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

After a few minutes, I’m unable to fall asleep, so I stand up and creep over to my suitcase to grab the walkie-talkie. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.

“Are you okay?” Sara Claire whispers.

“Just running to the bathroom,” I say with the radio pressed to my chest.

“Do you want me to turn the light on?”

“No, no, no,” I sputter. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

I tiptoe out of the room and down the hall to where the expansive landing opens up to a balcony overlooking the courtyard and then pool.

I sink down to the ground, tucking my knees into my T-shirt, and hold the walkie-talkie to my mouth. Between railing bars, I can see a small light in the distance—the guesthouse where they’re tucking Henry away. Hiding him from us in plain sight. It’s a little bit genius, actually. The other women would be shocked to know that he’s been right under our noses all along.

“Hello?” I ask, still on the same channel as I was when Sara Claire came in.

I stare so intently at the light in the distance that my vision starts to blur.

When I was a kid, after Mom died, I was scared to sleep alone. I don’t know why specifically, but I think that I was scared I would wake up and Dad would be gone too. Over the next few months, Dad eased me back into my own bed. It started with me falling asleep in his bed and then him carrying me across the hall. Then him lying in my bed with me until I fell asleep, the scruff of his beard scratching against my forehead. Finally, as I started to go to bed on my own, Dad and I would leave our bedroom doors wide open so that I could call out to him anytime I needed him or just wanted to make sure he was still there.

“Hello?” I would call out, sometimes in the middle of the night. “Hello?”

Usually, he would answer immediately, or sometimes, if he was asleep, it would take him a few seconds. But he always answered. Always.

I hold the radio up once more, Henry’s light still glowing. “Hello?”

The closest thing to an answer I receive is his light flickering off, leaving nothing but darkness.

I go back to my bedroom and tuck away my secret radio before sliding back into bed. When I close my eyes, I hope Dad is there calling back to me, like he always was when I needed him most.





“Do I look okay?” I ask Beck.

She reaches past the camera and loops a piece of hair behind my ear. “Stretch your mouth. Do, re, mi, et cetera, et cetera. Your smile looks a little serial-killer-ish. Just relax. Ignore everyone else.”

Tonight they have us intermittently filming confessionals during this evening’s ball, so it’s hard not to pay attention to all the little dramas unfolding around me. Samantha is accusing Drew of stealing her eyelash glue. Addison is making the rounds and telling people she thinks Chloe is here for the wrong reasons. Jenny is outraged that craft services is serving shrimp cocktail since she’s allergic and thinks someone on the crew has it in for her. This place is a circus. (By design, of course.)

“Now, down to business,” Beck says. “Have you had any one-on-one time with Henry yet this evening?”

“No.” Even though she already knew the answer.

“Help me out here, Cin. Try elaborating.”

“Well, maybe you should ask better open-ended questions.”

She laughs. “Excuse you, Ms. Producer.”

That gets a real smile out of me, even though I’m still feeling a little irritable after last night and then not hearing from Henry today even though I snuck away with that stupid walkie-talkie every chance I got. It feels like I gave some guy my number and he hasn’t called.

Beck nods. “Okay, let’s try this again. How do you feel about your chances at the elimination ceremony tonight?”

I pout instinctively. “I haven’t really gotten to know Henry yet, and so I guess my chances aren’t great? But maybe a bad impression is worse than no impression. Or maybe it’s like a credit score. No credit is worse than bad credit. Is that how that works? Did I get that backward?”

“So you think other women have made a bad impression?” she asks, not taking my credit-score-nonsense bait.

I narrow my eyes at her. “I think Henry has a selection to work with.”

“And do you have any plans to score some alone time with him at the ball tonight?”

“Of course I hope I get to talk to him, but I’m not going to just barge in and interrupt a conversation.”

Beck crosses her legs, her ankle resting atop her knee, and I feel like I’m about to get a talking-to. “Why’s that? Don’t you think any other girl here would do the same to you? Don’t you want to fight for this?”

I can’t help but feel like Beck is trying to tell me something here, but I don’t like the idea of elbowing in on people and playing some kind of game. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? This is some kind of game. That’s the whole point. Do I want to be the girl who got kicked off on the second episode and is barely even memorable?

“Yes,” I finally say. “I do plan on fighting for this.” And then quickly, I add, “For Henry.”

I feel unsettled and queasy. This isn’t real. No one’s actually here for love, but the thought of using this opportunity with Henry to forward my own career feels different now. I can’t ignore the jealousy I felt last night when Sara Claire left for their date. I didn’t mind taking advantage of this situation when it was just some nameless guy who probably wouldn’t even take a second look at me. But it’s not just some guy. It’s Henry, and even though I don’t really know him, I know him well enough for him to be real and for this to be more than a silly game. Even if he is currently ghosting me via walkie-talkie.