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“You look good, Dee,” I murmur.

She glances at me from where she’s rearranging the stacks of fabric, lining them to where chairs are positioned against the table. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ears. It’s a golden honeyed colour that shimmers slightly under the ceiling lights. I wonder how long it took for her to grow out the heavy black she used to dye it. The kids at school used to call her a goth due to her dark hair and pale skin, but I always thought it suited her. She may have dyed her hair to blend into a crowd, but I don’t think she ever realised how much it made her stand out.

I try not to make it obvious that I’m appraising her, but I’m sure she can see, and I’m fairly sure she’s watching as my eyes wander, drinking in every inch of her. The heavy eyeliner she always wore is gone, replaced by a much softer shade, making her eyes look like they’re shining and bright. The thick fringe has disappeared, like she’s fully grown it out. I watch as she gnaws her bottom lip with her teeth, noticing that her teeth have been straightened. She’s not as thin as she used to be, but she looks so healthy. I’m oddly relieved to see it, knowing that her thin frame came from days passing between those where she managed to have even one meal a day. The clothes are different, too, and it’s not just the passing of more than a decade of changes in style. She typically wore jeans and overshirts when at school. Today, like yesterday, she’s in a lightweight dress in a brightly patterned fabric. Gone are the usual scuffed Converse, replaced by little slipper-style shoes.

Everything about her is more polished, pulled together, and sophisticated, yet the way she holds herself reminds me of how she was.

Guarded, like she knows how awful human beings can be.

“Had a little bit of a glow-up since you saw me last,” she comments.

I fumble in my pocket for my wallet, then pull out my cash card and gesture to it.

“May I pay for the shirt?”

“Trying to clear your conscience?” she quips.

“Just trying to clear my debt.”

“I think I was always the one in your debt,” she scoffs.

“That was never the case,” I retort.

“You and I have very different memories, apparently,” she mutters.

“You’re not in my debt,” I argue.

She rolls her eyes and then walks towards the till. I follow her and watch as she steps behind the counter, picking up the card machine and tapping away on the pad before thrusting it in my direction. I tap my cash card against the machine. It beeps, acknowledging acceptance.

“Consider your debt and conscience cleared,” she says with a small smile.

My debt is nowhere near cleared, nor is my conscience.

“What are you doing today?” I ask.

She glances towards the fabric on the tables. “I’ve got a few students in today for a class. It starts at nine,” she explains.

“What time does the shop close today?” I think back to the times I saw on her website, that Saturday dates noted to check with the store. I wonder how many weekends she runs a class.

“I tend to keep the store closed when I’m teaching.”

“Quite the evasive answer there, Delilah.” I can’t help but chuckle.

“The class ends at three. Aside from processing anything the students want to purchase, I don’t really trade today. I tend to close the shop as soon as the class is done.”

“Do you have many students today?”

“Only eight. Mostly, it’s younger people who want to get into dressmaking at home. They’re all returnees. We started last Saturday, and today we’ll be finishing off—hopefully.” Now it’s her turn to laugh and smile, like she’s had classes that haven’t gone to plan.

“I’m tempted to stay and watch you teach,” I admit.

I wonder if she teaches with the same mannerisms she used to have as a student. I’d teach and encourage her into the conversation, and when she was enthusiastic about the topic, she would use her hands for a lot of gestures. Her tone was always restrained, but it was like her wild hand gestures were a substitution for a passionate tone. Sometimes, she seemed to catch on to what she was doing—typically mid-gesture—and she’d stop, retracting her hands, shoving them under the desk, and blushing furiously. It always made me smile when she was unrestrained, especially as it was such a contrast to how she was for the rest of the time, with her shoulders hunched and trying to make herself into a small shape.

“Running a bit of a risk, aren’t you? Sitting with a bunch of women who might be big fans of yours?” she teases. “You could get hand cramp signing their outfits when they beg you for autographs.”

“I would have thought you knew I was the type to run a risk,” I joke.

It’s clearly too close to the bone. I watch as her shoulders pull forwards, and I feel like a dick. I shouldn’t be making jokes about what happened between us, nor pushing her back to remembering who she used to be. As far as I know, she’s worked hard to put that version of herself behind her.