I Wanted to be the Exception

The Fantasy of Being Chosen

I sat on the edge of that hotel bed in California, the sun dropping behind the Hollywood sign, listening to him confess a history that should have sent me running. The vandalism. The jail. The resort phone calls. The chaos that followed him from woman to woman. He told it like a man haunted. Like someone trapped. And instead of hearing danger, I heard opportunity. I told myself I was giving him grace. That I was mature enough to handle it. But what I really felt was chosen. Out of all the women she’d run off, I would be the exception.