The silence on his end was deafening; my once lively social media feed now felt like an echo chamber. Every strand of my now-fading red hair was a bitter reminder of him. His absence hung over me like a fog, making it hard to see anything else.
Over countless coffee dates and several years, the Shoe Theory refined itself. My last date two months ago was with Jacob, with his scuffed-up brown motorcycle boots for every occasion. He dumped me because I was “an overachiever.” The tag of Miss Perfectionist hung around my neck like an oversized statement necklace, more cumbersome than glamorous. In the comforting embrace of my tiny Toronto apartment, I took solace like countless heart-shattered women who had lived there before me.
Nestled in a worn-out armchair that had seen better days, I wrapped myself in an old quilt, its fabric softened by time and tears. With a dog-eared copy ofPride and Prejudiceand my furbaby Chanandler on my lap, I sought refuge in Austen’s world, far removed from mine. Each weekend became a ritualistic retreat into this literary sanctuary, where Darcy’s wit was sharper than any betrayal, and Elizabeth Bennet’s resilience inspired me to face another week.
My vulnerability lay bare within these four walls; it was raw and real but cushioned by the familiar scent of well-loved books and the faint echo of laughter fromFriendsreruns playing on low volume. It was comforting, though a far cry from the cozy comfort of a partner who adores you for your beautiful mess, not just your accomplishments.
By our 29thbirthdays in April, Lila and I were starting to give up on finding the right partner, so we spent our Saturday nights playing with my Shoe Theory like a Magic 8 Ball. It was more accurate than the ball, and became our fun inside joke. Lila even started consulting me before her own dates.
“He’s wearing flip-flops to a restaurant, Mills. Red flag?” she’d question.
“Catastrophe in the making,” I’d giggle. “Unless you’re literally dining on a beach, he’s telling you he doesn’t think you’re worth the effort of real shoes.”
I realized that my Shoe Theory was both a game and a coping mechanism, really, born from the wreckage of my parents’ bitter divorce, which left me more than a little jaded about love’s staying power. And it seemed that my Theory was surprisingly bulletproof—that is, until Brady sauntered into my life.
A man I’d never even shared oxygen with!
What a dumbass I’ve been.
Chapter Six
Gazing around,I let out an exasperated sigh. At least this seaside village that I’ve tumbled into is undeniably gorgeous.
I let my eyes wander over the rain-drenched yet awe-inspiring emerald landscape, and for the first time since I arrived, I take a lungful of air, allowing the magic of this land to wash over me.
Its scent is like a spell, intoxicating and heady. The sharp tang of pine needles hits first, mingling with the sweet perfume of heather in full bloom. It’s a floral medley that would make any perfumier green with envy. Then there’s the salty kiss from the nearby coast weaving its way into the mix.
Every breath feels like I’m taking in more than just air—it’s as if I’m inhaling tiny fragments of Scotland itself, each molecule carrying whispers of ancient tales and timeless beauty.
After an eternity of gloom, the sun has broken free from its cloudy prison. Its warm rays caress my face, casting a golden glow on everything around me. A sudden warmth fills me—from the sun and within—a spark ignited by possibility. The Highlands aren’t just around me. They’re inside me now, filling my senses with their wild charm and untamed spirit.
A sigh escapes me as I realize that bolting back to Canada with my ego bruised and battered isn’t the solution here. Perhaps this is the time to put myself first. To pamper myself a bit.
Because when you strip away all else, you’re your own best friend for life. Only you can truly comprehend your heart’s quiet murmurings and navigate through the labyrinthine corridors of your mind.
“That was shockingly wise, Mills,” I mutter to the open landscape, suppressing a chuckle. Who knew a stone gazebo near the sea could save me a fortune in therapy bills?
I launch a search on my phone instead of canceling my flight, typing “lodging in Aven Valley,” correcting typos as they crop up due to numb digits and shaky hands.
Despite my sketchy signal strength, results pop up with unexpected speed. Bypassing hotels and crowded B&Bs, I look for something serene—any improvement on a bunk bed in a hostel. Somewhere no one will pepper me with jovial questions about my trip or,worse still, notice my puffy eyes and dirt-smudged face.
That’s when I see it. “Rosewood Cottage: Last cottage on the cove.” The thumbnail photo shows a stone building partially covered in climbing roses, set against a backdrop of steel-gray sea. Something about it catches my attention, a pull that’s hard to define but impossible to ignore. I tap the listing.
More photos load slowly, each one revealing another facet of what appears to be a 200-year-old cottage that walks the perfect line between charmingly rustic and possibly haunted. Thick stone walls with deep-set windows. A wooden door painted a fading blue.
The description is sparse but oddly poetic: “Rosewood Cottage. One Rosewood Lane, Aven Valley, Moray Firth. Seaside solitude in historic surroundings. Self-catering. Few neighbors. No disturbances. Just you, the sea, and whatever ghosts you bring with you.”
That last line should probably send me running to the hostel, but instead, it makes my lips curve into my first genuine smile of the day. At least the owner is honest about the cottage’s atmospheric qualities. And right now, “few neighbors” sounds like heaven.
I scroll to the availability calendar, expecting it to be booked solid—places with this much character usually are. To my surprise, it shows immediate availability for the next month, and they offerpayment plans. Either it’s finally my lucky day, or there’s something seriously wrong with this place that isn’t evident from the photos. Given my current streak, the odds favor the latter.
But the price per night is reasonable—suspiciously so for a waterfront property, and my budget appreciates that. The location is remote but not completely isolated, about twenty-five minutes from downtown Inverness, according to the map. Far enough from the city that I’m unlikely to have any accidental Brady encounters, yet close enough to civilization that I won’t be stranded entirely if this is a mistake.
My practical side pipes up with objections:
What about saving money?
What about basic common sense that says don’t book a remote cottage in a foreign country when you’re already having the worst day of your adult life?
