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

“Buongiorno, Cindy!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m running home to get my suitcase at lunch, so maybe we can get to the airport a little early. Get a little vino to kick off the trip?”

“You know this is a work trip, right?” I remind her.

“You Americans are such prunes,” she says.

I let out a snort.

“What? Did I say it wrong?”

“I think you were going for prudes.” I sit down at my desk and pull out the shoe I’ve been pecking away at for the last few weeks. Even though most of us have been in the office for a little while now, our team doesn’t officially assemble until the trip to Italy, so when we’re not doing HR trainings, we’ve all been encouraged to just…play.

My phone chimes, and I find a text on my group thread with Sara Claire and Stacy.

Stacy:

What if I told you I was already moving back in with my ex?

Sara Claire:

RED ALERT TOO SOON

Cindy:

Meh. Life is short.



I got their numbers from Beck a few days after the finale. That night, the three of us talked over a video call for almost five hours. I told them everything. Meeting Henry on the plane. Erica. My parents. Anna and Drew. And it turned out Sara Claire and Stacy had secrets of their own. Sara Claire’s father had bribed someone on the craft service’s team to give her a cell phone, and of course Stacy spilled all the details about her ex crashing our hotel room.

Sara Claire was upset at the finale, of course, but has fully embraced her status as America’s new favorite meme. Since I’ve bowed out of the next season, it looks like Sara Claire is being eyed for my position. She’s already made it very clear that the only person choosing the winner will be her. And Stacy is happy to be back to life as normal, though Beck has already reached out to say she’d love to have her on her queer take on Before Midnight, which was just greenlit, should Stacy’s girlfriend ever once again become her ex.

Since that marathon video chat, the three of us have stayed in constant touch, and Sara Claire is already demanding we rendezvous in Austin for a girls’ weekend.

I drop my phone back in my bag and return my focus to my workstation. In school I never really did much menswear, but in my free time over the last few weeks, I’ve been challenging myself to try. After rolling my suitcase under my desk, I open my sketch pad to the page I’ve revisited over and over again the last few days.

At the top in a soft script, I’ve titled my design The Henry. Below that is my sketch and fabric sample. A deep blue suede loafer with a slightly pointed toe and a super-soft brushed finish with a tassel on top. They’re more extravagant than my Henry might wear, but the details remind me of him. Refined and polished and bold without being too loud or taking themselves too seriously.

Crow was right. Crossing one bridge had allowed me to look back and see all that I had been through, and when I sat down to sketch a few days after the finale, things started to feel more and more natural. I was designing again. Really designing. Some of it was bad. Some of it was okay. And some of it was even great. But I was thankful for it all. Most importantly, I was relieved to have the thing that brings me so much joy back in my life. I think for a while there, I began to wonder if I’d made it all up, and that the inkling of talent that had gotten me through the first three years of fashion school was just a fluke.

“Did you find that tassel I dug up for you?” Freja asks.

“No.” I turn around in my chair to see a soft navy tassel next to my keyboard. The tassels are thick—not too delicate—and remind me of the ropes from the sailboat that last night. “This is perfect,” I tell her.

I pull the shoe out from the cubby beside my desk where we can keep our current works in progress. It looks like an old card catalog, except the drawers have been replaced with shoes.

The shoe I’ve been working on is rough-looking to the naked eye. Exposed seams. Obvious shoe nail tacks. But I can see what it’s supposed to be. I can see the potential, and this tassel is the crowning finish.





At the end of the day, as Freja and I are walking down the street with our suitcases to catch a cab, she begins to frantically pat down her pockets and dig through her bag. “I forgot it. Damn it. I can’t believe I did this. Or I left it at the office.”

“Forgot what?” I ask. “Whatever it is, we can just buy it when we get to the airport.”

“Unless you know a guy who’s selling Danish passports out of JFK, I need to run home.”

“Honestly, that’s not such a far-fetched business idea,” I tell her.

My joke doesn’t ease the panic in her eyes.

“Okay, you run home,” I say in my most soothing voice. “You’re just a few blocks away. I’ll run up to the office and check there. Leave me with the bags, and I’ll make sure we have a car waiting for us when you get back. Airport vino can wait.”

She nods and sprints off down the street.

I roll both of our suitcases back into the lobby and take the elevator up to the forty-fourth floor. I walk through the waiting room and wave to Carlos, the receptionist, as I pass his desk. He’s on the phone but gives me a puzzled look. “Freja forgot something,” I whisper.

The whole floor is empty, except for one desk—my desk.

My work lamp is turned on, illuminating him so that I can’t miss him—not that I ever would.