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

A few other girls giggle, and Mallory just says, “It’s a pun! Puns can be sexy.”

“Sure, Jan,” Stacy says.

I turn to her. “I think I love you.”

“Keep reading!” Addison shouts.

“From the top, please,” Mallory says. “I’d like to get one clean take.”

“Okay, okay,” says Drew. “‘Ladies,’” she reads, “‘thank you for spending the afternoon with me. You’re all the GOAT. Tomorrow night I hope you’ll all join me for the ball, but tonight I’d like to get a little alone time with a girl who really stood out for me today. Sara Claire, please meet me outside the château at seven o’clock, and wear your dancing shoes.’”

Disappointment weighs me down as all the other girls squeal and pretend to be happy for Sara Claire. I know she got the most one-on-one time with him during yoga, so this makes sense, but I held on to some kind of hope that he might choose me after that look we shared.

Sara Claire bounces a little at my side.

“You’re going to have so much fun,” I tell her, the words burning on my tongue.





While Sara Claire is getting ready in the bathroom and both Stacy and Addison are out by the pool, I take the walkie-talkie out to make sure it still has some battery. I flip through a few channels.

“I need a second camera on the car outside the château in thirty minutes. Will Ben be back from—”

I flip again.

Static.

And again.

More static.

“Is anyone else on this channel?” a voice that sounds like it might belong to Wes asks.

“Hello out there?” Beck’s voice calls.

I turn down the volume dial and hold the speaker to my ear.

“Have you hopped on email in the last hour?” asks Wes. “Erica says the network likes my pick for wifey.”

Beck is silent for a minute.

“You there?” Wes asks again.

“Yes,” Beck says. “I heard you. Look, let’s talk about this later. We haven’t even cleared it with Henry yet.”

“Like he—”

“Wes, I gotta run.”

The channel goes silent, so I flip over to the next, expecting to find more sta—

“Hello?” a voice asks softly.

I know that voice. That voice is his voice.

I press down on the button on the side to respond. “Henry?”

Behind me the door swings opens. In a hurry, I flip the power switch as fast as I can.

“Hey,” Sara Claire says as I’m stuffing the radio in my shoe with my back to her. “Were you talking to someone?”

I turn around, trying my best not to look guilty. It’s not easy. “Oh, uh, maybe just to myself. Sorry, I guess I was thinking out loud.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “My daddy does that all the time. It’s like his thoughts are too big to just live in his head.”

“So relatable,” I say. “You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks.” She twirls in her sequined little black dress. Simple but chic. A little boring, but she’s the kind of person who just glows, so she could wear anything and you’d still want to talk to her. “Wish me luck.”

I swallow dryly. “Good luck.”



I spend most of my night sketching in my bedroom, trying to make my brain work again. Most of the other women play drinking games downstairs, but I don’t think my liver can take it. Besides, what they’re really doing is waiting up for Sara Claire to come home. I’m already feeling a little miserable, and it’s the kind of miserable that doesn’t play well with others.

I wish I had my tablet. Switching mediums when I was blocked was a trick I learned early on, but alas, no electronic devices in the Before Midnight château. If anyone finds the radio stuffed in my shoe, I’ll get kicked out faster than I can even zip my suitcase.

The tip of my pencil snaps against my sketch pad, sending a stray line skidding across the page. Maybe I just have to let it go. Even in school, I knew that not all of us would succeed as designers. For some reason, I thought I was special, and that I would defy all odds. But my well is empty. I have nothing left to give. Deep down I know that I could be happy doing other things. At least, I think. I could find some sort of job in fashion. Maybe I could talk to Sierra’s contacts at Macy’s. Maybe I don’t have to create clothing to work with clothing. The thought of it is a little freeing. And yet, it pains me deeply to think of letting my longtime dream go.

At around one in the morning, Stacy wobbles through the door and plops down on her bed. “I think this might be worse than college,” she says, her last word devolving into a loud burp.

“Girl, you’re nasty,” Addison says as she walks in behind her, strips down to absolutely nothing, and passes out in her bed.

Stacy and I share a look, and she just shrugs. “At least I plan on brushing my teeth,” she says loudly.

Soon I’m the only one still awake, so I throw a shirt over my lamp to dim the light. Normally, I’d just go to bed too, but I’m pretty sure they’re both too drunk to care if I keep putzing around with my sketch pad. I didn’t bring my whole collection of pencils with me—shoes were my priority—but I managed to bring a few of my favorites and a kneaded eraser.