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

Irina rushes in. “Lose the necklace.”

I hold my hand over it and instinctively say, “No.”

“It ruins the shot,” Irina says with defiance.

We both look to Beck for a tiebreaker, and I think if Irina takes this necklace off me, I might cry, which is ludicrous, but I’m about as high-strung as an extreme couponer waiting for her grand total right now. “Necklace stays. It’s…approachable-looking.”

Irina mutters under her breath, and I think she and I might go toe-to-toe before all this is said and done.

“Quiet on set!” a South Asian girl with two long braids and a clipboard covered in band stickers calls out.

“Thank you, Mallory,” Beck says.

The whole room goes completely silent. So silent, in fact, that I’m scared I might be breathing too heavily, and what if they can hear it on the mic dangling above my head just out of frame?

Beck nods to the guy behind the camera.

“Rolling!” the girl with the clipboard shouts.

On and off for the next hour, Beck pretty much does a post-mortem of my life leading up to this moment. The only exclusion is any specific details about Erica. Other than that, she asks about everything. My dad’s death. The triplets. Fashion school. Moving back home to California. Eventually Erica enters, stepping in and out periodically, giving her nod of approval, and I try not to let my eyes stray. We pause a few times for planes overhead or car alarms, and sometimes I say something that I’m asked to repeat, but with more “emphasis”—whatever that means.

When we’re done, the whole room collectively sighs, and within seconds, the volume of the crew has exploded again.

Beck pats my knee. “You did great.”

“You didn’t tell me you were basically going to neatly display my guts for the whole world to see.”

She laughs. “It feels like a lot, but we need options. Different angles. And don’t worry about all these people. A lot of them just check out while the cameras are rolling until it’s time to do their job again. And anyway, all this is going to get cut down to, like, two minutes of actual footage.” She holds a finger up and listens to something in her headset before running off.

I think all that is supposed to be comforting, but going through the labor of putting my whole life on display is a little bit painful in a different kind of way.

Erica plops down on the couch beside me, and crew members skitter away like little ants fleeing a destroyed anthill. “They could have at least cast someone who looks like me,” she says, motioning to the woman in the kitchen, where Beck is setting up a shot. “Sorry that I can’t actually play your mom,” she tells me.

“It must have been really weird for Drew and Anna.”

She lets out a dry chuckle. “Their fake mom’s name was Natalie. They were very into it, actually.”

“How am I not surprised?”

“I wish I could have been here this morning. Our suitor was having a…situation.”

I nudge her with my elbow. “Wow, talk about vague.”

“You’re lucky I even said that.”

I swivel, turning into her. “Just tell me one thing. Do you think I’ll even like him?”

I expect her to brush me off, but instead she presses her finger to her lips and thinks for a long moment. “You know, up until last week, I would have said no way…but people have ways of surprising you…and the two of you—” She stops suddenly, returning to her poker face, like she’s just realized she accidentally traded producer hat for stepmom hat. “Come on. Let’s get you touched up.” She stands. “We need touch-ups!”

Within seconds, we’re swarmed.

Erica squeezes my hand before leaving me with Ash, Irina, and Ginger.

For the rest of the afternoon, my fake stepmom, Tammy, and I bake fake cookies and do fake dishes and have fake conversations and have fake fun. The whole time, from behind the camera, Beck urges, “Smile! Act natural!”

Those three words spin circles in my head for the rest of the day and well into the night as I pack my bags and tuck the triplets into bed once more. Smile. Act natural.





The next morning, I do a quick run through my room to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Dropping down to one knee, I check under the bed, but I don’t find a stray shoe or eyeliner. Instead, all I see is a large cardboard box. I reach forward and drag it out. Scrawled across the top in Erica’s quick handwriting it says, Simon’s for C. A soft gasp escapes me.

Last summer, when I tried sorting through some of Dad’s things, I asked Erica if she could just save some of them for me. I’d already taken one of his threadbare flannels, his favorite slippers, and a few of his Clive Cussler novels just after he died, so I felt okay leaving it to her to decide what was worth keeping. Especially when the alternative was me facing all the pain I’d been hiding from for years.

I let my fingers dance along his name for a moment. A part of me feels sick to know that I slept here all week with his remaining belongings just hovering beneath me, like a ghost. I wasn’t ready last summer, and I’m definitely not ready now. I slide the box back where I found it and take my luggage across the yard and into the main house.

Inside, Erica is rushing around with a woman slightly older than her in a floral Oxford shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes. “And this is where I keep their favorite cups. They’ll use the other cups, but these are their favorites. Gus hates celery. Mary will tell you she can swim without her puddle jumper, but she’s lying. In fact, it’s best to assume Mary is lying more often than not. She’s not malicious. Just creative. And Jack is a bigger softy than he lets on and—”