From #1 New York Times best-selling author Julie Murphy comes If the Shoe Fits — the first in a brand-new adult series inspired by the classic fairy tale stories we all know and love, perfect for adult readers who crave contemporary, escapist rom-coms.
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Chapter One
“Okay, wait,” I say. “This time I’ll sit on the suitcase and you try to latch it. Besides, I’m bigger than you by a lot.” Sierra holds an arm out to me with a sigh, and I pull her to her feet. “Cin, we’ve already made three trips to the post office to ship shoes home. Don’t shoot the messenger here, but . . . you might have to part with some of—”
“Don’t! Don’t even say it, S!” I plop down onto the trunk with a defeated pout. “Is it such a crime to love shoes this much?” I ask. It sounds materialistic, I know, but each one of these shoes represents a moment in time for me. A pair I saved up for. A pair I bought for a date. For a wedding. A funeral . . . And even a few pairs I’ve crafted myself. Shoes aren’t just an obsession for me. They’re my life’s work. Or they were, at least.
Sierra squats down and makes another attempt on the latches before looking up to me, her thick black brows furrowed.
“Give it to me straight, doc,” I say.
“Three pairs,” she says. “If you can part with three pairs, you might actually make it to the airport on time and not miss your flight. And before I hear even a squeak about getting on the next flight, you can’t afford the change fees.”
The words afford and fees turn my spine into a rod. “Okay, okay, okay.” I stand up and flip the case open, running my fingers over each stiletto, sneaker, and wedge. Every last strap, ribbon, stud, and stone. Each of these shoes holds a story for me. It’s not like I just walked into a Saks and bought my first pair of Manolo Blahniks full price. This is years of scouring clearance basements, eBay, Poshmark, and even craigslist for everything from Steve Madden to LuMac to Gucci. And some of these are even more precious than that. Some of these are one of a kind. Cindy originals.
I hand Sierra my red patent leather Kate Spade kitten heels. “You always liked them best,” I tell her. “And really, I should have gone up a half size.”
She holds them to her chest, her eyes beginning to glisten. “I couldn’t,” she says. “But I will.”
I laugh and maybe even cry a little. When Dad died during my senior year of high school, I couldn’t imagine what my future might hold or if I would even have any future worth imagining at all. I nearly passed on coming to New York and just planned to take some community college classes until I could figure out my next move. All I wanted was anything that felt familiar or reminded me of Dad, but the only family I had back home was my stepmom and stepsisters. And then I met Sierra—this effortlessly cool girl from a huge Greek family who can find common ground with just about anyone. If it wasn’t for Sierra, I would have never made it in NYC. I don’t believe in fate, but if I did, having Sierra as my freshman roommate would be the closest thing to fate that I could imagine. Now, with graduation just last week, Sierra is family, and she’s the kind I chose. According to my dad, the family you choose is just as meaningful as the one you’re born with. If, after four years at Parsons School of Design, Sierra is the best thing I walk away with, it will have been worth it. (And after the disaster that was my last semester, that just might be the case.)
I stuff my Balenciaga slides and my favorite loafers from Target into my purse and latch the trunk. (Hey, I’m not all highbrow.)
My phone vibrates with an alert. “My Lyft is here.” Inhaling deeply, I try sucking back every brimming tear. “Okay, this is it,” I tell Sierra.
I pull her close to me in a tight hug. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” we both say over and over again.
“FaceTime every day,” she says.
“Twice a day,” I promise.
“And this isn’t a forever thing, okay?” Sierra demands desperately.
Sierra is staying here in New York. Her internship turned into a part-time gig as an assistant to the assistant of the head women’s sportswear buyer at Macy’s. When she’s not doing that she’s pulling barista shifts to make ends meet. It may not sound like much, but it’s bigger plans than I managed to piece together while I completely crashed and burned, barely making it to graduation.
I nod into her shoulder, unable to say anything without crying.
“We just gotta figure out our next steps. This nannying thing is only to get you on your feet. Temporary.”
“Temporary.”
We say one more tearful goodbye after loading my trunk, two suitcases, and carry-on into the car, and then I’m off.
“JFK?” the driver confirms as he taps the screen of his cell phone with another phone wedged into the crook of his shoulder.
I give him a thumbs-up, and we’re off. I want to beg him to slow down so I can say a proper goodbye to this city and all my places. The 1 train stop on Twenty-Eighth Street. My bodega. My bodega cat. My favorite Peruvian chicken place. The jumbo screen outside of Madison Square Garden, always flashing. My favorite Korean beauty shop with all the best face masks. But, much like the past four years, it all passes in a blur, and before I know it, I’m waiting to board my flight with thirty minutes to spare.
I run to the newsstand in front of my gate to grab a few magazines, but the only offerings are various Kardashians and Sabrina Parker, so I grab three mini snow globes for the triplets and a bottle of water. Hovering around the gate is a cluster of men in slacks and sport coats, like someone might try to steal their business-class seats if they don’t claim them first. My stepmom, Erica, sent me enough money to upgrade to first class. It was supposed to be a graduation gift, but I used the cash to ship most of my shoe collection across the country instead. Erica probably would’ve just paid for that too, but there’s no handbook on cultivating a relationship with your stepmother and asking her for money after the sudden death of your father.
After Dad died, I spent six months living with my stepmom and stepsisters. Even though we’d moved in with Erica back when she and Dad got married the summer before ninth grade, those six months after he died felt like I’d been dropped in someone else’s life. Erica and her daughters, Anna and Drew, knew how to exist without Dad. I . . . didn’t. After I left for college, Erica began to build a new house that she finally finished last year. The only place that feels like home anymore is the apartment I just packed up.
My phone rings, and I expect it to be Sierra already checking in on me, but it’s not. “Hey,” I say.
“Darling,” Erica croons. “Did you make it through security okay? We’ve got to get you signed up for CLEAR. TSA pre-check is almost always more crowded than the actual TSA line these days.”
“I really don’t fly that much,” I say.
“The triplets are chomping at the bit, waiting for you. Can you believe they’re turning four this summer? I’m sending my driver to fetch you.”
“I can just take a Lyft,” I say as I tiptoe through a clump of teenagers on a high school trip. “Excuse—” I teeter before losing my balance and catching myself on a random person’s armrest.
A hand braces my arm, steadying me, and when I look up, I’m practically in the lap of a guy who could double as Prince Charming. Dark hair and deep brown eyes with flecks of amber and a hint of olive in his complexion. Our gazes lock, frozen for a moment.
“A Lyft!” Erica shudders. “The new rideshare pickup at LAX is an absolute disaster. An actual regression in evolution. I insist—”
“Hey, Erica? Sorry. I gotta go.”
I push myself back up as the heat in my cheeks flares. “I’m so, so sorry,” I tell Prince Charming.
He grins back at me, and his teeth are so white they could be photoshopped, except this is real life. “Ahhh!” he quietly fake screams. “Don’t step on the lava!”
My brow furrows as I try to make sense of what he’s talking about.
His smile droops. “You know lava? Like when you were little? The floor is made of lava! Jump from cushion to cushion!”
“Ohhhhh! Right, yeah, I was more of a reader, I guess?”
“I read,” he says immediately.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that you don’t,” I say, trying to recover.
“Now boarding Group A,” says the gate agent through the static of the intercom.
Prince Charming stands, and of course he’s tall too. “That’s me. Uh, excuse me.”
I double back. “Watch out for the lava!” I call as he circles around the row of seats to where the rest of the first-class passengers are lined up.
“Watch out for the lava?” I say back to myself.
Below me a group of teenagers chuckle. “Real smooth,” says a white girl with thick brown curls slicked back into a ponytail.
“Could you not?” I snap back at her as I shuffle down the aisle and wait for my boarding group. I feel immediately bad for being a grumpy spinster.
Mean teenage girls and awkward interactions with living, breathing Prince Charmings. Some things never change.
—If the Shoe Fits by Julie Murphy (Scholastic Australia) is out now.
If The Shoe Fits
A Meant to Be novel
Having graduated from design school, and with no job in sight, Cindy begins working for her stepmother, the executive producer of a reality dating TV show.
A spot on the show needs urgent filling, so Cindy happily volunteers, hoping that it might kickstart her shoe design career. But as the first plus-size contestant, she becomes a body-positivity icon for women around the world. Does she make it to the end of the show?
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