Pass

A week later, I'm getting over her. I'm trying to think less about her. I'm resisting the temptation to call her.

I fall asleep alone on my faux leather IKEA sofa one night and wake up early to find a press release in my Gmail: JetBlue is offering its All You Can Jet Pass for the second time.

With an All You Can Jet Pass, for 30 days after Labor Day, I can fly on JetBlue anywhere they go for $499 or $699.

JetBlue doesn't fly. JetBlue jets.

How can I justify jetting for 30 days? September in New York is ideal. For a gigless guy, September is another month of summer vacation.

But when in my life will I ever get another chance to jet anywhere I want?

It's now or never.

If she loved me, I'd be serious and search for a real job.

No gig. No girl. No reason not to jet.

Two hours after JetBlue releases its press release, I buy my $499 All You Can Jet Pass. I can jet all I can every day but Friday and Sunday for 30 days.

For the next two days, I pack my All You Can Jet itinerary with as many flights as I can.

Dedication

For her. For setting me free. For letting me jet.

"I love you," I tell her.

I put my arm around her. We walk and watch the sunset on the Hudson River on an August Sunday evening. 

We meet five years ago when she moves to New York City to pursue her public relations career. I'm in advertising at the time.

Like PR and advertising, she and I are complements. She's female. I'm male. She's brown. I'm blond. She's dark. I'm light. She's curvy. I'm skinny. She cooks. I clean. She spends. I save. She's early. I'm late. She's loud. I'm quiet. She talks. I listen. 

Now, five years after we meet, she's a teacher. I'm an entrepreneur. She spends the school year in New York and the summer elsewhere. I spend the winter elsewhere and the summer in New York.

Sometimes we're in the same place at the same time.

Knowing she's moving from New York for good soon, I confess my long-time interest in her a few weeks ago.

We sit next to each other at church.

"What are you doing after?" she asks me and then tells me I'm coming over to her apartment for dinner.

"So you can move and I can move on . . . " I tell her I've been interested in her for years. After midnight on her IKEA couch, it just comes out.

The next day, we hold hands. The day after that, we kiss.

After five years of moving slowly, everything moves quickly.

Ever since, I think about how to make more money to support our family and what to name our kids.

I go to the Mormon temple and pray about whether to tell her I want to be with her forever. I'd give up my addresses in New York City, Salt Lake City and San Diego to live with her in Dallas. She's the only one who's not in my family whom I want to be with for eternity.

I tell her everything I'm feeling.

It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks me.

"I care about you," she admits and then tells me she has no interest in anything other than friendship with me.

Now I'm free.

Cover

A 30-something Mormon virgin entrepreneur buys an All You Can Jet Pass;

takes 20 JetBlue flights in 30 days;

visits 12 cities in 3 countries;

sleeps in airports and cars, on couches and streets;

eats only one real meal a day in each city's best hole-in-the-wall;

runs out of water;

wins a lottery;

meets a comedy legend, a rock star and a major league cheerleading squad;

sees a prophet of God;

parties in his underwear in public;

hooks up with and breaks up with his dream girl;

falls in love with a dog;

forgives the past and finds a future.

Part travel guide. Part self-help book. Part adventure story.