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

Some people I haven’t heard from since Dad died. Most are nice and encouraging, but a few are a little passive-aggressive and some are just…aggressive. A handful want to know how they can get on the show, and my most recent ex, Jared, emailed just to let me know he’s now engaged and that he unfriended me on Facebook because his fiancée was less than pleased to know he had watched a few episodes without telling her.

My thumb hovers over the folder titled Job Prospects (6). This is why I chose to come on the show, isn’t it? I wanted to jump-start my career. To get some visibility. Maybe even get that spark back. I’ve got no boyfriend and no cash prize, but maybe this could be my silver lining. But why do I feel so awful at the thought of landing a job because of the show? I never expected to fall in love.

And there it is. I fell in love. I’m in love with Henry Mackenzie. I always assumed I would have a difficult time knowing if I was in love. What if I didn’t recognize the signs? Or what if it wasn’t as intoxicating as the whole world has built it up to be? But, for me, it feels very simple. It’s the kind of thing I know with just as much assurance as my birthday. It’s not something I feel lost in or confused by. It’s a truth, and some truths hurt more than others.



I read the email at least twenty-eight times before taking a breath.

Dear Cindy,

My name is Reneé Johnson, and my firm scouts out creatives and helps place them in positions that perfectly match their skill set.

Since I’m sure you’re being inundated with offers and requests, I’ll be brief and concise.

My client, Crowley Vincent, president of Gossamer, is looking to expand his brand and move into women’s footwear. To make that happen, he is in search of a team of fresh, new talent. I’ll be honest, you first caught my eye when I was watching over my daughter’s shoulder as she was catching up on Before Midnight, but after speaking with your advisers and faculty at Parsons, I’m nearly positive that my instincts are spot-on. We would like to bring you to New York for a meeting with Mr. Vincent. This is a time-sensitive offer, so please reach out to me immediately if you are interested. We would need you in New York by Friday, July 16.

Your fan, Renée



Gossamer. GOSSAMER. Holy…Gossamer has been around longer than Chanel. They’re a men’s footwear dynasty, and their designs range from sensible and everyday to extravagant and avant-garde. And with Crowley Vincent at the helm, they’ve been breaking rules left and right. Last season they included two pairs of heels in their men’s line and moved into outerwear.

“What day is it?” I ask over the sound of Hilary Duff absolutely belting it out to a concert of thousands as she pretends to be an Italian popstar.

“Sunday funday,” Gus calls from the floor, where he lies on his tummy with his iPad pressed to his face.

“No, like the date,” I say.

Drew glances at her phone. “July eleventh.”

I have five days to get to New York.



After reading my response aloud over and over again to Sierra over Facetime, I email Renée back, and her assistant immediately books me a red-eye into JFK for Thursday night.

I pack and repack my bag at least six times over the next few days. What do you wear to a meeting that could likely change your life?

I spend the week at home—not leaving once. Anna, Drew, and the triplets keep me distracted enough to avoid the news and social media. I catch up with Sierra, and after I give her the scoop on the show, she does her best to distract me with gossip about random people from school. I barely see Erica, as she’s busy working on the two-part finale this week. On Thursday night, the three-hour villa episode will air, followed by a live finale on Friday night. Neither of which I plan on watching.

On Wednesday night, after helping put the twins down for bed, I go back to the pool house and lock the door behind me. It’s time to do something I’ve been putting off for a very long time.

I reach under my bed and pull out the box of Mom and Dad’s stuff. After placing it on my bed, I get situated and take a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling for…something. A sign. Anything.

“Here we go.”

Inside, I find T-shirts of Dad’s with my elementary school mascot, the Panthers. There are Mom’s favorite slippers. A scrunchie of hers. A well-worn Clive Cussler paperback of Dad’s. A folder full of paperwork. Their marriage license, birth certificates, social security cards…All the things you forget exist even after a person dies.

At the bottom of the box is a small velvet box. I open it to find three rings tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Their wedding bands and Mom’s engagement ring. Tears begin to spill as I imagine the moment Dad tied them all together like this. Surely sometime around when he started dating Erica. He must have taken his ring off then, but I guess I just never noticed.

I slide Mom’s rings onto my fingers, despite them being a little too small. I don’t care if they stay on my fingers forever. And even though it’s big, I wear Dad’s ring on my thumb. I’ll do something with them tomorrow. Put them away for safekeeping until I find a necklace to wear them on or a special place to keep them.

Underneath the small jewelry box is a small envelope with my name in delicate letters written on it. The handwriting is too soft to belong to Dad, and I immediately recognize it from the birthday cards I’d saved as a child. Mom. A letter from Mom.