If the Shoe Fits (Meant To Be #1) by Julie Murphy

I explained that stores like these (trendy little places that are suddenly on the body-positive train if they can make a quick buck) usually only offer larger sizes on their website, but she insisted on checking in person.

I plop down on the leather beanbag alongside Anna. “What I really want to know is who actually considers beanbags to be appropriate dressing room seating?”

Anna crosses her arms over her chest. “This is ridiculous. How are you even supposed to know if something fits you if you can only buy it online? Especially if it’s a brand you’ve never shopped!”

I’m too jaded to join in on her outrage, and I’m also having major flashbacks to every trip we made to the mall in high school. Back then, the options were even more limited.

“I can just work with stuff I have at home,” I tell them. “I don’t need a whole new wardrobe just for a TV show.”

“I remember Mom saying there was a wardrobe department for the one-on-one dates and stuff,” says Drew, but by the look on her face, I can tell she’s thinking what I already know. If we’re having this much trouble shopping in this store, the likelihood of the show having my size on hand is basically nonexistent.

“All right, let’s go,” I say.

I wiggle my way out of the beanbag, and then Drew and I pull Anna to her feet.

We file out of the fitting room full of rejected clothing and make our way to the front door.

“Thanks for coming in, girls!” the shop clerk calls after us. “Sorry you didn’t find anything this time.”

We’re nearly out the door, but Anna whirls back around and stomps up to the counter. “Actually, my stepsister found plenty of things she loved, but for whatever reason, your company doesn’t carry her size in store.”

The woman steps back, startled by Anna’s bravado.

“Um, we know that you, like, have no control over that, but maybe you could pass the message up the chain of command,” I offer.

The woman notices me, seemingly for the first time. “Oh, right, of course. I think we might have some of our basics in an extra large if you’d like to try them.”

“Does my sister look basic to you?” Anna snaps.

“Anna,” I chide. “Come on.”

Anna walks back over and loops an arm through both mine and Drew’s as we walk out together like an unstoppable Red Rover force.

“Anna,” Drew says once we’re in the clear, “that was so unlike you.”

Anna gasps. “I know!” Her voice returns to its normal levels of sweetness. “But it felt good. A little sexy too. I should talk about this on my Instagram stories.”

I lean my head against her shoulder. “Kitty’s got claws.” I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got back to LA, but being back with Anna and Drew feels…comfortable. I guess if I’m doing this reality television thing, at least it’s with the two of them.



I spend the week with the triplets during the day while Anna and Drew get touched up in every possible way you can imagine. Highlights, facials, waxing, manicures. If it can be polished or shined or stripped of hair, they’ve got it covered. I join them for a few things as time allows, like a quick manicure and getting my split ends trimmed, but Erica’s schedule is busy, which means mine is too. I promised Erica I’d at least spend the week with the triplets, and she promised me she’d find a more permanent solution for them while I’m gone. And every night as I’m falling asleep, I have to remind myself that this is what I wanted, and then I wonder very briefly who the mystery man might be. Too bad Prince Charming won’t be able to swoop in and rescue me if the suitor is just another dude bro.

Three days before I’m set to leave Erica’s house for the château, a film crew descends upon me. I knew they would be here to do pre-interviews for the season premiere, but I’m still taken by surprise. I keep expecting there to be formal introductions to the crew, but instead they all just buzz round me like I’m a set piece.

Beck told me to show up barefaced and to have several different clothing options ready, so I opted for a white sundress and my mom’s old locket with a picture of my dad inside.

The moment I walk out of the pool house, three very distinct women descend upon me. The first one, a petite Black woman, wears her hair in retro pinup curls around her face with the rest swept into a silk scarf. She runs a hand through my hair without even asking and begins to examine my roots. “Huh, not much damage.”

Another woman, this one tall and white with wavy long blond hair and the kind of makeup that looks like no makeup but actually takes a ton of skill, holds a blush compact up to my face. “Good cheekbones,” she says.

And the third and final woman, with olive-toned complexion and dressed all in black, stands a few feet back with a loose measuring tape clutched in her fist. “Definitely meatier than Beck said she would be,” she says in a thick Eastern European accent.

“Meatier?” I ask.

“That’s Irina,” says the girl with the silk scarf. “She’s wardrobe and has no filter, but compared to other wardrobe people I’ve worked with, she’s more bark than bite. I’m Ginger and I do hair. You’ll mostly do your own hair during the show—other than for one-on-ones—but I’m around for touch-ups. Same goes for makeup.”