I guessed this would be a night’s flirtation. I threw him a quick escape and easy out. “Listen, I have to trim my tree. I’m having a party on Monday night.”

“Can’t come on Monday. I’ll be in Atlanta.”

“You’re not invited. It’s women only. But I do have to trim my tree.”

The tree was bolted in its stand. The lights were strung but unplugged. A green plastic ornament container rested beside it. He lit the tree and said, “That’s better.” Nodded at the box, then asked, “So are the ornaments in there?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s do it. I love trimming trees.”

We trimmed the tree and then poured some more wine. “To a great holiday,” he said as our glasses clinked. “To meeting you.”

That was a year ago. The Saturday before the Christmas cookie party. By New Year’s we were lovers and by Valentine’s I was in love with him. But I didn’t tell him. I’ve never said I love you to any man after Alex. Stephen first told me he loved me when I discovered him cheating. As though that would compensate for his adultery. All it did was convince me that saying I love you was manipulative. When he proposed, he held my hands tight and looked into my eyes and said I was the most important person in his life. The world was empty without me. Love, he said, is just another word. So I didn’t say it to him. And he was cheating on me by the time I was pregnant with Tara, so I didn’t even tell him after she was born.

I’ve told Sky and Tara I love them. And my parents. Some of my girlfriends. But with a man, I’m not certain what those words mean. They’re too much of a demand and a burden. They sound like you want something. Strings are attached. Obligations. Besides, how can we know what it means? I read somewhere that the color of our eyes impacts the hues that we actually see. If that’s true, how do I know love means the same to me as love means to you? Especially since we don’t even know if red is the same to both of us. Plus, isn’t love supposed to be forever? And there’s no forever with a man.

So that Valentine’s Day, when Jim said, “I think I’m falling in love with you,” I answered, “I’m infatuated with you, too.”

He nodded.

Infatuation is safe. It lets you both off the hook. There’s no weight of permanence; in fact, there’s a promise of flightiness and transience that reassures.