No Second Chances [ON HOLD]

Chapter 1: Seeing Red

Every so often, an unsuspecting volunteer wanders into my research lab and receives the surprise of his life.

"Please look at the image and tell me what you see."

The study subject before me squints at a field of green flags, varying in hue and saturation, with a few scattered red ones interspersed to form a shape. It's a straightforward baseline test for protanopia, the condition I've dedicated my career to studying. An observer with the typical set of cones on their retina should answer immediately. "A circle." Or "The letter A." Or "A heart." The answer couldn't be more obvious to 98 percent of the study population.

But for those with protanopia, the key receptors for the color red have been missing from their retinas since birth. To their eyes, the red flags in the array simply blend in with the background. The color they've learned to associate with the word "red" would look like some funny shade of brownish-grayish green to the rest of us, and their brains have no way of knowing they've missed anything.

That's the curious thing about protanopia. People don't realize they have it. Not unless someone with typical vision notices the deficit—or some researcher with a double doctorate in optometry and biomedical sciences administers a test.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a form of color blindness?"

I brace for his reaction. Most cases of protanopia occur in males by a quirk of the X-chromosome, and they can have an interesting response to a woman—even one in a white lab coat—telling them they're incompetent at something. They often don't believe me. They'll think I'm messing with them (some kind of psych experiment?), or perhaps my equipment has malfunctioned.

Today's victim invites me to look at the flags for myself, demanding I see the same thing he does.

Too bad the color red cannot be mansplained.

I empathize, of course. I have a few sensory processing differences of my own, and I understand the profound confusion—how it defies the limits of the human mind to imagine a sensory experience we've never perceived firsthand.

But I don't have protanopia myself. I don't have that excuse. "Oh, I can see the red flags just fine," I joke as he peers into the viewfinder again. "My problem with red flags is that I'm attracted to them."

That line never fails to elicit a laugh. The student turns his perplexed gaze on me, no doubt trying to assess if I'm flirting. Ha! As if I would dare venture a toe into those murky waters, with Wallingford University's ironclad zero tolerance policy against inappropriate student/faculty relations.

I'll give this kid the benefit of the doubt. Students don't always register my place in the university hierarchy when I first introduce myself as Professor Cora Glass. I recently turned 30, but they see my youthful features and petite stature and perceive me as a peer instead of junior faculty.

I turn away to record his responses as I toss my standard let-him-down-easy line over my shoulder. "Don't worry, you're safe. I only see green flags when I look at you."

He chuckles. "I guess that's good?"

But I'm not kidding around. Not exactly. I'm dead serious about my issues when it comes to men and flags. I've dated all green flags before, and the attraction always fizzled. The only man who ever held my attention for long, who pushed all the right buttons, who I'm ashamed to admit I still daydream about to this day?

I saw red from the moment I laid eyes on him.

Three years have passed since I met Jamie Bowen in the lobby of the JFK Airport Marriott hotel. I let him hypnotize me for a time with that husky British accent... I let him change my travel plans and commandeer my life. But that's all over now. He's long since walked out my door for good. I only preserve him in my memory as a reminder. He's the reason I'm not flirting with any of my research subjects nowadays. Not even the charming, cocky, age-appropriate ones.