Chapter 1

I've had my share of women's hair tangled in my mouth. But never not during sex, and never the pleasure of green hair, until now.

"Excuse me." I shake her shoulder, trying not to gag as the lady's lime curls push further in. "Ma'am? Ma'am, wake up."

She moans and nuzzles deeper into my neck.

Just my luck, a heavy sleeper.

The hair epidemic is only a part of today's flight-beating. The man in the seat in front of mine reclines his chair. Not normally an issue, but I have long legs, so it slams against my knees. He throws his back into it as if to drive his message home. I give in, twisting into the aisle, while at the same time trying to avoid another mouthful of stranger.

A Stewardess pushes through the curtain dividing coach from first class. The blue fabric breezes gracefully back into place, keeping us from seeing what's behind it. My cramped legs covet the room they would've gotten. I'd be in there now if I hadn't blown the budget on Genevieve's engagement ring. First class or not, the image of her blue eyes lighting up as she opens the little red velvet box to find a 1920's deco-diamond, makes the pain in my legs, the green hair floss, and the drool on my shoulder, bearable. Worth it even. After you lose one love, you don't risk waiting around to lose another, and I knew right away Genevieve was what I was looking for. She was someone who could fill what's left of my broken heart. I'm not about to mess this up. A woman with Genevieve's tastes deserves a special ring. One I happened to find while in Paris for my exhibit.

I emptied my bank account, used the balance on my credit card, exchanged my ticket, and cut my trip a week short for that ring. Until the funds transfer from my paintings that sold, all I have left is about $80. Francois, the exhibitor, said it would be a few days. I can wait a few days for money. I can't wait any longer for love.

"Ma'am," I say, unbuckling my seat belt. "I have to use the restroom." I slide away from her, and green-hair drops, face down, in my lap. She moans but doesn't wake up.

What did this girl take?

I juggle her head, trying to pry her away from my boys. Nothing, she's out cold. I sigh and stretch into the aisle, lowering her to the seat.

"Excuse me, Sir." It's one of the flight attendants, an older lady who looks like she should've retired a long time ago. I pause, green-head in hands, and strain my neck to look at her.

"I'm going to have to ask you to remain seated." She taps the lit seat belt sign and glares with a look I haven't seen since my grade two teacher caught me chewing gum in class.

I glance between the two women.

The Stewardess taps the light again.

I press my lips into a thin smile. "Got it," I say, squeezing into the small space that's not monopolized with hair.

Genevieve better love this ring.

My back starts to cramp so I shimmy a leg beneath the girl, roll my coat, and place it under her head — at least one of us can be comfortable.

An hour passes this way, the girl bent over my lap, the seat belt sign lit. I try to rest, but the cocktail of awkward stranger, the need to take a piss, and my nerves, has me fixated on the flickering red light until it finally clicks off.

Thank God.

I slip away from the girl and make my way to the back of the plane, rushing through the narrow aisle, and dodging a businessman trying to collect his bag. I slide into the restroom and shut the door behind me. This phone-booth sized room is the most space I've had to myself in the last 7 hours.

When I'm done taking a piss, I close the lid and sit on the toilet, stretching my aching legs as I reach into my jean pocket and retrieve the little red box. I run my finger over the seam and close my eyes, imagining the softness of the velvet to be Genevieve's lips. I want to call her, to hear her voice, tell her about my trip, but she can't know I'm coming home early. She is the hardest person to surprise and I want this to be perfect.

There's a knock on the door. "Buddy, how much longer?"

"I'll be right out," I say, sliding the box back in my pocket.

I wash my hands, splash water on my face, and lean against the counter watching droplets roll over my cheeks. This is it Finn, this is it. I'm not going to let Genevieve slip through my fingers like I did with my first love. I can't. My heart wouldn't recover. It's my time now, time for my own family, my own stunning wife.

The knocking continues, louder.

"All right." I dry my face and run a hand through my dark hair, as I unlock and open the door. My back foot hasn't even cleared the opening when the man shoves past. I duck to avoid smacking into the low hanging restroom sign and force a smile at him. He slams the door. I won't let it bother me, not today. Instead, I slip my hand in my pocket, next to the velvet box, and make my way back to my seat.

Green-hair-girl is upright, the imprint of my jacket zipper across her forehead. She takes me in, and when our eyes meet, her cheeks redden, she bats her lashes, smiles, and looks away.

"Coming home?" I ask, attempting to make small talk as I reclaim my chair.

She nods, tucking a stray strand behind her ear — another springs forward. "You? Home or visiting?"

An image of Genevieve flashes in my mind. "Home."

It strikes me that I actually mean it. I never thought another girl could fill that spot, make me feel like I belong again. Genevieve is my lifesaver.

Green-hair shifts in her seat to face me. "Did you have a good time in England?"

"France," I say, keeping my focus forward. "Just caught my connector flight in Heathrow." I can tell she wants me to keep talking, or at the very least to return the question, instead I say, "I'm on my way to propose to my girlfriend."

It feels good to tell someone the news that has my head-spinning, heart-pounding, and pocketbook screaming. Even if that someone is a stranger who non-consensually made me taste her hair.

"Oh," she says. A little of the light in her blue eyes diminishes. "That's...exciting."

"Yeah."

Hearing the words exit my lips is strange. The one person I want to tell, my best friend Drew, would lecture me for putting my faith in what he believes is a lie. I've heard all his lectures before, in his words, "Love's a gimmick used to sell shit."

It's funny, in a sad-not-at-all-funny sort of way, because Drew's married to my other best friend, Stephanie. Steph. Who just so happens to be the first girl I ever loved. If I'm being honest, a part of me will always love her. You don't just get over a love like that. I fell in love with Steph when she offered to share her cubbyhole with me on our first day of kindergarten. And I fell in love with her again every day since. Every day until last Summer, when she married my best friend because he knocked her up. I didn't know the words "I do" had the power to shatter me. But when you hear the love of your life say them to someone else, a someone you happen to be standing beside as his best man, well, life promised to never be the same. After their wedding, they lost their baby and I thought maybe it was the end of their relationship too. But they stayed together, their love seemed to get stronger, so I forced myself to move on, to find some happiness somewhere else.

The seat belt sign comes back on with a ding. I smile one last time at the girl next to me and lean back in my chair.

What happens next is a blur: the plane lands, I grab my bags, go through customs, find a cab, turn on my phone to find 3 missed calls from my mother — I get excited at first, thinking she's finally calling to ask how my exhibit went. But mom never just calls to check in and she's never cared about my art before. I gave her and dad my favorite painting, an abstract of a couple embracing that won me the Hugo Boss prize through the Guggenheim, and a year later I found it in their shed in a box. No, not my art, she was probably calling to ask how it went with Gen. At least she'll be happy with me about the prospect of grandkids in wedlock, she's made enough comments about it. I don't bother returning her call, not until Gen says yes and there's something to tell.

The next thing I know I'm pulling up to my loft in upper SOHO. I loosen my collar and stare up at the warm light flickering in our window. Almost home.

The ring box feels weighted in my pocket. As it should I suppose, it carries the promise of eternity.

"Just a sec," I say to the driver. I'm not ready to leave just yet, my heart's beating too fast, so I scroll for my text thread with Steph.

MY STEPH: CALL ME BEFORE YOU BUY ONE!

ME: Which one is better? *pic attached* yellow diamond or the princess cut?

ME: Steph????????

MY STEPH: Geeze, needy much? A girl doesn't drop everything to answer immediately and you go all question mark mad.

ME: ?????????? x infinity

MY STEPH: *unimpressed face*

MY STEPH: Okay, I'd wear the heck out of that yellow diamond. It is for me, right? *wink*

I should've known she'd pick the yellow diamond because she's adorably obsessed with the color yellow since discovering the flecks of it in her irises — we both are. I reread her last line a few times before I stick my phone in my pocket and pass fare up to the driver.

"Good luck," he says, bringing me back to Genevieve, as he holds out my change.

Despite how light my wallet feels, I raise my hand. "Keep it, and thanks."

I watch him drive down the road as I take the elevator to the top floor. It opens to an empty hall, covered in reclaimed industrial metal panels. My door, soon to be Genevieve's and mine, over-sized recycled barn wood, is directly across from me. I comb my fingers through my hair and tuck my shirt in. My hand pauses over the little red box in my pocket as I steal a moment to inhale the scent of her that lingers in the hall — honey and lavender. I smile.

Soon this will be a permanent fixture in my life: it will paint my sheets, soak into my canvasses, fill every corner of my apartment. I grip the box as my free hand wraps around the door handle. The metal is cool and temporarily calms my clammy palms. This is the last time I'll enter this place a single man. I didn't ask her parents — though I couldn't have even if I wanted to, her dad abandoned her when she was little and she has no clue where he is, and her mom passed a few years back. Other than her aunt, I'm all she has. Which works out well, because she's all I have. I'm not super close with my family thanks to my dad saying his greatest disappointment was me pursing my art, and my mom not disagreeing. It doesn't help that my little brother buys right into Dad's army-strong lifestyle, which is fine for them, but not for me. And things have been awkward around Steph and Drew since they lost their baby. I can't even imagine the pain Steph's going through. I just want to hold her in my arms and never let go, but I'm not sure Drew would be down with that.

Without Genevieve, I'd live a solitary life — just me, my dog, the gym, and my art.

I take another deep breath and turn the knob. It's locked. "Of course, it is," I chuckle silently to myself. After months of trying to convince her how dangerous New York can be, she finally listens. Begrudgingly, I let go and search the frame for the spare.

When I open the door a cloud of perfumed smoke pours out. The apartment gets like this every time she has a bath. It's like it's her goal to empty the hot water tank. We should ask for hot water on demand for our wedding registry.

I cough into my arm and slide into the kitchen. Classical music blasts through the apartment in the typical Genevieve style. It's a good thing too, because Bob Ross, my Boston terrier, comes tearing around the corner. His raspy godfather-bark is loud enough to compete with the music and give me away. I glance for a place to drop my bag. My go to spot on the counter is littered with dishes, so I settle for the floor.

"Shhh, Bob Ross, it's me." I hold my hands out for him.

Once he hears my voice and smells me, his attack mode turns to a barrage of kisses. I pull his little body into my arms until he gives up trying to lick my face. He wriggles free, returning to his favorite spot in front of our fireplace. I smile and make my way down the hall to the bedroom, maneuvering through a maze of strewn shoes and clothing — kicking heels and flimsy garments out of my path. In Gen's defense, she didn't expect me home for another week. Even still, I have no doubt that when we're married, I'll be the one doing the cleaning. Of all her skillsets, homemaker isn't one.

Our door is ajar, so I peer through the haze, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she knows I'm here. There's something so beautiful about a person alone in their own world. Something raw and candid. And no one does their own solitude as well as Gen. It's one of the things I admire most about her. I've often longed to capture it in oils, but she would never agree if she knew I was there, watching through the haze. This is a painting I can only keep in my mind.

The bathroom's in my line of sight, and it doesn't look like she's there. I nudge the door with my shoulder and step forward, fingers winding tighter around the little red box in my pocket.

Through the fog I make out Genevieve. She's naked, kneeling at the foot of our bed, red sheets overflowing to the floor. The soft light casts a surreal hue on the curves in her shoulders, the dip in her waist. I want to take her in that second, make her forget anything exists except for me.

She says something and shifts to the side, letting her long hair fall playfully down how she knows I like it. I freeze, sure that she's heard me.

"Say please," she says, with a soft and sexy lilt as she turns toward me. Those long brown curls spill all over that tan skin, stopping just above her lower back to dust her dimples.

I open my mouth to reply when something moves before her on the bed.

It's not me she's turning to.

No sound escapes my mouth.

I take a step closer.

Bile rising in my throat.

There's a blonde woman — her eyes closed and her hands caressing her breasts.

"Please, baby," the woman says breathlessly, "please."

"Say it," Gen repeats with force, tugging the girl's hair, making her lift her chin and part her lips in pleasure.

"I love you," the blonde whispers. "It's always you."

My fingers slip from the cushion of the box, it falls hard to the bottom of my pocket, and Genevieve's head dips down toward the woman.

The fog of perfume stings my eyes. It fills my lungs. It smothers me.

My foot snags on a heel and I trip, stumbling over her clothes, barely managing to catch my balance. I run. Through our kitchen, out of our home, and into the empty hall, closing our door behind me. I lean against it, my heart knocking through my chest at the wood like it's begging to go back. Damn traitor that it is.