For the first time, this felt like a mistake, and more than anything, I wished that Ruth were here. I was going back to Kenya with a man who didn’t know that I didn’t like whiskey or that I faked more orgasms than I had; who didn’t know that I was only pretending to write my novel when he was writing his, and who didn’t know the truth: that I was desperately, painfully, consumingly in love with him.
