Page 6 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Five

Perched on 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 to when 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 for each 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 shade of 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.

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 of Pride and Prejudice and 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 from Friends reruns 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 29 th birthdays 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.