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

“A lot of people answer the door while they’re wearing a towel,” I say defensively.

Bruce’s car pulls into the half-circle driveway, and Erica is stepping out before he can put the thing in park. “Did they tell you?” she asks, and then turns to Beck. “Did you tell her?” She looks back to me. “I thought you told her to look pretty.”

I throw my arms up and my towel falls down, revealing my mismatched bikini. Roses on top and stripes on the bottoms. “Why do I need to look pretty? What does that even mean?”

Beck turns to me. “If someone in television tells you to look pretty, it means you’re going to be on camera.”

“Just say I’m going to be on camera,” I say, the frustration raising my voice an octave.

“That ruins the surprise,” Beck says.

“Being on camera should never be a surprise!”

Chad checks his watch. “Uh, Beck, I’ve got a thing across town that I need to—”

“Just give it to her,” she blurts. “Forget hair and makeup,” she calls over her shoulder, and Mallory runs off to relay the message.

Chad stretches his mouth in that way very serious actors do and clears his throat before plastering a sparkling smile across his face. “Cindy,” he says in a debonair voice, “it is with great pleasure that, on behalf of Henry Mackenzie, I invite you to the final ball. Please join us at the château tomorrow morning, where we will be filming the live finale later that night with a live audience. You’ve made a lasting impression on our suitor, but will it be enough to win his heart?”

My jaw drops as he holds a scroll out for me.

When I don’t move, he reaches for my wrist at my side and awkwardly places the scroll in my hand.

“Does it smell like burnt grilled cheese?” the herald asks.

I blink over and over again, waiting for someone to tell me this is a joke.

Behind Beck, Erica nods. This isn’t a joke. This is very, very real.

As real as the red-eye to New York I’m booked on tonight.





Erica shuts the door behind the last of the crew members. “Well, that was exciting,” she says.

I don’t even know what to say. “I thought—”

She shrugs. “Beck says he was adamant about you being at the finale. Text Beck and tell her to have Mallory call my travel agent. She’ll deal with the airline ticket you booked.”

I open my mouth to say why that’s not possible, but she beats me to it.

“We can fly Sierra out here when filming wraps if you like. A girls’ weekend. Or maybe we could rent you two a place in Malibu for a few days….” She pouts a little and touches her fingers to her temples. “I’ve got a migraine. I’m going to lie down for a bit. One of the execs is hosting a get-together tonight in honor of the villa episode, and I’ve got Jana coming in to do bedtime with the kids so you can get packed up for the finale. Bruce will pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Still partially wrapped in my Dora the Explorer towel, I make my way back to the pool house, where my fully packed suitcase sits on my bed alongside the dead-parents box. I plop down in my armchair and scroll through my messages—thankful that Drew deleted every single social media app before I could get my hands on this thing.

I want to call someone. Sierra. Beck. Anna. Drew. Even Sara Claire or Stacy. Just someone so that the burden of this decision isn’t entirely my own. I need some sort of nudge so that whatever decision I make, and whatever the outcome, I’ll be able to look back, and in some far corner of my mind, not take full responsibility.

I know that if what Henry and I share is real, then we are bigger than some silly television show, but I also know that ditching him on live TV to jump across the country for a job interview sends a very clear message.

All he needed to say was I choose you. You win. We’ll still play their little game, but you win. In some quiet, stolen moment. Just a whisper would’ve sufficed.

But no matter how many times I dreamed that he would, Henry never said that. He never chose me. After putting my life on hold since graduation, I don’t think I can put it off any longer if all that’s waiting for me is a maybe.



I sit in the backyard by the pool with my suitcase beside me. Inside, Jana is helping Mary with her bath while the boys unwind with some reading time. My phone lights up, alerting me that Georgie, my Lyft driver, is here. No going back now. At least not without jeopardizing my passenger rating.

I sneak away through the kitchen, holding my breath as the sliding glass door squeaks shut.

After snagging a green juice, I make my escape for the front door, and just as I’m about to step outside, a small voice says, “Cindy?”

I turn around to see my sweet Gus in one of my old T-shirts from high school that I’d made for spirit week that says GO TEAM in black permanent marker.

“Hey, Gus-Gus,” I whisper. “What are you doing out of bed?”

He sighs. “I wanted some water. What I really wanted was some ginger ale, but Ms. Jana said water.”

I leave my bag in the partially open doorway and rush over to the kitchen. After taking a fresh cup from the dishwasher, I pour a splash of ginger ale in. “Shhh,” I tell him. “Our secret.”

He drinks it all in one gulp and immediately lets out a quiet burp.