“Passion ruined my family’s lives. I make it a practice to avoid it.” “Love is not always destructive,” he says quietly, and slides a finger up my shin. “Sometimes love creates.” I’m unexpectedly caught by something in his voice, a promise I can barely see, shimmering faintly on the horizon, and that scares me enough to throw out a gauntlet. “Tell me a time that love didn’t destroy what it first created.” He is divorced, clearly not involved with anyone. “In your own life,” I add.
