My poncho has somehow transformed into a makeshift mummy costume around my lower half.
Lifting my head enough to survey my surroundings reveals I’ve crash-landed into what looks like a Gothic church overlooking the coast—complete with stunning stained glass windows, pointed arches, and an old stone wall about three feet away from my current position of defeat.
A sound escapes me—a mix between laugh and sob—as the realization hits: I was chased by a cow...and lost spectacularly. Rolling onto my back, laughter bubbles up from deep inside me, uncontrollable and tinged with hysteria.
“Girl meets boy, boy turns out to be married, girl gets chased by angry cow,” I wheeze.
The moment I stand, I feel like an exhibit at a mud sculpture festival. My hair is a wet mop, my poncho is torn, my suitcase dented.
My cheeks are scorching with embarrassment. I need to get out of here before anyone sees the walking disaster that is me right now! Gathering my scattered belongings, I look up the hill. No sign of Buttercup or her Scottish savior, thank goodness.
Just as I’m about to make a hasty exit, there’s movement at the top of the hill and there he is again—the tall, muscular figure checking on me. Panic surges through me; there’s no way I can face him looking like this! Hastily, I yank my poncho hood over my head and bolt from the scene.
I stumble upon a picturesque stone gazebo nestled among rose bushes—it’s perfect. Once inside, I kick off the soaked wedge heels and pull my beloved combat boots and socks from my suitcase. Finally, dry feet.
What do you know? One small victory today.
Chapter Five
Perchedon a stone gazebo bench facing the ocean, I contemplate tossing this hostel booking into the waves below, hailing an Uber to the airport, and catching the next flight out of this Scottish disaster.
Who needs a hostel bed when I can sulk in my own apartment by tomorrow night, wrapped in my favorite blanket and drowning my sorrows in the most budget-friendly Okanagan wine available?
Lila would skip over with snacks and a sympathetic ear, and Margot, well, she’d understand once she heard all about Shitty McLiar.
I flick over to my phone’s maps app, confirming the little blue dot is firmly planted in a village called Aven Valley, and open my Uber app. But my stubborn streak makes me hesitate. Also, my fingers are too numb from the cold to tap anything accurately.
I let my mind wander back into the past–back towhen Brady and I first connected on the LoveLeap app. His profile photo showed him standing in front of an ancient castle, his jet-black hair tousled by the wind and his eyes radiating warmth. His bio was refreshingly genuine in a sea of clichés:
Historian with a weakness for good whisky, bad puns, and women who challenge my theories. Let’s debate the historical accuracy of Outlander over coffee?
Our conversations started as playful banter about Scottish history (my knowledge limited to what I’d gleaned from historical romance novels; his seemingly endless) and quickly evolved into daily exchanges about everything from existential philosophy to our shared love of obscure indie bands from the early 2000s.
Brady’s words echoed in my mind: “It’s like you’ve been living in my head all along.” Those words had thawed something within me—a frosty barricade around my heart erected after witnessing my parents’ bitter divorce when I was just five years old.
I shared these memories with Brady during one of our late-night conversations, feeling safe in the anonymity provided by distance. He responded with empathy and vulnerability about his own family issues—all part of our growing intimacy.
Even the photos of his shoes had been perfect foreach story he told me. The weathered walking boots in photos from supposed hiking trips where he claimed to do his best thinking about us. The sophisticated Oxfords paired with stories about academic conferences where he’d found himself wishing I was there to share the experience. Each image was carefully selected to build the character of Brady Reeves: Thoughtful Academic and Perfect Potential Partner, and I stupidly thought it confirmed my Shoe Theory was flawless.
My Shoe Theory might sound a bit silly, but it’s been my fun guiding light in the chaos (okay, shitshow) of modern dating. It started as a giggle-worthy distraction from adulting but soon became my trusty love compass.
The theory was born out of countless dates in Toronto’s bustling coffee shops, where I’d find myself studying my date’s shoes while they grabbed our lattes. Lila, always ready with a witty jab, loved to poke fun at the theory at first, but now even she can’t deny its uncanny accuracy.
The crux of the theory is that a man’s choice in footwear is like an open book about his character. It’s not just about whether he chooses loafers over sneakers or cowboy boots over dress shoes; it’s that his shoes are a sneak peek into his personality, his values, and even his lifestyle.
Even my mom, who typically scoffs at such whimsical notions, has begun to acknowledge its merit—though I suspect she’s just humoring me to avoid another post-divorce therapy session.
I started gauging men based on their shoe choices in my mid-twenties because it seemed like an express route to understanding who they truly are beneath their polished exteriors. It felt like having cheat codes for the complex game of modern relationships. And let’s be real: we could all use some guidance navigating those unpredictable waters.
I remember sitting in Moonbean Coffee in Kensington Market when Ryan sauntered towards me with our coffee. His shoes were glossy black patent leather, probably costing more than my monthly rent.
As he launched into an unasked-for monologue mansplaining his investment portfolio, I silently assessed him:Status-obsessed with an intense fear of imperfection. I cut that date short under the guise of a non-existent deadline.
As I left, though, a pang of loneliness settled in my chest. Back in my apartment, I sought solace in a cheap bottle of wine and a bag of Cheetos, each quick sip and crunchy bite a futile attempt to fill the ache of solitude.
Two weeks later, I found myself in a different café with Daniel, his feet adorned in shoes that looked like a canvas splashed with paint.Artistic and spontaneous, I mused,Values creativity, and doesn’t shy away from self-expression!
He persuaded me to dye my hair a vibrant shadeof red, a daring change that felt thrilling at the time. We shared intense moments of passion and laughter for five months until he vanished without warning or explanation, leaving only the ghost of our connection behind.
