Eight Years of Walking Barefoot

My childhood friend, Wesley, had a shoe closet he loved to brag about.

"She gets a spark of inspiration, and suddenly I’ve got another pair," he’d say, gesturing casually to the rows of custom boxes. "I have more than I could ever wear. But if I try to sell them, she gets jealous. Why don't you take a pair, Logan?"

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he let out a self-deprecating sigh. "Right, I forgot. Gwen is a luxury designer. Why would you want her throwaways?"

I instinctively tucked my feet under the bench, hiding my cheap, worn-out sneakers from the discount rack.