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

He swallows and bites down on his lip, thinking for a moment. “I think that’s love. The real stuff. When you love someone at their worst. When you believe they can be better.”

“Is that…Is that how you feel about your mom?”

He sighs. “She’s better now. Calmer. She doesn’t treat me like as much of a set piece as she used to, but sometimes I wonder if that’s her actively changing or if it’s just age wearing her down. Or maybe, in the end, with the show and me taking over the company…maybe I’m more her set piece than ever before.”

“That’s not what I see,” I tell him. “I see a person who’s there for his family in their hour of need, even when they might not deserve it. And despite your parents’ best efforts, I think you turned out pretty great.”

“So says my therapist and Jay.”

“I like Jay,” I tell him.

“Oh, they really like you too. I’ve got the text messages to prove it.”

My eyes turn into saucers. “You have a cell phone? You’ve been holding out on me this whole time!”

He snorts and fishes it out of his pocket for me to see. “Oh, it’s definitely one of those old-people ladybug phones. This thing doesn’t even have a color screen. I’m actually a little embarrassed to be holding it in public, but Jay would just tell me that’s my toxic masculinity talking, or ageism or something.”

“Jay would be right,” I say, taking it from his hand. And sure enough, the phone is a little red walkie-talkie-looking thing with two tiny antennas you can actually pull out for better reception. “This thing looks like a relic.”

“You should see how long it takes me to text on that thing. It’s honestly not even worth it, but I told them that if they wanted me to do the show, I had to be able to get in touch with work.” He takes the phone back from me and puts it back in his pocket. “This was Beck’s idea of a compromise.”

“Hey, it’s more communication with the outside world than I’m getting.” I want to ask him what he knows about how the show is being received or if it’s making any difference for the brand, but I also don’t want to spend our precious private time together talking about this show. “Can I ask you something?”

“I think so,” he says playfully.

“If you could do anything with LuMac, what would it be?”

He nods, and I know he already has a very clear answer to this question. “There’s this program that we’ve got going for up-and-coming brands. We foster them and help them release a micro line. They pay back their loan to us slowly over time, but we just don’t have the resources to really dig in and do it up big. I would love to see us launch exclusive collaborative items as part of their lines and vice versa. I mean, we have the future of fashion just sitting right there in our offices. We should be doing so much more. Making connections. Building relationships. We just don’t have the money or the people to make it happen. At least, not yet. Mom calls it my pet project, but I think it’s the path forward.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you what an opportunity like that would mean to a fresh-out-of-fashion-school newbie. I love fashion. I love this industry. But sometimes it feels like the only way to succeed is to know someone.”

“Well, if your wardrobe is any indication, I’m positive you’re deeply talented, Cindy.”

“Can I get that in writing?” I joke.

Without a word, the waitress places our tower of dim sum steamer baskets on the table and takes two sets of chopsticks from her apron for us. “Bingo’s starting in just a minute.”

“Are we doing this?” Henry asks from the other side of the dim sum.

“The food or the bingo?”

“Both,” he says.

“Oh, it’s on,” I tell him.

“How do you feel about sitting on the same side of the booth?” he asks, seemingly out of the blue.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you one of those people who looks at people sitting on the same side of the booth together and thinks they’re ridiculous? Or are you pro-same-side-of-the-booth?”

My brow furrows, and the smell of the dim sum is so good it’s almost hard to concentrate. “I think…I think I used to see people do that and feel like they just had something to prove. Like, they had to show the world that they were so in love and couldn’t even stand sitting that far from each other…but now—”

“Me too,” he says. “I used to think that too. But I think I’ve found someone who I want to share a booth seat with.”

“Henry Mackenzie, are you asking me to sit next to you?”

“Mainly so I can cheat off your bingo card,” he says, “but yes.”

I slide out of the booth and squeeze in next to him. The booths are old and tiny with a few tears in the cushions, and my butt sinks in so deep that my feet barely even touch the ground.

Henry opens the first layer of the steamer, and we both tear open our chopsticks.

With my bingo dotter in one hand and chopsticks in the other, I pick up a perfectly made dumpling.

“Cindy?” he asks.

I look up to him, fully prepared to chastise him for blocking the one-way dumpling ticket to my mouth, but he tilts his head down and his nose brushes mine. And I just let myself sit in this moment. Our chopsticks and dumpling and bingo cards and dotting markers, and the low-hanging red lamp hovering above our table casting a spotlight on our food while we are just barely cloaked in darkness.