“You know,” Dad says in his I’m-about-to-announce-something voice, “your grandmother was sixteen when shemoved to Canada from Scotland. I don’t only dig into my own ancestors, you know.”
Mom turns to him. “Really, Michael? Our only child admits she feels she has to leave New York, and your response is a genealogy fun fact? Honestly, sometimes...” She throws her hands at the ceiling in frustration.
“Wait a second,” I deadpan. “Dad, are you telling me Granny was Scottish? Oh my God, that explains so much! Like her accent... and the clootie dumpling... and the fact I called her ‘Granny’ instead of ‘Grandma’.”
Dad chuckles. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Blair.”
“But the highest form of intelligence,” I shoot back, finishing the Oscar Wilde quote.
“Maybe,” he says, lips twitching. “But therewasa point to me bringing up your grandmother’s birthplace. The Brits have this thing called an ancestry visa. If one of your grandparents was born in the UK, you can get a visa that lets you live and work there. For years, if you wish.”
I blink at him. “Why do you even know that?”
“Because your father’s head is stuffed with useless trivia,” Mom says, casting him a fond look. “Well, most of it is useless, but this time it might actually help. Blair, if you feel like you need to get away for a while, what about Scotland?”
Scotland.I turn the idea over in my mind. Land of Granny’s birth. Of rolling hills, ancient castles, and people who probably couldn’t care less about an AI storytelling app.
“Maybe. Maybe a few months in another country is exactly what I need.” Even as I say it, the idea grows on me. I’d wanted to get away from New York, but why not leave the US altogether? Hell, why not put an entire ocean between me and my very public firing?
“Yeah.” My voice is steadier now. “Mom, Dad... I’m going to Scotland.”
CHAPTER THREE
BLAIR
I stumble off the plane at Glasgow Airport feeling like I’ve been put through a blender. My hair’s doing something that defies both gravity and any known style, my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on airplane upholstery, and my sweater is more wrinkled than a scrotum.
But hey, I’m in Scotland. The home of Scotch and shortbread, and hopefully a place where nobody’s heard of a certain disastrous AI app.
The rental car counter is staffed by a cheerful woman with an accent so thick I only catch about half of what she says. She hands over keys to what she assures me is a “lovely wee motor”—I catch that bit—though when I find it in the parking lot, it looks more like a sardine can with wheels.
“Right,” I mutter, walking around to what should be the driver’s side but isn’t. “This is fine. Totally fine. People do this every day.”
The steering wheel is on the wrong side. The gearshift is in the wrong place. Even the dashboard is back to front. But I adjust the seat and mirrors, and grip the wheel.
“Okay, Blair, you’ve got this. It’s just driving. On the opposite side of the road, with none of the controls where they’re supposed to be. But you’ll be fine.”
I inch out of the parking space, nearly clipping a post, and somehow make it onto what I think is the correct side of the road. A truck thunders past, and I grip the wheel tighter. In New York, driving meant stop-and-go traffic, honking horns, and the occasional creative gesture from fellow motorists. Never thought I’d miss that chaos, but when I come to my first traffic circle, I realise New York driving wasn’t so bad after all.
Somehow I get through it in one piece, and the GPS in its crisp British accent tells me it’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive to Ardmara, the small Highland town where my grandmother grew up. I’ve booked a hotel room there for a few nights. Seemed as good a place as any to start my Scottish adventure.
The first stretch is highway—grey asphalt and steady traffic through urban sprawl. I start to think I’m getting the hang of this. Then something magical happens. The landscape opens into wide valleys and rolling hills so green they almost hurt my eyes.
I leave the main road and drive along something that feels more like a bike path, edged with stone walls determined to scrape my mirrors off. At a gas station in literally the middle of nowhere, I’m rung up by a guy with a beard that could house small wildlife. He insists on giving me directions in an accent I pretend to understand. I nod enthusiastically, praying the GPS has this because I definitely don’t.
Back on the road, the landscape gets even wilder. Mountains loom ahead, their peaks shrouded in mist. I catch glimpses of lochs—actual lochs!—silver-grey under the shifting clouds. Sheep dot the hillsides, completely unbothered by my little rental car puttering past.
Then the road crests a hill, and there it is: the coast, with water that stretches to the horizon, dotted with islands that look like they’ve been scattered by some giant’s careless hand.
And nestled against the water, like something from a fairy tale, is Ardmara.
The town hugs the shoreline in a gentle crescent, its buildings stepping down toward the harbour in tiers. From up here, I can see that the houses along the waterfront are painted in soft pastels—pale yellow, mint green, dusty pink, lavender blue. As if the town decided it needed a bit of extra cheer to compete with the moody Scottish sky.
A white ferry cuts through the dark water, heading straight for the port with a trail of foam in its wake. Even from this distance, I can make out tiny figures on its deck.
“Okay, Granny,” I murmur. “Let’s see what your hometown is all about.”
The road winds down and into Ardmara. Soon I’m driving along the waterfront, the town wrapping around me like a warm hug.
