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

Erica is silent for a moment. “Thank you. Noted.”

“How is—”

“Have you heard from him?” she asks, interrupting me.

“No,” I say glumly as I step out of the elevator. “Any word on your end?”

“Only from his lawyers,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Is the network really that upset about him disappearing that they need to involve legal? It’s probably some of the best ratings they’ve ever seen.”

“You’re not wrong,” she whispers as though someone is spying on her in her own car. “To be honest, it’s the highest finale numbers we’ve seen since the first season.”

“How’s Beck recovering from her prime-time debut?” I ask.

“Well, Mallory taught me how to send GIFs over text message, and apparently Twitter deemed the death stare Beck gave Chad highly GIFable, so I’ve found a great deal of pleasure in communicating via GIF only.”

“I’m sure Beck is really enjoying that. Hey, I’ve got to check out. Can I call you when I get to the airport later tonight?” I ask.

“Yes, please. The kids are dying to talk.”

“It’s a date,” I say.

After we hang up, I head to the reception desk, and Lydia, the manager, comes around to give me a hug and wish me good luck. She’d watched the show and even asked me to sign her eleven-year-old daughter’s autograph book.

There have been a few moments like that. Getting recognized on the subway or in line for coffee or in the hotel lobby. But for the most part, New York is a good place to disappear. Recent fashion school grad turned reality television star is just another square on someone’s NYC bingo card.

On my way to Gossamer, I make a quick stop. Unlike the first time I visited LuMac, there are no paparazzi or producers or film crew. The storefront has been converted back from a runway to its usual flagship layout.

When I knock on the glass door, the tall, slender salesclerk who definitely overslept this morning ignores me. I try again, rapping my fist a little harder. This time, she looks up and rolls her eyes before marching to the door and pointing at the store hours.

I glance at my phone. It’s only nine o’clock, and they don’t open until ten, but there’s no way I’ll be able to make it across town on my lunch hour.

“I need to speak with Jay!” I yell through the glass. “I’m a friend.” Then more quietly, I add, “Sort of.”

The girl points to her ear and mouths, I can’t hear you, even though she so obviously can.

“I said”—yelling even louder and feeling like an absolute lunatic—“I’m a friend of Jay’s.”

She holds her hands up and shrugs before walking away.

“Hello, friend.”

I spin on my heel. “Jay!”

“I hear we’re friends,” Jay says playfully. Today they wear a blue-and-white seersucker romper with a pair of Gucci sneakers. It’s the perfect summer-in-NYC outfit.

“I think I scared your store manager.”

They shiver. “Nothing could scare that troll. You know she once told Lucy herself that she couldn’t take more than six pieces into the fitting room.”

My eyes widen. “And she still works here?”

“Would you believe that Lucy thought she was kidding and gave her a bonus for her dry sense of humor?”

“That’s a thing people give bonuses for?”

Jay smirks. “Not on my watch. I’m guessing you’re not here to give me all the latest Gossamer gossip.”

“I could?” I offer.

Jay reaches for my hand and cuts right to the bone. “He still hasn’t been back to the office.”

“You’ll let me know when he has?”

Jay’s smile droops.

“I guess it makes sense that he’d get you in the divorce,” I say.

“Honey, I belong to no one. But you’ve got to understand, Henry’s spent most of his life playing second fiddle to someone’s career.”

“So he knows, then? He knows why I wasn’t there?”

Jay narrows their gaze. “You’re a real sneaky one, aren’t you?”

“Hey, you can’t blame a girl for trying to read between the lines.” I push my sunglasses up into my hair so that they can see my eyes and, somehow, I can hypnotize them into delivering this message for me. “Listen, I’m leaving tonight for Italy…I don’t expect to see him before then, but can you just tell him that I’ll be back…and at the very least, I’d like to talk about what happened. To apologize.”

They nod pointedly. “I can’t promise anything, but have a safe trip. Think of me wasting away at the Olive Garden in Times Square while you feast on fresh pasta.”

“Hey, when you’re there, you’re family. And yes, I’ll clean every plate,” I tell them. “Just for you.”



The Gossamer offices remind me of my classrooms at Parsons. I have my own work desk complete with all the technology I could ever need and my own personal cobbler station so that I can craft prototypes before sending them off to our manufacturer for official samples.

Beside me is Freja, a Danish designer fresh out of school in London. We’ve been practicing a few Italian phrases every day at lunch, and she’s convinced that I’m going to meet a great European rebound guy in Italy. Multiple rebound guys if she gets her way.