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

“Follow me,” she grunts. “Stay quiet.”

I follow Beck around the side of the house. “Where are you going?” I whisper.

She doesn’t turn around but just waves me up a metal ramp into an eighteen-wheeler full of sound equipment.

She peers out the trailer once more before grinning maniacally and shaking me by the shoulders. “Cindy! They freaking love you!”

“They? Who’s they?”

“The audience! The American people! You’re a hit! And what you said tonight to Henry about your love for fashion—pure gold!”

Slowly, it dawns on me. It’s impossible to forget the cameras, but being so secluded, all the way up here, it is somehow possible to forget about the rest of the world. “I—I—How?” is all I can manage to stutter.

“And thank goodness you weaseled in on some Henry time tonight. You were on the maybe list, and we pull most of the strings here, but Henry has the final say on eliminations. Sort of.”

My heart sinks. “What? The maybe list?”

She waves her hand. “Forget that. He kept you! That’s all that matters. Well, that and the fact that you’re a damn American sweetheart!”

“But there’s a list? And I wasn’t on the right one?”

She sighs loudly before rattling off a response. “Before each elimination, the suitor starts making a list—sometimes even before the group date—and the production staff has a girl or two they’re really championing, and we might have a teensy bit of sway. But really, it’s his choice, so all we can do is control the things that might help him decide.”

I lean back against the inside of the trailer, remembering the conversation I heard between her and Wes about “wifey.” I want to ask her, but I also don’t want to lose my walkie-talkie privileges. “And that’s why you were asking me those questions during my interview?”

She nods. “Exactly. After seeing the response to you online, I couldn’t risk you going home so soon.”

“Online? What response? Wait. Go back. You called me an American sweetheart?” Thanks to the no-phone rule, my brain is receiving a higher influx of information than it has in days, and I’m already feeling a little overwhelmed.

She grits her teeth, thinking for a moment. “Oh, screw it.” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Erica would actually kill me if she knew I was doing this.”

It’s been barely a week since I last held a cell phone, and when she hands it to me, I almost don’t know what to do with it, so she reaches over and starts scrolling through screenshots for me.

@melodydiaz648

Yes, honey! Finally, a plus-size queen on this show! #BeforeMidnight

@notyourgirlfriend202

Is it just me or is the curvy girl the most interesting one this season? I’m calling it! I’ve found wifey! #BeforeMidnight

@messyfeminist359

This Cindy girl is FIERCE! Where can I get those shoes? And that dress? #BeforeMidnight

@RealMelanieGoodwin

Who do I get in touch with about these feather dream shoes? I NEED THEM. #BeforeMidnight

@THEalexismartin

Honestly, I was about to tune out of this season of #BeforeMidnight and then Cindy showed up.



I keep scrolling. There is an endless supply of screenshots. “Some of these people are f-famous,” I manage to stutter. “Like blue-checkmark famous. Melanie Goodwin is tweeting about me?” Every single one of the famous model’s tweets becomes an instant viral sensation. Seeing my name next to hers is surreal.

“Uh, yeah,” says Beck. “Everyone is hyped on you! There are GIFs, hashtags, and People even published a piece with their picks for the top five and you’re in it, baby!”

My jaw drops and my eyes widen as I slide down the wall, no mind for my dress. “People? As in the magazine?”

Beck sits down next to me. “Yes! They even called you an up-and-coming designer with an eye for exquisite footwear!”

My heart pounds frantically. An up-and-coming designer? I’m flattered, and yet I feel like a fraud. “What! How did they—”

She nudges me with her elbow. “I might have fed them a quote or two.”

I lean my head on her shoulder. “Thank you.” After a moment I add, “I feel bad about Drew.”

She pats my head. “Drew is going to be just fine. She’ll wake up tomorrow morning with an extra hundred thousand Instagram followers and some brand deals in waiting.”

“Really?” I ask.

“The magic of television.”

Her walkie-talkie beeps. “Beck? Does anyone have eyes on Beck?” Wes asks.

I sit up, and she talks into her walkie-talkie. “Beck here.”

“Oh good,” he says. “I was about to put an AMBER Alert out on you.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Beck stands and then holds out a hand to help me to my feet, which is no easy thing to do in a minidress and platforms.

“Do you think he even likes me?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Enough to keep you. That’s what matters.”

But is that enough? Is that all I want? For him to like me just enough so that I get my full fifteen minutes in the spotlight?

We walk out of the trailer, and Beck points me to a side entrance where I can easily sneak in.