Coming to Savannah

But then I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew. I think I knew as soon as the host started ushering me to my table.

She brought her lips to my ears and said the word I was yearning to hear. “Yes.” Just that. “Yes.” But with that “yes,” that new world that Todd said I would find if I came to Savannah had begun. And I decided that Todd—and Edward—could go to hell.

Exhilarated, walking on the clouds, I took control. I rolled on the chaise lounge until she was under me, moaning and sighing, the heels of her stiletto-clad feet rubbing on my calves, and I fucked her into the dawn. I came in Savannah. Again and again.

The next morning, I rose early, not hungry—or at least not hungry for dark-roast coffee and beignets—and could barely dress myself, my hands were trembling so hard. I couldn’t believe that it would happen. I kept telling myself it hadn’t all been a dream, but the practical side of Mike kept whispering, “Yeah, it was,” in my brain. I was a novelist. I was used to living in a fantasy world. Most people could tell the difference between fantasy and their real life. I couldn’t. My career depended on not being able to do so.