If the Shoe Fits

by Julie Murphy

  Henry laughs, and a serenely creepy smile spreads across Corbin’s face. Yoga instructor or cult leader? TBD.

  Corbin leads us through a few basic poses, and I surprise myself with my ability to balance during tree pose. As he leads us into downward dog, a white goat with the name Chippy on his collar walks up the back of my legs and stands on my butt, like he’s conquered the biggest mountain of all. And perhaps he has. If it wasn’t so funny, I would probably die at the thought of how likely this is to make it onto national television.

  We continue on through a variety of poses, and I’m impressed to see just how fluid Henry is in every single movement.

  “He’s a real snack,” says Sara Claire as she displays her expert flexibility, stretching into upward dog. She catches me eyeing her and adds, “Cheered through middle school, high school, and college. I was a tumbler. My body is basically saltwater taffy at this point.”

  “Very nice,” Corbin says to her as he passes us by.

  “Teacher’s pet,” I whisper.

  She grins.

  After a few more poses, Corbin sits alongside Henry. “Let’s transition into couples yoga. Since we’re an odd number, I’m going to choose one of you who impressed me during the first half of our session.” He points to Sara Claire. “Join Henry at the front.”

  Sara Claire’s eyes light up as she leaves her mat to be with Henry.

  “Now, look to your neighbor and partner up with that person,” Corbin instructs.

  I groan quietly and turn to find that Addison is also less than pleased with our situation.

  Since she makes no effort to move, I scoot over with my mat.

  “Don’t screw this up for me,” she says. “The women who perform well or stand out during the group date usually get guaranteed one-on-one time or the solo date.”

  “Sit down and face your partner,” Corbin says. “With your legs crossed and your wrists resting on your knees, take a moment to ground yourself.”

  I get situated and close my eyes. If I don’t have to see Addison, it’s like she’s not there. I try to think calming thoughts. Father-daughter trips with Dad to see Muir Woods, but that quickly devolves into a heavy guilt in my chest as I remember the box of Dad’s (and Mom’s) belongings I left under my bed in Erica’s pool house. The last earthly pieces of my parents and I left them to gather dust while I ran off to do goat yoga on a reality TV show.

  I take a deep breath and try again for new calming thoughts. Sleeping in so late on Saturday mornings that my bed is hot with sunshine. Color-coding my shoe collection and micro-organizing by heel height. Going to Coney Island with Sierra in the dead of winter. But all I can see is the silhouette of that box and Erica’s handwriting scrawled across the top. None of my happy thoughts are able to set me entirely at ease. I haven’t felt fully like myself since this whole thing started. It’s like I can remember who I envision myself to be and the person who I think I am, but the reality of who I am in this moment feels like a stranger to me.

  “Now open your eyes,” Corbin continues. “Look into your partner’s eyes.”

  I open my eyes and see Addison making a side-eye glance at Henry and Sara Claire. The two of them are grinning silly at each other. Henry whispers something to her when Corbin’s back is turned, and Sara Claire has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. The other night, everyone made such a point of how good Addison and Henry looked together, but Sara Claire and Henry are the ones who seem like a perfect match to me. It doesn’t take much imagination at all to picture how their lives might intertwine and play out together. A wedding. A family. Picture-perfect vacations. Grandkids. Hand in hand until the very end.

  “Stupid hillbilly,” Addison mutters.

  “She’s from Austin,” I say. “That’s, like, a huge city.”

  “Whatever. Just look into my eyes or something.”

  I take a deep breath and proceed to have the most intense staring contest I’ve had with anyone since Billy Samples challenged me to one in fifth grade. Winner had to do the loser’s vocabulary homework for a week. (I won and did my own homework, because I’m terrified of getting in trouble.)

  “Now reach out and embrace your partner’s forearms,” says Corbin. “Very nice,” he tells Henry and Sara Claire. “Now, everyone, breathe in and out in sync with your partner. You are a unit. Their breath is your breath.”

  “You’re breathing too fast,” I tell Addison.

  “You’re not breathing fast enough,” she says.

  Corbin walks us through a few poses, some of which involve Addison’s ass way too close to my head. “Now, this next pose I only recommend for the most experienced yogis out there. But I think you and Sara Claire can handle it,” he says to Henry.

  Henry looks to Sara Claire, his brow arched in question, and she shrugs with a giggle.

  “This is called the double plank. Henry, you’ll position yourself in a plank on the ground,” Corbin continues. “And, Sara Claire, you’ll also do a plank, but on Henry’s back, facing the opposite direction with your feet on his shoulders.”

  A quiet groan rolls through the rest of us as Sara Claire and Henry play their little game of Twister as she crawls on top of him.

  A row ahead of me, Jenny sighs dramatically as she rests her chin in her hands.

  “Is it possible for seventeen people to feel like a third wheel at one time?” I hear someone ask.

  Sara Claire’s perfect breasts brush the back of Henry’s legs, and then voilà! They hit their planking pose for just a few seconds before Sara Claire balances on one arm and touches the bottom of Henry’s foot with the other.

  Henry kicks wildly, and they both tumble to the ground in a fit of laughter.

  “No tickling allowed!” Henry cries.

  My stomach flip-flops as I notice the crew eating it all up, pulling in closer to the two of them.

  Corbin lets out a stilted laugh—this is definitely breaking the rules of yoga. He leads us through one last breathing exercise. “With your eyes closed, I want you to remember that we are all connected and everything happens for a reason. The universe is a series of reactions. Will you be the re or the action?”

  “I think I’m having a reaction to this bullshit,” Stacy whispers behind me.

  I snort with laughter and my face turns a deep shade of red. When I open my eyes, the only other person who sees me is Henry. He watches me with one eye open and a faint smile.

  “Namaste,” says Corbin.

  Everyone else opens their eyes, and Henry’s gaze stays steady on me.

  Warmth sinks from my chest all the way down to my belly, and I almost have to force myself to look away.

  “Namaste,” we repeat.

  Back at the house, we all take turns showering post-yoga and slowly congregate downstairs in the expansive living room. Exploring the château over the last few days has been almost otherworldly. The furniture is ornate and lush, but nothing is actually comfortable. The house is clean, but every room only looks good from certain angles, because there are cords and lights left out for night shooting, or rooms with bad lighting. With no library, television, or internet to keep us busy, we’ve been left to our own devices when it comes to entertainment. Last night, our attempts devolved into a contest of Chubby Bunny, which resulted in us getting in trouble with Mallory, who had stashed the marshmallows for later so they could get some B-roll of us all making s’mores.

  “The first solo date is tonight,” Chloe says as she methodically scrunches her wet curls in her hands. “I’d bet money on it.”

  “Unless your money can buy me five minutes on Twitter, it’s no good here,” Stacy says.

  “Am I right?” Chloe asks Mallory, who is sitting perched on the arm of the sofa alongside one lone camera guy and a sound tech in case we do something interesting, but Mallory just shrugs and continues to type into her phone.

  Drew sighs. “Sara Claire is a shoo-in for the solo date.”

  Jenny’s whole body flops in agreement.

&
nbsp; Anna studies her hand. “Does anyone know how to read palms? I feel like this one line is really short, and what if that’s, like, my life line? I was staring at it last night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Honestly, it took me, like, three hours to fall asleep, and I forgot to pack my melatonin, so I just really wish I could get an answer.”

  Stacy takes her wrist and looks over the lines of Anna’s palm. “If I had a stupid phone, I’d be able to look this up and tell you, but until then, all I can say is it’s either your life line or your love line. But it does shoot off into a—”

  The doorbell rings, a deep chime and then a high one.

  “I’ll get it!” Drew says before tearing off for the door.

  Mallory thumps the camera guy on the leg, and he jolts to attention as Sara Claire joins the rest of us with freshly dried hair.

  Drew comes racing back, waving a gold envelope in the air. “Gather round, ladies!”

  We all pile up on the couches, and even Addison seems to be eager.

  “Well, open it!” Allison demands.

  Drew steps onto the coffee table and clears her throat. “‘Ladies,’” she reads, “‘thank you for spending the afternoon with me. You’re all the GOAT.’”

  “We’re the goat?” Anna asks. “What does that even mean?”

  “G-O-A-T,” Drew spells out. “The greatest of all time.”

  Stacy shakes her head and looks to Mallory. “Please tell me one of you people is writing these corny-ass messages and not this man we’re supposed to be finding attractive.”

  A few other girls giggle, and Mallory just says, “It’s a pun! Puns can be sexy.”

  “Sure, Jan,” Stacy says.

  I turn to her. “I think I love you.”

  “Keep reading!” Addison shouts.

  “From the top, please,” Mallory says. “I’d like to get one clean take.”

  “Okay, okay,” says Drew. “‘Ladies,’” she reads, “‘thank you for spending the afternoon with me. You’re all the GOAT. Tomorrow night I hope you’ll all join me for the ball, but tonight I’d like to get a little alone time with a girl who really stood out for me today. Sara Claire, please meet me outside the château at seven o’clock, and wear your dancing shoes.’”

  Disappointment weighs me down as all the other girls squeal and pretend to be happy for Sara Claire. I know she got the most one-on-one time with him during yoga, so this makes sense, but I held on to some kind of hope that he might choose me after that look we shared.

  Sara Claire bounces a little at my side.

  “You’re going to have so much fun,” I tell her, the words burning on my tongue.

  While Sara Claire is getting ready in the bathroom and both Stacy and Addison are out by the pool, I take the walkie-talkie out to make sure it still has some battery. I flip through a few channels.

  “I need a second camera on the car outside the château in thirty minutes. Will Ben be back from—”

  I flip again.

  Static.

  And again.

  More static.

  “Is anyone else on this channel?” a voice that sounds like it might belong to Wes asks.

  “Hello out there?” Beck’s voice calls.

  I turn down the volume dial and hold the speaker to my ear.

  “Have you hopped on email in the last hour?” asks Wes. “Erica says the network likes my pick for wifey.”

  Beck is silent for a minute.

  “You there?” Wes asks again.

  “Yes,” Beck says. “I heard you. Look, let’s talk about this later. We haven’t even cleared it with Henry yet.”

  “Like he—”

  “Wes, I gotta run.”

  The channel goes silent, so I flip over to the next, expecting to find more sta—

  “Hello?” a voice asks softly.

  I know that voice. That voice is his voice.

  I press down on the button on the side to respond. “Henry?”

  Behind me the door swings opens. In a hurry, I flip the power switch as fast as I can.

  “Hey,” Sara Claire says as I’m stuffing the radio in my shoe with my back to her. “Were you talking to someone?”

  I turn around, trying my best not to look guilty. It’s not easy. “Oh, uh, maybe just to myself. Sorry, I guess I was thinking out loud.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “My daddy does that all the time. It’s like his thoughts are too big to just live in his head.”

  “So relatable,” I say. “You look great, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” She twirls in her sequined little black dress. Simple but chic. A little boring, but she’s the kind of person who just glows, so she could wear anything and you’d still want to talk to her. “Wish me luck.”

  I swallow dryly. “Good luck.”

  I spend most of my night sketching in my bedroom, trying to make my brain work again. Most of the other women play drinking games downstairs, but I don’t think my liver can take it. Besides, what they’re really doing is waiting up for Sara Claire to come home. I’m already feeling a little miserable, and it’s the kind of miserable that doesn’t play well with others.

  I wish I had my tablet. Switching mediums when I was blocked was a trick I learned early on, but alas, no electronic devices in the Before Midnight château. If anyone finds the radio stuffed in my shoe, I’ll get kicked out faster than I can even zip my suitcase.

  The tip of my pencil snaps against my sketch pad, sending a stray line skidding across the page. Maybe I just have to let it go. Even in school, I knew that not all of us would succeed as designers. For some reason, I thought I was special, and that I would defy all odds. But my well is empty. I have nothing left to give. Deep down I know that I could be happy doing other things. At least, I think. I could find some sort of job in fashion. Maybe I could talk to Sierra’s contacts at Macy’s. Maybe I don’t have to create clothing to work with clothing. The thought of it is a little freeing. And yet, it pains me deeply to think of letting my longtime dream go.

  At around one in the morning, Stacy wobbles through the door and plops down on her bed. “I think this might be worse than college,” she says, her last word devolving into a loud burp.

  “Girl, you’re nasty,” Addison says as she walks in behind her, strips down to absolutely nothing, and passes out in her bed.

  Stacy and I share a look, and she just shrugs. “At least I plan on brushing my teeth,” she says loudly.

  Soon I’m the only one still awake, so I throw a shirt over my lamp to dim the light. Normally, I’d just go to bed too, but I’m pretty sure they’re both too drunk to care if I keep putzing around with my sketch pad. I didn’t bring my whole collection of pencils with me—shoes were my priority—but I managed to bring a few of my favorites and a kneaded eraser.

  The page is smudged from erasing false starts and bad ideas one right after the next. But finally, after an hour or two, I decide to start with the basics: a shoe. A man’s shoe—something I’ve never really dabbled with. A laceless deep blue suede shoe with a blocked-off square toe. And then it’s pants, tailored close to the leg and cropped at the ankle. I add a button-up shirt with a tiny floral pattern. A velvet tux jacket and a matching bow tie. It’s less of a design sketch and more of a portrait….

  Now I find myself attempting to sketch Henry’s face. I’ve always been awful with faces. Sierra used to make fun of me for just drawing smiley faces on every sketch. With a frustrated sigh, I take my eraser to his jawline over and over again, unable to get it just right. The line of it is too soft and then too harsh. I can’t find the right balance.

  “You’re up,” says Sara Claire while she tiptoes through the bedroom door.

  “Hi,” I whisper as I shove my sketch pad under my pillow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She nods, balancing on one foot, taking off her gold sling-back heels.

  “How was it?” I dare to ask.

  “Nice,” she says in too high a voice, like she’s finding it hard to believe
.

  I give her a discerning look, and she caves way too easily.

  “It was actually really good and I can’t believe I’m even saying that about a date that was recorded for national television.” She joins me on my bed, scooting all the way back so she can lean against the wall. “Is—Is Addison buck naked?”

  I stifle a laugh. “Uh, yeah, she’s toasted.”

  “Oh Lord.” She rolls her eyes. “Queen of the memes over here.”

  “So dancing, huh?”

  Sara Claire sighs. “Yeah, they had us go to some honky-tonk, and Wes had to get Irina to hunt down a pair of cowboy boots for me. I thought we’d be going to a club or something, but I guess they’re painting me as the Southern belle and wanted to play it up. They even had me change out of this dress”—she motions down to her black sequined minidress—“and put me in, like, a tiny little denim skirt and a gingham bustier.”

  “A bustier?” I ask.

  “My mother is going to die when she sees me prancing around on television in a bra made out of a tablecloth, but at least I don’t have to be there to witness her demise.”

  “Oh God,” I say. “I keep thinking about what’s going to happen when all the people who know me—like, really know me—see the show.”

  “Oh, baby,” she says. “They’ve seen. It’s Tuesday. First episode aired tonight.”

  I gasp. “You’re right! I swear, time is a meaningless circle in this place.” I wish I could talk to Sierra and all my friends back in New York. They probably think something is legitimately wrong with me or my life has turned into some kind of M. Night Shyamalan movie.

  She shivers a little. “I’m trying not to think about it. Honestly, I hope I still have a job when I get home. I might be a daddy’s girl, but Daddy takes his business very seriously.” She takes a deep breath. “So anyway, we went dancing. And then the producers arranged this elaborate romantic dinner for just the two of us inside this really adorable old barbecue joint. There were rose petals and candles, and I got barbecue sauce all over my face—even though we really only ate for a minute so they could get a few shots of us eating ribs—and he did that whole cute thing where he wiped the sauce off my chin and then, that was it.”