by Julie Murphy
Text copyright © 2021 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion Avenue, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Avenue, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.
First Edition, August 2021
Designed by Marci Senders
Cover design by Marci Senders
Cover art by Stephanie Singleton
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
ISBN 9781368070140 (ebook)
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Ian, mon petit chou
“Once upon a time…” a plump ten-year-old Cindy with golden hair pulled into a bumpy ponytail and cheeks flush with warmth said quietly to herself as she waited on the front porch, her chin resting on her kneecap with a poop-emoji Band-Aid stretched across an especially nasty scab. “A girl waited for her Prince Charming carrying the most precious cargo, hoping that if he showed up late, it would at least be late enough that her pizza would be free thanks to Marco’s Speedy Delivery Guarantee.”
Cindy dreamed of many things, but at the top of that list was the hope that someday she would cash in on that guarantee and finally get a free pizza. She’d come close many times, but victory had always escaped her.
A white Toyota Yaris covered in bumper stickers that said things like JESUS IS COMING, LOOK BUSY, and MY OTHER CAR IS A TARDIS pulled up short, breaks wheezing to a halt, as a lean teenage boy in a faded Marco’s T-shirt stumbled out with a pizza in hand.
“It’s about time!” Cindy said as she hopped to her feet. “You were this close to owing me a free pizza, Blake!”
At the sound of his name, Blake tripped on the curb, the pizza box nearly flying into the air.
Cindy couldn’t help but cringe a little at the thought of her pizza landing facedown on the sidewalk.
“Did I make it?” Blake asked between panting breaths.
She checked her cell phone and then held it up for him to see the time. “Barely,” she said as she handed over her dad’s crisp twenty-dollar bill.
Blake shook his head. “You’ll get that free pizza one of these days, Cindy.”
Cindy’s cheeks flushed with heat. He remembered her name. The cute, much older teenage boy knew her name. And the free pizza? Well, that would happen eventually. It was fate, after all. Pizza was always fated.
She stood there with the warm box in her arms as he drove off down the street, and the moment his car disappeared into the hazy Burbank horizon, she ran back into her house. “Dad! Pizza’s here!”
Cindy and her father, whose only religion was Thursday Pizza Night, sat in the living room, where they ate directly from the box. Their thirteen-year-old Pomeranian, Mac, circled the coffee table, chuffing in the hopes of a loose pepperoni.
Mac was three years Cindy’s senior, and he’d miraculously outlived every possible medical complication to the extent that Cindy’s father, Simon, joked that the dog might outlive him. Mac had been a peace offering from Cindy’s father to her mother after a disagreement about wanting children. Cindy’s mother, Ilene, was ready and her father was not. A dog, it turned out, was not the best thing to offer your wife when her biological clock was ticking. Simon saw the error of his ways the next morning when he found that Mac had not only torn through his favorite loafers but would also need a pricey procedure to excavate chunks of the shoes from his intestines. At least a child was unlikely to eat his shoes.
It took two miscarriages and three years of trying, but eventually, they got their miracle. Cindy Eleanor Woods. Even King Mac welcomed her with open paws. It was meant to be, Simon swore as Ilene held Cindy for the first time. And despite the years of disappointment and pain, Ilene couldn’t help but agree.
Cindy loved hearing this story. She knew it was probably painful for her dad in many ways, but she adored hearing any memory about her mother that wasn’t her own—whether because she was too young to remember it or it was simply before her time. They were surprise gems for Cindy to unearth. It was as though her mother were still alive in some reality, creating new memories to be treasured.
“Cindy, baby,” her father said as he handed her a napkin. “I-I’ve got something important to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” she said with hesitation. Adults always said important when they meant sad.
“First, I need you to know that I love you very much.” He shook his head and laughed to himself. “If your mother were here, she’d say I sound like an after-school special.”
Cindy wriggled uncomfortably, a sad but encouraging smile begging him to get it over with already.
“I love us,” he said. “I love the life we’ve made together, even if it’s not how I’d always imagined it would be. And I don’t want you to think that this has anything to do with me trying to replace our life…or your mother. No one could replace her. I know that all too well.”
“Dad, just say it. It’s okay. Just say it, please,” she pleaded, remembering the fear she felt when her dad was so upset about her mother that he could barely get the words out. She knew her mother was gone, and all she wanted was for the news to come fast. To rip it off like a bandage.
“I met someone. Someone I really like.”
Cindy nodded as she snuck Mac a piece of crust, though he promptly spat it out after realizing it wasn’t pepperoni. “What do you mean? You’ve met someone? Like, at the store?”
“I’ve—I’m dating someone. And it’s quite serious, actually.” Simon chuckled, as though that surprised even him. “She has two daughters around your age. I think the three of you might really hit it off. If…If things work out, you’d have the sisters you always wanted.”
Discomfort bubbled in Cindy’s stomach. She had always wanted a sister or two, but that was back when her mom was alive to make that dream come true.
“I was thinking maybe we could all get together for dinner soon,” he said.
“Here?” Cindy asked, glancing over to the kitchen, where she could so easily remember her mother and father cooking and fighting and dancing and doing all the things that made this little house
feel like home.
“Well, no,” he said, watching Cindy’s gaze. “Not if you don’t want to. Maybe we could start out on neutral ground. Maybe that mini golf place down the road with the great taco truck?”
Cindy nodded. Through all of this, her father had been her pillar. She knew he deserved to have someone to lean on too, but the thought of him with someone else…hugging, kissing, laughing, moving on…All of it meant one thing: Her mother really was gone.
“We’ll take it slow,” he said, seeing all the hesitation and anxiety furrowing in her brow. “And no matter what, we’ll always have each other. Anyone else who comes into our life is just the cherry on top.”
Cindy grinned. “I like that. The cherry on top.” She couldn’t help but wonder about her new potential sisters. Were they pretty? Smart? Thin? Funny? Mean? Cindy looked down at her round tummy and her mismatched pajamas. Would they like her? Cindy was a little bit of a loner. It was part of her only-child DNA.
Simon leaned back in his armchair with a worn paperback in hand and Mac in his lap, leaving the remote to Cindy. She flipped through the channels until a lineup of glittering women caught her eye. It looked like a beauty pageant, but these women weren’t onstage. They were in front of huge white château that looked more like a castle than a house, with a stunning staircase leading to the massive front door and two turrets on either side.
Each woman wore a dramatic evening gown paired with the perfect high heels that made their legs look like they went on forever. There were ruffling hems and studded shoes, some with straps that went up around ankles like pointe shoes and others that were sleek and quiet in the same way a sports car could be.
A man with rippling black hair in a crisp tuxedo stepped out in front of the women and faced the camera. “Good evening, and welcome to the series premiere of Before Midnight. I’m your host, Chad Winkle. Tonight, I’m proud to bring you a groundbreaking social experiment from groundbreaking producer Erica Tremaine.”
Simon looked up as Chad continued. “Twenty-four women and one very eligible suitor. Will they find love before the clock strikes midnight? Stay tuned.”
The camera swept down the line of women, showcasing their rainbow of dresses and shoes once more, and Cindy, who was absolutely bewitched, let out a gasp. “All those shoes.”
Simon put his book down, perplexed. “How do they balance in those things? Some of them look like they’ve got knives strapped to their feet.”
“They’re beautiful.”
Simon chuckled. “Not as beautiful as you.”
Her jaw dropped in feigned disgust, but her blushing cheeks couldn’t lie. “Gross, Dad. I was talking about their shoes.”
“When I met her, your mother had a closet full of shoes she never wore,” he said. “She said she liked the idea of them.”
“What?” Cindy asked. “What are you talking about? The only fancy shoes Mom ever had were those blue ones from your wedding.”
The satin pointy-toe heels had been dyed the perfect shade of blue for their wedding day, but after a few years, they’d faded into a soft bluish white. Cindy kept them tucked under her bed in the box they’d come in, along with her mother’s locket, hidden in the toe for safekeeping.
“She wore those shoes down the aisle and then kicked them off as soon as the ceremony began.” Simon smiled widely. “Your grandmother was not happy.”
Cindy didn’t know much about her grandparents except that on her Mom’s side they were pretty stuffy and thought that Simon was stealing her away from the comfortable lifestyle she deserved.
“But she also had a bunch of fancy work shoes squirreled away.”
Cindy swiveled back to face the television. “If I were allowed to wear high heels, I’d put them on every day even it meant wearing them on my hands.”
Simon snorted. “Good thing you’re not allowed to wear high heels.”
“Someday,” Cindy said, her attention drifting from her dad back to the dazzling women lined up on the television screen. “Someday.”
“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 a
nd 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.