Julie Murphy

When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.

To Ian, mon petit chou

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.

Shoes aren’t just an obsession for me. They’re my life’s work. Or they were, at least.

He smiles. “I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, okay?”
“Oh, really? Are you more of a Downton Abbey fan, or does Poldark really scratch that itch for you?”
“Well, since you asked, I’m ride or die for Death Comes to Pemberley.”
“Okay, you really are an old woman.”

“They’re like the motorcycles of the sky,” I say, egging him on a little.
“Yes! Thank you. Well, now that you know my deepest fear, I can officially trust you to help me with my drop-down mask when the time comes.”
“I swear to properly apply mine and then help all the surrounding children, yourself included.”
“Thanks.” His grin sparkles.
I feel that eager twitch in my chest l

like when your sense of humor perfectly aligns with someone else’s. It’s like scrolling through radio stations. Static, static, static, and then suddenly—click!—they’re on the right wavelength.

What Prince Charming doesn’t know is that the producer Tyler fell for was a he, not a she.

The kind of person who stands up immediately no matter how close they are to the exit door and the kind of person who waits in their seat like a civilized human being.”
“Yes! Thank you!” I say. “This is my pet peeve.”

She’s not what I would call warm or even maternal, but my dad loved Erica and her two daughters, Drew and Anna, so I love them too. Not for what we have, necessarily, because they still feel like strangers to me in many ways, but for what our relationship symbolizes—my last living connection to Dad.