I scratch him for a moment longer before standing up and hiking my purse over my shoulder. When I pull open the door, the bell above screeches. Good thing I have no reason to sneak out. Gran would catch me every time. Sort of like how I heard her leave just before midnight.

Which, honestly, made me feel really pathetic on a Saturday night.

Lying in bed.

With my new super chic long bob.

While the people at the pub next-door talked and laughed and lived.

My self-esteem? Never been better.

Outside, the rain has given way to gray skies and snow flurries. I shiver, shove my hands into my pockets, and pick up my pace. Five years in New York has done wonders for my speed walking, but absolutely nothing for my tolerance for weather under seventy degrees. What an awful way to live. Damp and cold and frizzy. It’s one constant loop of seasonal depression, which I’m pretty sure is just depression.

But I suppose if I can survive here, I can survive anywhere.

I like challenges. I like proving to myself that I can do things. Like finishing crossword puzzles. And solving Rubik’s cubes. And reading every book on the 200 Greatest Novels of All Time list. I watch documentaries until I can write dissertations on world wars and climate change in the arctic. I have a head full of knowledge that makes me the wealthiest and most competitive Jeopardy Living Room Champion ever.

So I’ll learn to live in Scotland, like I learned to live in New York and London. I’ll adapt. I always do.

The walk to the local supermarket isn’t long. It’s past the pub and pharmacy, about a quarter of a mile down the road next to the local chippy. And while the weather isn’t ideal, I imagine it could have been a nice walk if someone wasn’t keeping pace with me.

I see his green canvas high-tops first. They’re filthy. His laces don’t match. The purple and blue stripes of his socks peek out from a hole on the side of his left shoe. His jeans are ripped. And his long tweed coat is patched at the elbows.

What a disaster.

He’s breaking at least twelve of my rules.

And the first one is being within two feet of me when I haven’t initiated eye contact.

“Those are terrible shoes.”

I glance down at the ground because I know he’s not talking me. He’s talking to himself. Or someone else. But not me. Because my shoes are not terrible. My shoes cost eight hundred dollars. My shoes were on the cover of Vogue. My lord and savior, Chrissy Teigen, wore them on a float at the Thanksgiving parade. They’re stylish and chic and ragingly uncomfortable, but they are definitely not terrible.

“They’re Gucci.”