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

Addison coughs into her fist. “Heifer.”

You! Are! Awful! my brain sings.

Beck rolls her eyes. “I need you all camera ready by ten in the morning. We’ll be dropping off group-date envelopes and filming reactions. Other than that…” She glances down at the time on her phone. “It’s about midnight now, so you’re all free until then. Go take a bubble bath or walk around naked or do whatever people do in hotel rooms by themselves.”



I walk into my room and go straight for the window without even turning the light on. Pushing the curtains aside, I drink in my view. Across New York Harbor, all lit up on a muggy summer night, is the Statue of Liberty against a deep velvet sky with only the brightest stars in sight. I’m home. Even if it’s just for a few nights. I’m home, and it took leaving to know that. No matter what happens, even if I’m still creatively floundering after this show is done, I’m coming back to New York. I’ll make sure Erica is comfortable with the new nanny, and I’ll sleep on Sierra’s bedroom floor if I have to, but I need to come home.

After standing there for a moment with my nose practically pressed against the glass, I turn the lights on and check out the expansive bathroom with a huge walk-in shower, a ginormous jetted tub, and a separate water closet with a phone mounted just above the toilet paper dispenser for when duty calls, I suppose? This whole room is almost twice the size of Sierra’s and my entire apartment.

Even the towels are huge, which—as someone who has never been able to wrap a hotel towel around themselves without a massive gap showcasing the goods—is an extravagance. In the closet, I find two oversize robes, and one of them is even big enough to nearly fit me. Just as I’m sliding my arms through the armholes, a bell rings.

“These rooms have doorbells?” I ask myself.

I swing the door open, expecting it to be housekeeping or maybe someone from the front desk, but instead I find Beck in sweatpants rolled at the ankle and two bottles of beer dangling from her fingers. “I thought you might like some company.” She holds the beers up. “And a drink.”

“No cameras?” I ask with a smile. I want to turn her away, especially since I have a walkie-talkie date waiting for me, but how am I supposed to explain that? I guess I can at least have a drink and then feign exhaustion.

“No cameras.”

I offer Beck the other robe, and we post up on my massive king-size bed. I have plenty to ask her about the show, but it occurs to me that I don’t really even know Beck, and honestly, she’s the only person left here who I feel like I can really confide in.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would enjoy working for Before Midnight,” I say.

She takes a swig of beer. “Oh yeah? Gruff workaholic lesbian producing a dating show with misogynistic and antifeminist leanings come as a big surprise?”

“I wouldn’t say gruff,” I tell her.

She kicks her boots off and stretches out on the bed with her legs crossed. “When Erica found me, I was producing live biweekly wrestling shows. It was a grind. We went from city to city, and I was sleeping for maybe four hours a night. I didn’t have an apartment because I was on the road so much, so literally everything I owned could fit in a suitcase and a backpack. Not that my work balance here is what I would describe as healthy, and I wouldn’t say this show is in line with my own personal agenda, but Erica is the biggest name in reality television. I grew up watching shows like The Real World and Road Rules on MTV. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous to say those shows changed my life, but it’s true. It was the first time I saw a gay person on television, and it opened me up to a whole world that I didn’t see in my little Northern California town.”

It’s easy for me to think of shows like that as brain-eating time sucks—not that I don’t obsessively watch Teen Mom—but it never occurred to me that shows like that could be a revelation for someone. “So is this job, like, a stepping-stone on your way to bigger things?”

“One day,” she says, “but for now, this show is the big thing. I know it seems ridiculous, but there aren’t many opportunities out there that guarantee you loyal viewers every week. And the people who are watching this show aren’t always the kind of people who would just invite someone like me over for dinner. But they sure as hell watch my show. So I like to think that bit by bit, I’m showing people there’s a whole world out there bigger than themselves. I mean, take last season, for example. That was our first interracial couple. Maybe that’s not a big deal for a lot of people, but in parts of this country they still look at you like you’re an abomination for something like that.”

“Wow,” I say. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Sometimes you gotta sneak people their vegetables. Give ’em the good stuff with a little bit of what they need but aren’t ready to digest. And hey, it pays better than wrestling TV. Plus, when we’re not filming, I get to go home to my girlfriend and our cat, Horace.”

“You have a girlfriend?” I ask. “And a cat?” For some reason, I’d only ever pictured Beck pacing circles in Erica’s kitchen and drinking Red Bulls.

“Yes, Cindy, I have a whole life, if you can believe it. I even…cook actual meals sometimes.”