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

“Beck, no. I’m not coming. I’m done.”

“But you—But what about Henry?”

“He got his wifey,” I say, my voice more venomous than I wish. “You said yourself that he wasn’t picking me. Why should I show up just to come in second place?”

“Cindy,” she says quietly.

“Beck, I have to go. I’m sorry I let you down. Tell Erica that I love her and I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything later.”

I hang up before she has a chance to say anything else. Guilt racks me completely. I knew this would hurt. I knew giving up the possibility of Henry would be excruciating, but I wasn’t prepared for what it would do to Beck and Erica.





“We don’t have to watch this,” Sierra tells me for the fifty-seventh time.

“If I don’t watch it now, I’ll just watch it later. And if I’m going to watch it at all, I’d rather it be with you.”

“Aw, babe,” she says, rocking back against the leather headboard as she touches a hand to her chest. “I’m honored to witness your pain.”

After crying through one of most delicious meals I’ve ever eaten, I showed up on Sierra’s doorstep with six pieces of pie and my lucky baby-blue Louboutins that Erica gave me for my high school graduation dangling from my fingers. It takes a certain kind of desperate to walk through a New York City apartment building barefoot, but I did not need to add climbing four flights of stairs in the tallest heels I own to my growing list of struggles today.

After we devoured the pie and I had given Sierra every awful and wonderful juicy detail about my meeting, I explained I had a room booked at the St. Regis for one more night. (I had yet to tell her I would be crashing with her in her bedroom after tonight until further notice, but surely that was implied…right?)

Sierra quickly packed an overnight bag and we splurged on a cab to take us back uptown. I don’t, by any means, consider myself to be famous, but after the brief airport run-in with the paparazzi and the live finale airing tonight, I didn’t want to take my chances with public transit.

At eight o’clock on the dot, the opening credits begin to play, and I see Chad’s familiar face. “Tonight is a very exciting night for our Before Midnight family,” he says with that fake charm. “Tonight we learn which of these lucky ladies will have won Henry’s heart…and a hundred thousand dollars. But first, let’s get a recap of the villa dates to see who sank and who swam.”

“Is this, like, the weirdest thing ever?” Sierra asks as a montage of Henry on different dates with each of us begins to roll.

It’s so bizarre to see him with Addison and Sara Claire and even Stacy, but then I see Henry and me, the wind gusting on that sailboat, and my heart stops. My wild hair ripples behind me as I laugh, tossing my head back against his chest. That was just last week, and somehow, it feels like a distant memory that I can barely hold on to.

“It feels like I’m at my own funeral, honestly.”

Sierra snorts. “For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine that Addison chick at your funeral.”

“Oh, you don’t even know. She’d be there with her fake tears and telling everyone we were best friends.”

“Ugh, what a leech.”

“Yes, thank you!” I loop my arm through hers, and if nothing else, I’m glad I get to endure this with my best friend at my side.

After a commercial break, Chad returns with Henry as they both stand on the steps of the château. Henry wears a deep navy three-piece suit with a matte black tie and matching wing tips. Somehow, television doesn’t do him justice, which is probably some sort of crime against nature, because who looks better in real life than they do on camera?

“Was he a good kisser?” Sierra asks. “He’s, like, daytime-soap hot.”

I frown. “Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

She squeezes my hand. “There will be other tongues in the sea.”

I smile at her. “Gross, but thank you.”

On the screen, a Rolls-Royce pulls up, and after a dramatic pause, Chad opens the door as Sara Claire emerges.

“How are they going to play this?” Sierra asks.

“I hadn’t thought that far.”

Henry greets Sara Claire with a kiss on the cheek and a long hug. “Is this hug unusually long?” I ask.

Sierra pours a Pixy Stix down her throat. “Do we hate her?”

I sigh. “That would make things much easier. But she’s actually really great.”

“Boo. Hiss.”

Chad congratulates Sara Claire on making it this far and directs her to the house. “Now I think it’s time we let the audience see who’s in our second car. What do you say, Henry?”

Henry nods as another Rolls-Royce pulls up the hill. This time it’s Addison. She slinks out of the car in a black gown with strategically placed cutouts so that she’s showing just a hint of under-boob.

Sierra twists her head to the side. “Is that, like, a swimsuit evening gown? Like, a Sports Illustrated evening gown? And do you ever wonder how God decided whose bodies would require bras and whose wouldn’t?”

“I don’t think God had anything to do with those boobs,” I say.

She nods. “Fair.”

The final car pulls up. My Rolls-Royce—the one that should be carrying me. I wonder if they went with one of the other girls from Mexico or if they scrambled and brought in a previously eliminated girl. Maybe even Drew or Anna.