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

She’s not what I would call warm or even maternal, but my dad loved Erica and her two daughters, Drew and Anna, so I love them too. Not for what we have, necessarily, because they still feel like strangers to me in many ways, but for what our relationship symbolizes—my last living connection to Dad.

When Bruce pulls into the half-circle driveway in front of Erica’s sprawling and completely renovated midcentury modern home in Silverlake, I see one of the triplets peeking through the curtain of the large picture window before someone yanks them back.

“Uhhh, just a minute…” Bruce mutters as he fumbles with his phone.

I peer over his shoulder and see him type in all caps: THE BIRD IS IN THE NEST.

My eyes well with tears as I put two and two together. I might be devastated to be leaving New York and my chosen family, but being home—even if home is a guest room in Erica’s swanky new house that I only stayed in for a few days over Christmas break—makes me emotional.

Bruce catches my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Cindy, I’ll, uh, bring your bags in if you’d like to go ahead.”

I take my carry-on and leave the others for him. (I’d hate to ruin everyone’s surprise or make them wait any longer than they already have.)

As I check the knob, I find the front door unlocked. “Hello?” I call, my voice echoing into the sitting room. “Anyone home?”

A tiny giggle comes from behind one of the armchairs.

“Helloooooooo?” I call again playfully.

“Surprise!” the triplets scream as they jump out from behind furniture with homemade signs clutched in their tiny fists.

“Cindy!” Drew and Anna screech in unison. They both prance out from the hallway in the trendiest yoga outfits I’ve ever seen. Drew in an all-white set with mesh up the leg, and Anna in a strappy taupe set that is just slightly darker than her actual skin. Both of them gazelle-like with perfectly sun-kissed light brown hair and their normally alabaster complexions tanned a few shades darker thanks to the DIY home spray-tan video they just filmed.

“Nice outfits!” I say as the two of them sandwich me on either side and the triplets go for my knees.

“You likey?” Drew asks.

“Thanks, babe,” Anna says. “We were shooting a sponsored post earlier today.”

“We could totally get you a set,” Drew tells me.

Anna gasps. “Oh my God, the three of us should totally colab. Ahhhh! It’s so good to have you home.”

If Instagram were a living, breathing thing (and sometimes I think that perhaps it is), it would be Drew and Anna. They’re often mistaken for twins, but they’re nine months apart. Honestly their only distinguishing feature is Anna’s birthmark on her shoulder and Drew’s fuller lips. (Though last Christmas Anna got lip injections, and even Erica kept calling her Drew.) They both graduated the year before I did. For the first few months after high school, they tried school and a couple of different odd jobs, but eventually they started a joint YouTube channel called VeryNearlyTwins, and since then they’ve become full-time influencers.

“How was your flight?” Drew asks. “Was it warm nuts or room temperature?”

“Did you ask the pilot for wings?” asks Gus, his arms wrapped around my leg and a thin line of chocolate ringing his mouth.

“Oh, I totally forgot,” I tell him.

“Did you bring us souvenirs from New York?” sweet little Mary asks.

“I might have a surprise or two in my bag,” I say, thankful that I had the foresight to snag three mini snow globes from the newspaper stand next to my gate at JFK.

Jack does a dance and pumps a fist into the air. “Yes!”

My heart swells at their wild excitement. The triplets were born via a surrogate Erica and Dad had both picked out before he suddenly died. After some consideration, Erica decided to go through with it, and at first, I was so deeply angry…but then they were born, and it was like I got three little pieces of Dad back. It was like we all did.

“No, you see—” Erica walks in from the kitchen with her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. My stepmother is the kind of woman who looks like a tall glass of water in anything, but most often opts for wide-leg pantsuits that nip in at the waist. Her silver hair is cut into a severe angular bob that perfectly highlights her sharp cheekbones. If Anna Wintour and Katharine Hepburn had a baby, her name would be Erica Tremaine. “Darn it! Did I miss the surprise?” She sighs, and says into the phone, “Let’s put a pin in this.”

“It’s okay, Erica!” I say. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything.

She beckons me to her with both arms, and I limp toward her with Gus still wrapped around my leg.

“My darling!” she says, pulling me close to her, and it’s easy to lean into her affection, letting my body slump against hers. “Did you put on a sheet mask for the last thirty minutes of your flight like I told you to? Plane air just wreaks havoc on my skin.”

“No, but I’ll be sure to moisturize tonight,” I tell her.

She lets go and takes a step back to get a good look at me, and I can see the way her eyes shift a little. And I see it too every time I look in the mirror: Dad. His jaw. His nose. His eyes. He said Mom was always so jealous of how much we looked alike.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she finally whispers. “Okay, let’s order sushi tonight! Anna? Drew? You girls better not have any plans. Family night.”