a series of imbalances. First: sex. I thought we were good in the bedroom. He’s too much of a gentleman to say this outright, but I gathered, later, reading between the lines, that maybe I was more attracted to him than he was to me. I’m no great beauty, but I guess I thought—if I thought about it at all—that I have the mechanics down pretty well when it comes to physicality. But this—if it’s even true—was not the primary driver of Declan’s decision to downgrade us to friends.

Our second imbalance: he found me cold. To my surprise, he wanted me to uproot myself and the kids to Spain, leaving behind my job at the CDC, and when I declined he felt spurned. How could you not want us to be together more? he argued. If you love me, why wouldn’t you want to be with me?

I gave these questions the consideration they were due. I concluded—again, somewhat to my surprise—that as much as I was drawn to Declan, I’d be better off without another great love affair. All those metaphors people use for love: stolen breath, swelling hearts. The irony of these poetic descriptions wasn’t lost on me, since in reality, a swollen heart is unable to pump efficiently and often correlates with the early demise of its owner. But, also, I got it: when I thought of my lost husband, a very real sensation of welling emotion filled my chest. When I thought of Declan, I wasn’t short of breath. My heart didn’t speed up. I didn’t feel the same hot, anticipatory glow I used to experience with Daniel, like an old-fashioned camera flashbulb going off in pulses, so bright and vibrant I used to worry it would be visible to everyone around us. Or if I did feel those things, I didn’t want to. Loving someone that way makes you vulnerable.