“A sign your niece needs a new job?”
“Be nice. No, I mean maybe you're meant to write about that Portree instead.”
I pause. To be fair, it’s not all her fault. I’m great at most things, and I may write about exotic places for a living, but geography? Not my strong suit.
Case in point: I once wrote an entire piece about hiking in the Blue Mountains of Australia... only to find outafter publicationthat I’d actually been in the Grampians. My editor nearly fainted. I blamed jet lag. And wine. Mostly wine.
So yeah, ending up in a town I didn’t actually book a trip to? Weirdly on-brand for me. Which is why I usually triple check travel bookings…clearly just not this time.
“What about the Gathering?”
“I’ll send someone else that’s closer to it. But come on, Mia. Wrong-turn travel stories? Reader gold. And if there's a rodeo in Portree...”
I stare at the airport sign for ground transport. “You want me to write about cowboys instead of ancient spiritual traditions.”
“I want you to make lemonade, sweetheart. You’re already there. Take a couple days in Wellington to regroup, then swing by Portree. Why not make it a fun detour?”
“Because cows, Brè. Do I sound like the kind of woman who spends any amount of time in the vicinity of cows?!”
She snorts. “No. You sound like someone who's about to write the funniest damn travel piece of her career.”
I rub my temple. My inner planner is already screaming, the same part that has my Olympic swim training schedule memorized and color-coded, and backed up in three formats. I like knowing what’s coming. I like structure, plans, checklists.
And yet…
Some deeply buried, reckless part of me—the same one that, exactly once and against all better judgment, said yes to skydiving over the Swiss Alps—starts to stir.
God help me, I’m intrigued.
“Three nights. I’ll check it out. I’ll stay in Wellington tonight, then find a room in Portree and report back.”
“Perfect. And hey—try to have fun, will you? Consider this your last hurrah before swim camp eats your soul.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I'm going shopping. On the company card.
If I have to spend the next few days in an ‘I♥Portree’ tourist hoodie, I swear—”
“Oh, that's the new cover image for your article.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” She hangs up with a snort.
I book an overpriced room in Wellington and get a rental car.
The sun is setting as I pull into the parking lot of Millman's Department Store, painting the sky in shades of amber andviolet. Despite my frustration, I can't help but notice the beauty of it—so different from the city sunsets I'm used to, where buildings interrupt the horizon and light pollution dims the colors.
I grab my phone and snap a quick photo. At least I'll have something to show Brè.
Inside Millman's, I’m hit with a mix of fabric softener, leather, and something vaguely sweet, like cinnamon. An older man with a weathered face and kind eyes approaches. “Can I help you find something, miss?”
“I need...well, everything,” I admit with a laugh. “My luggage got lost so…”
He nods sagely, as if lost travelers are a common occurrence. “Clothing's in the back left, aisle seven. Toiletries are aisle six. Anything else you need, just holler for Max.” He points to himself with a thumb.
“Thanks, Max.”
Wellington is easily ten degrees warmer than where I was supposed to land, and my wardrobe? Laughably wrong. A wardrobe adjustment is desperately needed.
