Scene 46¶
Notes25-01-05??¶
Scene 42 — “Carl” (Sarah POV)
The annoying thing about having a small awakening is that the world doesn’t stop to let you process it.
Bree and Lily glow their way through Wardrobe like a private weather system, and then the next minute you’re back to pinning hems and pretending you didn’t just witness a version of happiness that made your stomach do a weird, traitorous little flip.
I tried to file it under Not My Problem.
It didn’t stay filed.
For the rest of the week, I kept catching myself watching them—tiny touches, shared looks, that relaxed certainty between them. Not performative. Not defensive. Not asking permission.
Just… two women who were done negotiating whether their wanting was valid.
Every time I noticed it, I felt the same thought arrive, uninvited, like a notification you can’t swipe away:
That looks nice.
Which was a ridiculous thing to think, because I was in the middle of the Ethan aftermath and my nervous system still had that “every door might have a man behind it” edge.
So, naturally, the universe offered me a man who was… fine.
Not “fine” as in attractive. Fine as in: not a walking hazard. Not an entitled toddler in an adult body. Not a replacement-mum seeker.
Fine as in: decent.
His name was Carl.
I met him on a Thursday in a way so ordinary it almost felt staged.
The Faire had sent someone to check on the lighting in the small dressing corridor—the one that always flickered when the iron was on, the one Mara had been muttering about for days like it was a personal insult. We’d been told “an electrician” was coming. Which, in my experience, can mean anything from “competent professional” to “man who explains wires to women as if we’re newborn calves.”
Carl walked in carrying a tool bag and a clipboard and the sort of calm that doesn’t feel like a performance.
He paused at the threshold—not swaggering, not barging—and looked around like he was assessing the room the way you assess a dog: with respect.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Carl. I’m here for the corridor lights.”
Lauren looked up. “Great. Thank you. It’s that corridor—second door on the right.”
Carl nodded. “No worries. Is anyone using it right now?”
The sentence was so innocuous that it took my brain a second to recognise why it felt… notable.
He’d asked.
He hadn’t assumed the space was his because he had tools.
Lauren pointed. “We can reroute for ten minutes.”
“Perfect,” Carl said, and he smiled in a polite, non-invasive way. “I’ll be quick.”
He didn’t look at anyone’s body.
He didn’t linger.
He didn’t do the thing where men scan a room to see who might be impressed by them.
He went to the corridor and started working.
I found myself watching him, purely out of suspicion. Suspicion is my love language, unfortunately.
Carl pulled the panel off, tested something, frowned—not dramatically, just thoughtfully.
Then he called back into the room, voice normal.
“Hey—who’s been running the iron off this circuit?”
Mara didn’t look up. “We run everything off everything. Fix it.”
Carl chuckled once—one of those quick, genuine laughs—and said, “Right. Okay. I’ll reroute. Give me five.”
Mara grunted, which for Mara is basically a poem.
Ten minutes later the corridor lights were steady. No flicker. No drama.
Carl came back into the room, wiped his hands on a rag, and said to Lauren, “All done. I moved the iron load off the corridor. Should be stable now.”
Lauren nodded. “Thank you.”
Carl hesitated, then added, “If it flickers again, text the number on the work order. Don’t wait. It’s easier to fix early.”
Again: he asked, he explained, he gave a solution, and then he stopped talking.
It was… disconcerting.
As he turned to leave, his gaze met mine for half a second. Not lingering. Not hungry. Just human.
He gave a small nod.
I nodded back, because I am not feral either.
And then he said, as if he’d debated it and decided not to be weird:
“Sorry—are you Sarah?”
I froze, instantly.
Men knowing my name without me giving it to them is a known trigger. A small one. But real.
Carl clocked my stillness immediately.
He lifted his hands slightly, palms open—not theatrical, just reflexively reassuring.
“Bree mentioned you,” he said. “Only because I asked who handles the staff passes. She said you’re the one who knows where everything is.”
Ah. Bree. Of course.
I exhaled slowly, annoyed at my own body for being so quick to brace.
“What did she tell you,” I said, dry.
Carl’s mouth twitched. “That you’re terrifying,” he said, equally dry. “And that if I needed anything, I should ask politely and leave you alone.”
I snorted—an actual, involuntary sound—and felt, irritatingly, my shoulders loosen.
“Well,” I said, “Bree’s not wrong.”
Carl nodded like he’d just received a useful manual. “Good to know.”
Then he did something genuinely rare.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t use that opening to wedge himself into my day.
He simply added, “Anyway. Nice to meet you. I’ll get out of your way.”
And he left.
No lingering. No “maybe I’ll see you around.” No invitation snuck in under a joke.
Just… gone.
I stared after him for a moment, unsettled.
Bree appeared beside me like a cat, grin already loaded.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I glared. “For what.”
“For Carl,” Bree said, smug. “He’s a nice bloke. I pre-approved him.”
“You don’t get to pre-approve men,” I said.
Bree shrugged. “I do when they’re harmless.”
“Harmless men are a myth,” I muttered.
Bree leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He bakes.”
I turned slowly. “That’s not a personality.”
“It’s a domestic competency,” Bree corrected. “Which, apparently, is your love language now.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.
“Stop trying to set me up,” I said.
Bree’s grin widened. “I’m not. He asked about you. I answered. If he asks you out, that’s on him.”
“I am not a charity,” I said.
Bree held up a hand. “Agreed. Which is why he’s the only man I know who might survive your standards.”
I wanted to argue.
But the irritating part was: I didn’t feel a need to.
That evening, as I was locking up my car, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost didn’t answer. Then the text came through first.
Carl: Hi Sarah—Carl here (electrician from today). Bree gave me your number only if I promised not to be a pest. If you’d ever like a coffee, I’d enjoy that. No pressure either way.
I stared at it.
The “no pressure” could have been a tactic.
But it didn’t read like a tactic.
It read like a man who understood that pressure is exactly how you lose a woman like me.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
I could feel my own resistance rising, automatic and familiar.
A man wants something. Therefore I must prepare for him to take it.
Except… that’s not what this was.
This was an invitation with an exit built in.
Which is, frankly, a rare competence.
I found myself thinking of Bree and Lily—radiant and unashamed—and the way their wanting didn’t come with a hidden invoice.
Then I thought of Ethan, and how quickly wanting had turned into entitlement.
And then I realised: the real question wasn’t “is Carl safe?”
It was:
Am I even interested?
I didn’t know.
Which annoyed me, because I like knowing.
Still, there was another truth sitting underneath my irritation:
I wanted to see what it felt like to be around a man who didn’t make my boundary management a full-time job.
So I replied, short and clear.
Me: Coffee is fine. One hour. Public. Saturday afternoon. If you’re late, I leave.
The reply came quickly.
Carl: Perfect. Saturday. I’ll be early. And thank you.
I blinked.
Thank you?
Not for agreeing. Not for giving him a chance.
Thank you for being clear.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then put my phone away and locked my car.
As I walked toward my building, I felt… cautious.
Not hopeful. Not giddy.
But cautiously curious.
And that, for me, was almost romantic.
Notes26-01-23e¶
Scene 42¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 42 — “Carl” (Sarah POV)
The annoying thing about having a small awakening is that the world doesn’t stop to let you process it.
Bree and Lily glow their way through Wardrobe like a private weather system, and then the next minute you’re back to pinning hems and pretending you didn’t just witness a version of happiness that made your stomach do a weird, traitorous little flip.
I tried to file it under Not My Problem.
It didn’t stay filed.
For the rest of the week, I kept catching myself watching them—tiny touches, shared looks, that relaxed certainty between them. Not performative. Not defensive. Not asking permission.
Just… two women who were done negotiating whether their wanting was valid.
Every time I noticed it, I felt the same thought arrive, uninvited, like a notification you can’t swipe away:
That looks nice.
Which was a ridiculous thing to think, because I was in the middle of the Ethan aftermath and my nervous system still had that “every door might have a man behind it” edge.
So, naturally, the universe offered me a man who was… fine.
Not “fine” as in attractive. Fine as in: not a walking hazard. Not an entitled toddler in an adult body. Not a replacement-mum seeker.
Fine as in: decent.
His name was Carl.
I met him on a Thursday in a way so ordinary it almost felt staged.
The Faire had sent someone to check on the lighting in the small dressing corridor—the one that always flickered when the iron was on, the one Mara had been muttering about for days like it was a personal insult. We’d been told “an electrician” was coming. Which, in my experience, can mean anything from “competent professional” to “man who explains wires to women as if we’re newborn calves.”
Carl walked in carrying a tool bag and a clipboard and the sort of calm that doesn’t feel like a performance.
He paused at the threshold—not swaggering, not barging—and looked around like he was assessing the room the way you assess a dog: with respect.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Carl. I’m here for the corridor lights.”
Lauren looked up. “Great. Thank you. It’s that corridor—second door on the right.”
Carl nodded. “No worries. Is anyone using it right now?”
The sentence was so innocuous that it took my brain a second to recognise why it felt… notable.
He’d asked.
He hadn’t assumed the space was his because he had tools.
Lauren pointed. “We can reroute for ten minutes.”
“Perfect,” Carl said, and he smiled in a polite, non-invasive way. “I’ll be quick.”
He didn’t look at anyone’s body.
He didn’t linger.
He didn’t do the thing where men scan a room to see who might be impressed by them.
He went to the corridor and started working.
I found myself watching him, purely out of suspicion. Suspicion is my love language, unfortunately.
Carl pulled the panel off, tested something, frowned—not dramatically, just thoughtfully.
Then he called back into the room, voice normal.
“Hey—who’s been running the iron off this circuit?”
Mara didn’t look up. “We run everything off everything. Fix it.”
Carl chuckled once—one of those quick, genuine laughs—and said, “Right. Okay. I’ll reroute. Give me five.”
Mara grunted, which for Mara is basically a poem.
Ten minutes later the corridor lights were steady. No flicker. No drama.
Carl came back into the room, wiped his hands on a rag, and said to Lauren, “All done. I moved the iron load off the corridor. Should be stable now.”
Lauren nodded. “Thank you.”
Carl hesitated, then added, “If it flickers again, text the number on the work order. Don’t wait. It’s easier to fix early.”
Again: he asked, he explained, he gave a solution, and then he stopped talking.
It was… disconcerting.
As he turned to leave, his gaze met mine for half a second. Not lingering. Not hungry. Just human.
He gave a small nod.
I nodded back, because I am not feral either.
And then he said, as if he’d debated it and decided not to be weird:
“Sorry—are you Sarah?”
I froze, instantly.
Men knowing my name without me giving it to them is a known trigger. A small one. But real.
Carl clocked my stillness immediately.
He lifted his hands slightly, palms open—not theatrical, just reflexively reassuring.
“Bree mentioned you,” he said. “Only because I asked who handles the staff passes. She said you’re the one who knows where everything is.”
Ah. Bree. Of course.
I exhaled slowly, annoyed at my own body for being so quick to brace.
“What did she tell you,” I said, dry.
Carl’s mouth twitched. “That you’re terrifying,” he said, equally dry. “And that if I needed anything, I should ask politely and leave you alone.”
I snorted—an actual, involuntary sound—and felt, irritatingly, my shoulders loosen.
“Well,” I said, “Bree’s not wrong.”
Carl nodded like he’d just received a useful manual. “Good to know.”
Then he did something genuinely rare.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t use that opening to wedge himself into my day.
He simply added, “Anyway. Nice to meet you. I’ll get out of your way.”
And he left.
No lingering. No “maybe I’ll see you around.” No invitation snuck in under a joke.
Just… gone.
I stared after him for a moment, unsettled.
Bree appeared beside me like a cat, grin already loaded.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I glared. “For what.”
“For Carl,” Bree said, smug. “He’s a nice bloke. I pre-approved him.”
“You don’t get to pre-approve men,” I said.
Bree shrugged. “I do when they’re harmless.”
“Harmless men are a myth,” I muttered.
Bree leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He bakes.”
I turned slowly. “That’s not a personality.”
“It’s a domestic competency,” Bree corrected. “Which, apparently, is your love language now.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.
“Stop trying to set me up,” I said.
Bree’s grin widened. “I’m not. He asked about you. I answered. If he asks you out, that’s on him.”
“I am not a charity,” I said.
Bree held up a hand. “Agreed. Which is why he’s the only man I know who might survive your standards.”
I wanted to argue.
But the irritating part was: I didn’t feel a need to.
That evening, as I was locking up my car, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost didn’t answer. Then the text came through first.
Carl: Hi Sarah—Carl here (electrician from today). Bree gave me your number only if I promised not to be a pest. If you’d ever like a coffee, I’d enjoy that. No pressure either way.
I stared at it.
The “no pressure” could have been a tactic.
But it didn’t read like a tactic.
It read like a man who understood that pressure is exactly how you lose a woman like me.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
I could feel my own resistance rising, automatic and familiar.
A man wants something. Therefore I must prepare for him to take it.
Except… that’s not what this was.
This was an invitation with an exit built in.
Which is, frankly, a rare competence.
I found myself thinking of Bree and Lily—radiant and unashamed—and the way their wanting didn’t come with a hidden invoice.
Then I thought of Ethan, and how quickly wanting had turned into entitlement.
And then I realised: the real question wasn’t “is Carl safe?”
It was:
Am I even interested?
I didn’t know.
Which annoyed me, because I like knowing.
Still, there was another truth sitting underneath my irritation:
I wanted to see what it felt like to be around a man who didn’t make my boundary management a full-time job.
So I replied, short and clear.
Me: Coffee is fine. One hour. Public. Saturday afternoon. If you’re late, I leave.
The reply came quickly.
Carl: Perfect. Saturday. I’ll be early. And thank you.
I blinked.
Thank you?
Not for agreeing. Not for giving him a chance.
Thank you for being clear.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then put my phone away and locked my car.
As I walked toward my building, I felt… cautious.
Not hopeful. Not giddy.
But cautiously curious.
And that, for me, was almost romantic.
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 46 — “Test Fit” (Lauren POV, past tense)
By late afternoon Wardrobe smelled like steam and chalk and the faint metallic bite of scissors that had worked all day.
The Les Mis order had turned the workroom into a machine—pattern paper everywhere, fabrics in disciplined stacks, four different costumes hanging on mannequins like a small chorus of lives waiting to be worn. Every woman in the room moved with that particular tired focus that felt almost holy: bodies exhausted, minds still sharp.
Mara stood at the central rack with her arms folded, eyes flicking from hem to seam to neckline like she was reading a story. Celeste hovered beside her, pencil behind one ear, hair slightly disordered—her favourite state, Lauren had noticed, the one she wore when she was building something.
Charli was at the dress form, pinning with careful hands, lips pressed together in concentration. Her posture had that quiet certainty now—still gentle, still deferential, but no longer apologetic for existing.
And Lucy—Lucy had come out of the fitting room holding up a garment that was unmistakably for a bloke.
Not a dainty piece. Not something you could “adapt” into a feminine silhouette with a bit of ribbon and optimism. It had breadth. Weight. A coat shape with authority in it. A costume meant for a man who took up space.
Lucy grinned like she’d found a new sport.
“I’ll do it,” she announced.
The whole room paused, collectively, as if someone had said the wrong line in rehearsal.
Bree blinked. “You’ll… do what?”
Lucy lifted the coat higher, unfazed. “Test it.”
Sarah looked up from where she was unpicking a seam with surgical patience. “Lucy,” she said, voice careful, “are you feeling unwell?”
Lucy shot her a look. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Since when do you volunteer for blokes’ costumes?”
Lucy shrugged, entirely too casual. “Since I realised I’ve never actually tried one.”
Bree’s mouth curved. “Is this a gender thing, or a you like attention thing?”
Lucy’s grin widened. “Yes.”
Charli made a small sound that could have been a laugh. It was soft and brief and surprisingly unguarded.
Lauren felt her own mouth twitch.
It was such a neat little inversion that it almost felt scripted: Lucy, who had once been relieved when Charlie—back when he was still presenting as a bloke—had been willing to do the dress-testing she didn’t want to do… now eager to try the man’s costume herself, like she was reclaiming a missed chapter.
Readers would love it, Lauren thought, and immediately corrected herself: I’m not a reader. I’m in it.
Mara, who rarely indulged theatrics, simply nodded once. “Do it properly,” she said. “If we’re making men’s coats now, we make them with standards.”
Lucy made a mock salute. “Yes, Captain.”
And then, with perfect timing, Lily leaned in at Lucy’s side and murmured something low enough that only Lucy could hear it.
Lucy’s grin softened—just a fraction—into something warmer, less performative.
Bree saw it too. Her eyes flicked between them, amused and knowing.
Sarah didn’t comment, which meant she’d noticed.
Of course she had.
By the time the coat was on, Lucy was standing in front of the mirror with her shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands in the pockets like she’d been born in a barricade scene.
“Oh,” Lucy said, assessing her reflection. “That’s… horrifying.”
Bree cackled. “You look like you’re about to unionise.”
Lucy turned slightly, watching the coat move. “The fit is actually… good.”
Celeste stepped forward, eyes bright, and adjusted the lapel with two quick motions. “It’s excellent,” she said. “And you’re right—this weight will be unbearable in Queensland unless we line it differently.”
Charli pointed with her pin. “If we shift the seam here, it’ll sit cleaner on the shoulder.”
Lucy looked at Charli, impressed. “See? This is why I keep you.”
Charli blinked, startled, then smiled—tiny, involuntary.
Sarah’s eyes flicked to Charli for half a second and softened.
Lauren saw it.
Then saw herself seeing it.
And felt, strangely, a little ache—gentle and confusing—as if the room was full of truths moving quietly through the air and Lauren’s body was beginning to recognise them before her mind could.
When the day finally loosened its grip—when the last seams were pinned, the notes written, the fabric bundled for tomorrow—Lauren gathered her things with the careful efficiency of a woman who did not want to be the last one left in a room.
Sarah was already pulling her hair free from its pin, shaking it out once like she was shedding the workday from her scalp.
“You ready?” Sarah asked, voice brisk.
Lauren nodded. “Yep.”
She said it too quickly.
Sarah’s eyes flicked over her face, and Lauren felt the familiar discomfort of being seen too clearly.
They walked out together, the bell chiming behind them, the evening air warm and soft as a hand on the back.
The parking area was half-lit. The sky held that late glow Queensland did so well—blue fading into gold, the heat easing but not disappearing.
Lauren’s i20 waited a few rows away, modest and faithful, like it had never once judged her for staying too long.
Sarah walked beside her, not close enough to touch. Not far enough to feel like distance.
Lauren found herself paying attention to the small things: the swing of Sarah’s arm, the way her shoulders rolled when she was tired, the faint mark the elastic had left at her wrist from a hair tie.
Hungry for touch, Lauren thought suddenly, and the phrase startled her with its bluntness.
It wasn’t lust, exactly. It was… longing for contact that felt safe. Contact that didn’t come with obligation. A hand on her back, a brief press of fingers to her elbow, a shoulder leaned into her own.
She wanted it so badly she didn’t dare ask.
Because asking felt like crossing an invisible line.
And because—Lauren reminded herself firmly—Sarah dated men.
Sarah had always dated men.
Sarah’s lovers were men.
Lauren’s heart gave a small, idiotic twist at that.
They reached the car. Lauren unlocked it. The interior was warm and smelled faintly of old vanilla and the sun-baked plastic of a decade-old dashboard.
Sarah slid into the passenger seat with a sigh that sounded like someone putting down armour.
Lauren started the engine. The air conditioner coughed, then did its earnest best.
They pulled out of the parking area and merged into the gentle evening traffic.
For a few minutes they spoke about work—fabric, deadlines, Mara’s standards, Celeste’s relentless optimism.
Sarah said, “We’ll do it,” in that decisive tone she used when she refused to entertain doubt.
Lauren nodded and found herself smiling despite herself.
Then, as the road opened slightly and the car settled into a steady speed, Sarah’s voice shifted.
“Tell me about high school,” she said.
Lauren blinked. “What?”
Sarah glanced out the window as if it were casual. “You keep referencing it like it’s a scar you still poke. So. Tell me.”
Lauren’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She felt her heartbeat kick up in a way that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I—” she began, and stopped.
Sarah looked at her now, not quite smiling. “Lauren. I’m not asking for a memoir. I’m asking for context.”
Lauren let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re very… direct.”
“Mm,” Sarah said. “It saves time.”
Lauren hesitated, then started with the safe bits—boys who were unkind, the way girls learned early to perform friendliness, the quiet dread of being judged for everything. She spoke in fragments, steering the story around the worst parts without naming them.
Sarah listened without interrupting.
That, Lauren realised, was a kind of intimacy on its own.
At a red light, Sarah said, “And did you date?”
Lauren’s mouth went dry.
“Yes,” Lauren said carefully. “A bit. Nothing… significant until Roger.”
Sarah made a small sound—half disapproval, half acknowledgment. “So you went from nothing to that.”
Lauren’s fingers tightened. “I thought it was stability.”
Sarah didn’t argue.
She just said, “I know.”
The light turned green. Lauren drove on.
The conversation should have stayed on that track. It should have remained safe.
Instead, a thought rose in Lauren’s mind like a bubble she couldn’t push back down:
Tell her.
She felt it as a physical urge—words pressing behind her teeth, a truth that wanted air.
But telling Sarah felt dangerous.
Not because the truth was shameful.
Because Sarah mattered.
Lauren glanced at Sarah’s profile—strong nose, steady jaw, the faint tiredness at the corner of her eyes. She looked, for the first time, like someone Lauren could imagine in her future.
The thought made Lauren’s chest tighten.
Sarah dated men, Lauren reminded herself again, as if repetition could make longing behave.
So Lauren pulled back, mid-thought.
She changed lanes a little too sharply.
Sarah noticed. Of course she did.
“What were you about to say?” Sarah asked.
“Nothing,” Lauren said too quickly.
Sarah turned her head to look at her properly.
“No,” Sarah said, and there was no softness in it. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Lauren felt heat creep up her neck.
“It’s… silly,” she said.
Sarah’s mouth curved slightly. “Try me.”
Lauren gripped the steering wheel. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
“I had a crush,” she said.
Sarah waited.
Lauren swallowed. “On a girl.”
There. Said.
The cabin went very still.
Lauren’s heart hammered. She kept her eyes on the road because looking at Sarah felt like stepping off a cliff.
Sarah’s voice, when it came, was calm.
“And?” she asked.
Lauren blinked, startled.
“And… what?”
“And what happened?” Sarah said, as if Lauren had confessed to liking chocolate.
Lauren let out a shaky breath.
“Nothing,” she admitted. “I never told her. I didn’t— I didn’t even really tell myself. I just…” Her voice caught. “I just kept it locked away.”
Sarah was quiet for a beat.
Then she said, very matter-of-fact, “That’s not silly.”
Lauren dared a glance.
Sarah was watching her, and there was something in her expression that made Lauren’s throat tighten again—not pity, not judgement.
Understanding.
And something else, quieter.
As if Sarah was recalculating a future she’d assumed had a certain shape.
Lauren’s pulse skittered.
“But you—” Lauren began, then stopped, mortified.
Sarah’s eyebrow lifted. “I what?”
Lauren’s voice came out in a rush, embarrassed by its own honesty.
“But you date guys,” she said.
Sarah stared at her for a second, then let out a small, incredulous laugh.
“Oh,” Sarah said, and the word was amused and thoughtful at once. “Do I?”
Lauren’s hands went cold on the wheel.
Sarah leaned back in the seat and looked out the window again, but her voice stayed low, controlled.
“I’ve dated men,” Sarah said. “Yes.”
Lauren’s throat tightened. “So—”
“So that means what, exactly?” Sarah asked, and now there was a tiny edge of challenge in it. “That I’m only allowed one kind of happiness because that’s what I’ve done so far?”
Lauren couldn’t answer.
She didn’t know the rules.
Sarah’s mouth curved—briefly, and not unkindly.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Sarah said.
Lauren swallowed. “I wasn’t— I mean— I don’t want to jeopardise—”
“I know,” Sarah cut in. Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “You’re terrified of ruining something good.”
Lauren’s eyes stung.
Sarah’s hand moved then—small, deliberate—across the narrow space between them.
She didn’t grab Lauren’s hand.
She didn’t force anything.
She simply rested her fingers lightly on Lauren’s forearm for one brief second—warmth through fabric, a touch that said: You are safe to be true here.
Then she withdrew, as if showing Lauren that touch could be offered without demand.
Lauren’s breath caught.
The red light up ahead glowed, and Lauren slowed the car, heart still pounding, mind full of a new kind of possibility that felt too bright to stare at directly.
Sarah spoke again, voice dry, as if she needed humour to keep the moment from becoming too naked.
“And for the record,” she said, “I’m not exactly the poster girl for making good choices with men.”
Lauren’s laugh escaped—small, startled.
Sarah’s smile widened, and this time it reached her eyes.
“See?” Sarah said, satisfaction threading through the words. “Nothing to worry about.”
Lauren stopped at the light.
The engine idled.
The evening air hummed outside.
And inside the car Lauren sat with her hands on the wheel and a strange, tender puzzlement in her chest—like she had just been handed a truth and wasn’t sure yet how to hold it without dropping it.
She didn’t say anything more.
Neither did Sarah.
But Sarah’s smile lingered a little too long for it to be nothing.
And Lauren realised, as the light turned green and she drove them home, that the future—quietly, without fanfare—was beginning to look… woman-shaped.
End Scene 46.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
xx¶
[26-02-06]
Scene 46 — “Test Fit” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
By late afternoon Wardrobe smelled like steam and chalk and the faint metallic bite of scissors that had worked all day.
The Les Mis order had turned the workroom into a machine—pattern paper everywhere, fabrics in disciplined stacks, four different costumes hanging on mannequins like a small chorus of lives waiting to be worn. Every woman in the room moved with that particular tired focus that felt almost holy: bodies exhausted, minds still sharp.
Mara stood at the central rack with her arms folded, eyes flicking from hem to seam to neckline like she was reading a story. Celeste hovered beside her, pencil behind one ear, hair slightly disordered—her favourite state, I’d noticed, the one she wore when she was building something.
Charli was at the dress form, pinning with careful hands, lips pressed together in concentration. Her posture had that quiet certainty now—still gentle, still deferential, but no longer apologetic for existing.
And Lucy—
Lucy came out of the fitting room holding up a garment that was unmistakably for a bloke.
Not a dainty piece. Not something you could “adapt” into a feminine silhouette with a bit of ribbon and optimism. It had breadth. Weight. A coat shape with authority in it. A costume meant for a man who took up space.
Lucy grinned like she’d found a new sport.
“I’ll do it,” she announced.
The whole room paused, collectively, as if someone had said the wrong line in rehearsal.
Bree blinked. “You’ll… do what?”
Lucy lifted the coat higher, unfazed. “Test it.”
Sarah looked up from where she was unpicking a seam with surgical patience. “Lucy,” she said, voice careful, “are you feeling unwell?”
Lucy shot her a look. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Since when do you volunteer for blokes’ costumes?”
Lucy shrugged, entirely too casual. “Since I realised I’ve never actually tried one.”
Bree’s mouth curved. “Is this a gender thing, or a you like attention thing?”
Lucy’s grin widened. “Yes.”
Charli made a small sound that could have been a laugh. It was soft and brief and surprisingly unguarded.
My own mouth twitched before I could stop it.
It was such a neat little inversion that it almost felt scripted: Lucy—who had once been relieved when Charlie, back when he was still presenting as a boy, had been willing to do the dress-testing she didn’t want to do—now eager to try the man’s costume herself, like she was reclaiming a missed chapter.
Readers would love it, I thought automatically, and then caught myself.
I wasn’t a reader.
I was in it.
Mara, who rarely indulged theatrics, simply nodded once. “Do it properly,” she said. “If we’re making men’s coats now, we make them with standards.”
Lucy made a mock salute. “Yes, Captain.”
And then, with perfect timing, Lily leaned in at Lucy’s side and murmured something low enough that only Lucy could hear it.
Lucy’s grin softened—just a fraction—into something warmer, less performative.
Bree saw it too. Her eyes flicked between them, amused and knowing.
Sarah didn’t comment, which meant she’d noticed.
Of course she had.
By the time the coat was on, Lucy was standing in front of the mirror with her shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands in the pockets like she’d been born in a barricade scene.
“Oh,” Lucy said, assessing her reflection. “That’s… horrifying.”
Bree cackled. “You look like you’re about to unionise.”
Lucy turned slightly, watching the coat move. “The fit is actually… good.”
Celeste stepped forward, eyes bright, and adjusted the lapel with two quick motions. “It’s excellent,” she said. “And you’re right—this weight will be unbearable in Queensland unless we line it differently.”
Charli pointed with her pin. “If we shift the seam here, it’ll sit cleaner on the shoulder.”
Lucy looked at Charli, impressed. “See? This is why I keep you.”
Charli blinked, startled, then smiled—tiny, involuntary.
Sarah’s eyes flicked to Charli for half a second and softened.
I saw it.
Then saw myself seeing it.
And felt, strangely, a small ache—gentle and confusing—as if the room was full of truths moving quietly through the air and my body was beginning to recognise them before my mind could.
When the day finally loosened its grip—when the last seams were pinned, the notes written, the fabric bundled for tomorrow—I gathered my things with the careful efficiency of a woman who did not want to be the last one left in a room.
Sarah was already pulling her hair free from its pin, shaking it out once like she was shedding the workday from her scalp.
“You ready?” she asked, voice brisk.
I nodded. “Yep.”
I said it too quickly.
Her eyes flicked over my face, and I felt the familiar discomfort of being seen too clearly.
We walked out together, the bell chiming behind us, the evening air warm and soft as a hand on the back.
The parking area was half-lit. The sky held that late glow Queensland did so well—blue fading into gold, the heat easing but not disappearing.
My i20 waited a few rows away, modest and faithful, like it had never once judged me for staying too long.
Sarah walked beside me, not close enough to touch. Not far enough to feel like distance.
I found myself paying attention to the small things: the swing of her arm, the way her shoulders rolled when she was tired, the faint mark the elastic had left at her wrist from a hair tie.
Hungry for touch, I thought suddenly, and the phrase startled me with its bluntness.
It wasn’t lust, exactly. It was… longing for contact that felt safe. Contact that didn’t come with obligation. A hand on my back, a brief press of fingers to my elbow, a shoulder leaned into my own.
I wanted it so badly I didn’t dare ask.
Because asking felt like crossing an invisible line.
And because—my mind reminded me firmly—Sarah dated men.
Sarah had always dated men.
Sarah’s lovers were men.
My heart gave a small, idiotic twist at that.
We reached the car. I unlocked it. The interior was warm and smelled faintly of old vanilla and sun-baked plastic from a decade-old dashboard.
Sarah slid into the passenger seat with a sigh that sounded like someone putting down armour.
I started the engine. The air conditioner coughed, then did its earnest best.
We pulled out and merged into the gentle evening traffic.
For a few minutes we spoke about work—fabric, deadlines, Mara’s standards, Celeste’s relentless optimism. Sarah said, “We’ll do it,” in that decisive tone she used when she refused to entertain doubt, and I nodded, finding myself smiling despite myself.
Then, as the road opened slightly and the car settled into a steady speed, Sarah’s voice shifted.
“Tell me about high school,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
She glanced out the window as if it were casual. “You keep referencing it like it’s a scar you still poke. So. Tell me.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. My heartbeat kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I—” I began, then stopped.
Sarah looked at me now, not quite smiling. “Lauren. I’m not asking for a memoir. I’m asking for context.”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re very… direct.”
“Mm,” she said. “It saves time.”
I hesitated, then started with the safe bits—boys who were unkind, the way girls learned early to perform friendliness, the quiet dread of being judged for everything. I spoke in fragments, steering the story around the worst parts without naming them.
Sarah listened without interrupting.
That, I realised, was a kind of intimacy on its own.
At a red light, Sarah said, “And did you date?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “A bit. Nothing… significant until Roger.”
Sarah made a small sound—half disapproval, half acknowledgment. “So you went from nothing to that.”
My fingers tightened. “I thought it was stability.”
She didn’t argue.
She just said, “I know.”
The light turned green. I drove on.
The conversation should have stayed on that track. It should have remained safe.
Instead, a thought rose in my mind like a bubble I couldn’t push back down:
Tell her.
I felt it as a physical urge—words pressing behind my teeth, a truth that wanted air.
But telling Sarah felt dangerous.
Not because the truth was shameful.
Because Sarah mattered.
I glanced at her profile—strong nose, steady jaw, the faint tiredness at the corner of her eyes. She looked, for the first time, like someone I could imagine in my future.
The thought tightened my chest.
Sarah dates men, I reminded myself again, as if repetition could make longing behave.
So I pulled back, mid-thought.
I changed lanes a little too sharply.
Sarah noticed. Of course she did.
“What were you about to say?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
Sarah turned her head to look at me properly.
“No,” she said, and there was no softness in it. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“It’s… silly,” I said.
Her mouth curved slightly. “Try me.”
I gripped the steering wheel. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
“I had a crush,” I said.
She waited.
I swallowed. “On a girl.”
There. Said.
The cabin went very still.
My heart hammered. I kept my eyes on the road because looking at Sarah felt like stepping off a cliff.
Sarah’s voice, when it came, was calm.
“And?” she asked.
I blinked, startled.
“And… what?”
“And what happened?” she said, as if I’d confessed to liking chocolate.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Nothing,” I admitted. “I never told her. I didn’t— I didn’t even really tell myself. I just…” My voice caught. “I kept it locked away.”
Sarah was quiet for a beat.
Then she said, very matter-of-fact, “That’s not silly.”
I dared a glance.
She was watching me, and there was something in her expression that tightened my throat—not pity, not judgement.
Understanding.
And something else, quieter.
As if she was recalculating a future she’d assumed had a certain shape.
My pulse skittered.
“But you—” I began, then stopped, mortified.
Her eyebrow lifted. “I what?”
My voice rushed out, embarrassed by its own honesty.
“But you date guys,” I said.
Sarah stared at me for a second, then let out a small, incredulous laugh.
“Oh,” she said, amused and thoughtful at once. “Do I?”
My hands went cold on the wheel.
She leaned back in the seat and looked out the window again, but her voice stayed low, controlled.
“I’ve dated men,” she said. “Yes.”
My throat tightened. “So—”
“So that means what, exactly?” she asked, and now there was a tiny edge of challenge in it. “That I’m only allowed one kind of happiness because that’s what I’ve done so far?”
I couldn’t answer.
I didn’t know the rules.
Her mouth curved—briefly, and not unkindly.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” she said.
I swallowed. “I wasn’t— I mean— I don’t want to jeopardise—”
“I know,” she cut in. Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “You’re terrified of ruining something good.”
My eyes stung.
Sarah’s hand moved then—small, deliberate—across the narrow space between us.
She didn’t grab my hand.
She didn’t force anything.
She simply rested her fingers lightly on my forearm for one brief second—warmth through fabric, a touch that said: You are safe to be true here.
Then she withdrew, as if showing me that touch could be offered without demand.
My breath caught.
The red light ahead glowed. I slowed the car, heart still pounding, mind full of a new kind of possibility that felt too bright to stare at directly.
Sarah spoke again, voice dry, like she needed humour to keep the moment from becoming too naked.
“And for the record,” she said, “I’m not exactly the poster girl for making good choices with men.”
A laugh escaped me—small, startled.
Her smile widened, and this time it reached her eyes.
“See?” she said, satisfaction threading through the words. “Nothing to worry about.”
I stopped at the light.
The engine idled.
The evening air hummed outside.
And inside the car I sat with my hands on the wheel and a strange, tender puzzlement in my chest—like I’d just been handed a truth and wasn’t sure yet how to hold it without dropping it.
I didn’t say anything more.
Neither did Sarah.
But Sarah’s smile lingered a little too long for it to be nothing.
And I realised, as the light turned green and I drove us home, that the future—quietly, without fanfare—was beginning to look… woman-shaped.
End Scene 46.
Notes26-02-09rv1¶
1st Revision¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
[26-02-09]
Scene 46 — “Test Fit” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
By late afternoon Wardrobe smelled like steam and chalk and the faint metallic bite of scissors that had worked all day. The Les Mis order had turned the workroom into a machine—pattern paper everywhere, fabrics in disciplined stacks, four different costumes hanging on mannequins like a small family of lives waiting to be worn. Every woman in the room moved with that particular tired focus that felt almost spiritual: bodies exhausted, minds still sharp.
Mara stood at the central rack with her arms folded, eyes flicking from hem to seam to neckline like she was reading a story. Celeste hovered beside her, pencil behind one ear, hair slightly disheveled—her favourite state, I’d noticed, the one she wore when she was building something.
Charli was at the dress form, pinning with careful hands, lips pressed together in concentration.
And Lucy—Lucy came out of the fitting room, grinning ear to ear, holding a garment that was unmistakably for a bloke. Not a dainty piece, either: not something you could “adapt” into a feminine silhouette with a bit of ribbon and optimism. This was stalwart. It had breadth. Weight—a coat shape with authority. A costume meant to take up space.
“I’ll test it,” she announced.
The whole room paused, collectively, as if someone had said the wrong line in rehearsal. Bree blinked.
“You’ll… do what?”
Lucy lifted the coat high, unfazed.
“Test it!”
Sarah looked up from where she was unpicking a seam with surgical patience. “Lucy,” she said, voice careful, “are you feeling unwell?”
Lucy shot her a look. “No. Why do you ask?”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed with interest.“Since when do you volunteer for testing… anything?”
Lucy shrugged, entirely too casual.
“Thought it’d be fun to try this one.”
Bree’s mouth curved. “So, is this a gender thing, or a you like attention thing?”
Lucy’s grin widened. “Yes.”
Charli made a small sound that could have been a laugh. It was soft and brief and surprisingly unguarded. My own mouth twitched before I could stop it. It was such a neat little flipping of tables that it almost felt scripted: Lucy—who had once been relieved when Charlie, back when he was still presenting as a boy, had been willing to do the dress-testing she didn’t want to do—now eager to try the man’s costume herself, like she was reclaiming a missed chapter.
Mara, who never indulged theatrics, simply shrugged.
“Fine. Then do it properly,” she said. “If we’re making men’s coats now, we make them with standards.”
Lucy made a mock salute. “Yes, Captain.”
And then, with perfect timing, Lily leaned in at Lucy’s side and murmured, “If Bree puts that on, I’m not responsible for myself.” Lucy’s grin softened—just a fraction—into something warmer. Her eyes flicked to Bree. Lily’s gaze followed for half a second and then darted away again, as if she hadn’t meant to give herself up.
Bree saw it too. Her eyes flicked between them, amused and knowing.
Sarah didn’t comment, which meant she’d noticed.
Of course she had.
By the time the coat was on, Lucy was standing in front of the mirror with her shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands in the pockets like she’d been born in a barricade scene.
“Oh my,” Lucy said, assessing her reflection. “That’s… empowering!”
Bree cackled. “You look like you’re about to unionise.”
Lucy turned slightly, watching the coat move.“What do you think? I think I could pull this off. The fit is actually… good.” She shifted her shoulders. “It’s just a bit—warm.”
Celeste stepped forward and adjusted the lapel with two quick motions. “It’s solid fit,” she said. “But you’re right—wearing this would be unbearable in Queensland. We’ll need to line it differently.”
Charli pointed with her pin. “If we shift the seam here, it’ll sit cleaner on the shoulder.”
Lucy grinned at Charli, impressed. “See? This is why I keep you.”
Charli smiled quickly. Sarah’s eyes flicked to me for half a second and softened.
I caught that look.
And felt a soft throb—gentle and oddly, annoyingly arousing.
When the day finally loosened its grip—when the last seams were pinned, the notes written, the fabric bundled for tomorrow—I gathered my things with the efficiency of a woman who did not want to be the last one to leave the room. Sarah was already pulling her hair free from its pin, shaking her tresses out like she was shedding the workday from her scalp.
“You ready?” she asked, voice brisk.
“Yep.”
I said it too quickly.
Her eyes flicked over my face, and I felt the familiar discomfort of being seen too clearly. We walked out together, the bell chiming behind us, the evening air warm and soft as a hand on the back.The parking area was half-lit. The sky held that late glow Victoria did so well—blue fading into gold, the heat easing but not disappearing. My i20 waited under the towering gum tree near the carpark exit, modest and faithful, like it would never judge me for staying too long.
Sarah walked beside me. I found myself paying attention to the small things: the swing of her arm, the way her shoulders rolled when she was tired, the faint mark the elastic had left at her wrist from a hair tie.
Hungry for touch, I thought suddenly, and the phrase startled me with its bluntness.
It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It was… a deep longing for human contact, the sort that felt safe. Contact that didn’t come with an invoice. A hand on my back, a brief press of fingers to my elbow, a shoulder leaned into my own.
I wanted it so badly I could feel it sitting on my face. That worried me: revealing that want felt like crossing a line, because—my mind reminded me firmly—Sarah dated men.
Sarah had always dated men.
Sarah’s lovers were men.
My heart gave a small, idiotic twist at that.
We reached the car. I unlocked it. Sarah slid into the passenger seat with a sigh that sounded like someone putting down armour. I started the engine. The air conditioner coughed, then did its earnest best.
We pulled out and merged into the evening traffic.
For a few minutes we spoke about work—fabric, deadlines, Mara’s standards, Celeste’s relentless optimism. Sarah said, “We’ll do it,” in that decisive tone she used when she refused to entertain doubt, and I nodded, finding myself smiling despite myself.Then, as the road opened slightly and the car settled into a steady speed, Sarah’s tone suddenly marked a change.
“Tell me about high school.”
I started. “What?”
She glanced out the window, casual. “You keep referencing it like it’s a scab you still pick. So. Tell me.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. My heartbeat kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I—” I began, then stopped.
Sarah looked at me now, not quite smiling. “Lauren. I’m not asking for a memoir. Or a confession.”
I gave her a quick side-long glance and puffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.“You’re very… direct.”
“Mm.” Her eyebrows twitched up, once. “It saves time.”
I hesitated, then started with the safe bits—boys who were unkind, the way girls learned early to perform friendliness, the quiet dread of being judged for everything. I spoke in fragments, steering the story around the worst parts without naming them.
Sarah listened without interrupting. That, I realised, was a kind of intimacy on its own.
At a red light, Sarah said, “Did you date?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “A bit. Nothing… significant until Roger.”
Sarah made a small sound—half disapproval, half acknowledgment.“So you went from nothing to that.”
My fingers tightened. “I thought it was stability.”
The light turned green. I drove on.
The conversation should have stayed on that track. It should have remained safe. Instead, a whispered thought grew louder and louder in my mind until I was certain Sarah could hear it:
Tell her.
I felt it as a physical urge—words pressing behind my teeth, a truth that wanted air.
But telling Sarah felt… dangerous.
Because Sarah mattered. Our friendship mattered.
I glanced at her profile—strong nose, steady jaw, the faint tiredness at the corner of her eyes. She so looked like someone I could imagine in my future.
The thought tightened my chest.
Sarah dates men, I reminded myself again, as if repetition could make longing behave. So I bit it down. And changed lanes a little too sharply.Sarah noticed. Of course she did.
“What were you about to say?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
Sarah turned her head to look at me properly.
“No,” she said slowly, and there was no softness in it. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“Look, it’s… silly!”
Her mouth curved slightly. “Try me.”
I gripped the steering wheel. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
“I had this… crush.”
Silence. She waited. I swallowed.
“On… a girl.”
There. Said. The engine carried on doing what engines do. The aircon struggled, so I turned it off. My heart was hammering in my ears. I fixed my eyes on the road—looking at Sarah would have felt like stepping off a cliff.
Sarah’s voice, when it came, was calm.
“And?”
I blinked, startled.
“And… and what?”
“And what happened?” she said, as if I’d confessed to liking chocolate.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Nothing happened. I um—never told her,” I admitted, my mouth dry. “ Look, I didn’t even really tell myself. I just…” My voice caught. “I locked it away.”
Sarah was quiet for a beat.
Finally she spoke, very matter-of-fact: “Well, that’s a lot of things, but silly isn’t one of them.”
I dared a glance. She was watching me, and there was something in her expression that took my breath away.
Warmth.
My pulse skittered.
“Sarah…” I began, then stopped. My hands tightened on the wheel. “Please don’t—”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t mess with me,” I said, and hated how small my voice went. I swallowed and tried again. “I’m not… I’m not built for guessing games right now.”
Her expression didn’t harden. If anything, it softened.
“I’m not messing with you, Lauren,” she said. Calm. Certain. Like a hand on the small of your back in a crowd. I let out a breath that shook.
“Then… what is this?” I asked, and my attempt at lightness came out thin. “Is this you being kind because you know I’m hurting?”
Sarah’s mouth curved—warm, almost rueful.
“Yes, it’s me being kind,” she said, “because you’re hurting.”
The turn signal ticked in the quiet.
“And it’s me,” she added, quieter, then paused. “Liking… you.”
I blinked, stunned by the simplicity of it. She didn’t reach for my hand. She didn’t make it a scene. She just looked at me like she’d already decided I was worth gentleness.
“You don’t have to do anything with that,” she said.
A beat.“I just—” she swallowed. “I didn’t want you thinking you were alone in feeling this way.”
Joy—indescribable, volcanic, overwheming joy—hit first. Trust came limping after it, wanting certainty.
“When you say… not alone,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “do you mean—” I stopped. Tried again. “Do you mean this is real tomorrow as well?”
“Today and tomorrow,” she said softly. A beat. “And long after you stop asking.” I glanced over at her: her eyes were shining. “And we go at your speed, Lauren.”
Her hand moved then—small, deliberate—across the narrow space between us. Her fingers rested lightly on my forearm. Warmth through fabric.A touch that said I’m here.
Then she withdrew, like she didn’t want to give more than I could hold.
My breath caught.
The red light ahead glowed. I slowed the car, heart still pounding, mind full of a new kind of possibility that felt too bright to stare at directly.
I didn’t say anything more.
Neither did Sarah.
But her smile lingered with a kind of satisfaction, as if she already knew she had me.
And I realised, as the light turned green and I drove us home, that my future included Sarah.
End Scene 46.
Published¶
[260213]¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
💞 Test Fit 💞
[ Lauren ]
By late afternoon Wardrobe smelled like steam and chalk and the faint metallic bite of scissors that had worked all day. The Les Mis order had turned the workroom into a machine—pattern paper everywhere, fabrics in disciplined stacks, four different costumes hanging on mannequins like a small family of lives waiting to be worn. Every woman in the room moved with that particular tired focus that felt almost spiritual: bodies exhausted, minds still sharp.
Mara stood at the central rack with her arms folded, eyes flicking from hem to seam to neckline like she was reading a story. Celeste hovered beside her, pencil behind one ear, hair slightly disheveled—her favourite state, I’d noticed, the one she wore when she was building something.
Charli was at the dress form, pinning with careful hands, lips pressed together in concentration.
And Lucy—Lucy came out of the fitting room, grinning ear to ear, holding a garment that was unmistakably for a bloke. Not a dainty piece, either: not something you could “adapt” into a feminine silhouette with a bit of ribbon and optimism. This was stalwart. It had breadth, weight—a coat shape with authority. A costume meant to take up space.
“I’ll test it,” she announced.
The whole room paused, collectively, as if someone had said the wrong line in rehearsal. Bree blinked.
“You’ll… do what?”
Lucy lifted the coat high, unfazed.
“Test it!”
Sarah looked up from where she was unpicking a seam with surgical patience.
“Lucy,” she said, voice careful, “are you feeling unwell?”
Lucy shot her a look. “No. Why do you ask?”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed with interest.“Well, since when do you volunteer for testing… anything?”
Lucy shrugged, entirely too casual.
“Thought it’d be fun to try this one.”
Bree’s mouth curved. “So, is this a gender thing, or a you like attention thing?”
Lucy’s grin widened. “Yes.”
Charli made a small sound that could have been a laugh. It was soft and brief and surprisingly unguarded. My own mouth twitched before I could stop it. It was such a neat little flipping of tables that it almost felt scripted: Lucy—who had once been relieved when Charlie, back when he was still Charlie, had been willing to do the dress-testing she didn’t want to do—now eager to try the man’s costume herself, like she was reclaiming a missed chapter.
Mara, who never indulged theatrics, simply shrugged.
“Fine. Then do it properly,” she said. “If we’re making men’s coats, we make them with standards.”
Lucy made a mock salute. “Yes, Captain.”
And then, with perfect timing, Lily leaned in at Lucy’s side and murmured, “If Bree puts that on, I’m not responsible for myself.” Lucy’s grin softened—just a fraction—into something warmer. Her eyes flicked to Bree. Lily’s gaze followed for half a second and then darted away again, as if she hadn’t meant to give herself up.
Bree saw it too. Her eyes flicked between them, amused and knowing.
Sarah didn’t comment, which meant she’d noticed.
Of course she had.
By the time the coat was on, Lucy was standing in front of the mirror with her shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands in the pockets like she’d been born in a barricade scene.
“Oh my,” she said, preening, assessing her reflection. “That’s… empowering!”
Bree cackled. “You look like you’re about to unionise.”
Lucy turned slightly, watching the coat move.“What do you think? I think I could pull this off. The fit is actually… good.” She shifted her shoulders. “It’s just a bit—warm.”
Celeste stepped forward and adjusted the lapel with two quick motions.
“It’s solid fit,” she said. “But you’re right—wearing this would be unbearable in Queensland. We’ll need to line it differently.”
Charli pointed with her pin. “If we shift the seam here, it’ll sit cleaner on the shoulder.”
Lucy grinned at Charli, impressed. “See? This is why I keep you.”
Charli smiled quickly. Sarah’s eyes flicked to me for half a second and softened.
I caught that look.
I felt something loosen in my chest—warm, and a little frightening in how much I wanted that.
When the day finally loosened its grip—when the last seams were pinned, the notes written, the fabric bundled for tomorrow—I gathered my things with the efficiency of a woman who did not want to be the last one to leave the room. Sarah was already pulling her hair free from its pin, shaking her tresses out like she was shedding the workday from her scalp.
“You ready?” she asked, voice brisk.
“Yep.”
I said it too quickly.
Her eyes flicked over my face, and I felt the familiar discomfort of being seen too clearly. We walked out together, the bell chiming behind us, the evening air warm and soft as a hand on the back.The parking area was half-lit. The sky held that late glow Victoria did so well—blue fading into gold, the heat easing but not disappearing. My i20 waited under the towering gum tree near the carpark exit, modest and faithful, like it would never judge me for staying too long.
Sarah walked beside me. I found myself paying attention to the small things: the swing of her arm, the way her shoulders rolled when she was tired, the faint mark the elastic had left at her wrist from a hair tie.
Hungry for touch, I thought suddenly, and the phrase startled me with its bluntness.
It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It was… a deep longing for human contact, the sort that felt safe. Contact that didn’t come with an invoice. A hand on my back, a brief press of fingers to my elbow, a shoulder leaned into my own.
I wanted it so badly I could feel it sitting on my face. Which worried me: revealing that want felt like crossing a line.
Sarah dated men.
Sarah’s lovers were men.
Sarah had always dated men.
My heart gave a small, idiotic twist.
We reached the car. I unlocked it. Sarah slid into the passenger seat with a sigh that sounded like someone putting down armour. I started the engine. The air conditioner coughed, then did its earnest best.
We pulled out and merged into the evening traffic.
For a few minutes we spoke about work—fabric, deadlines, Mara’s standards, Celeste’s relentless optimism. Sarah said, “We’ll do it,” in that decisive tone she used when she refused to entertain doubt, and I nodded, finding myself smiling despite myself.Then, as the road opened slightly and the car settled into a steady speed, Sarah’s tone suddenly changed.
“Tell me about high school.”
I started. “What?”
She glanced out the window, casual. “You keep referencing it like it’s a scab you still pick. So. Tell me.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. My heartbeat kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I—” I began, then stopped.
Sarah looked over at me, not quite smiling.
“Lauren. I’m not asking for a memoir. Or a confession.”
I gave her a quick side-long glance and puffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.“You’re very… direct.”
“Mm.” Her eyebrows twitched up, once. “It saves time.”
I hesitated, then started with the safe bits—boys who were unkind, the way girls learned early to perform friendliness, the quiet dread of being judged for everything. I spoke in fragments, steering the story around the worst parts without naming them.
Sarah listened without interrupting. That, I realised, was a kind of intimacy on its own.
At a red light, Sarah said, “Did you date?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “A bit. Nothing… significant until Roger.”
Sarah made a small sound—half disapproval, half acknowledgment.“So you went from nothing to that.”
My fingers tightened. “I thought it was stability.”
The light turned green. I drove on.
The conversation should have stayed on that track. It should have remained safe. Instead, a whispered thought grew louder and louder in my mind until I was certain Sarah could hear it:
Tell her.
I felt it as a physical urge—words pressing behind my teeth, a truth that wanted air.
But telling Sarah felt… dangerous.
Because Sarah mattered. Our friendship mattered.
I glanced at her profile—strong nose, steady jaw, the faint tiredness at the corner of her eyes. She so looked like someone I could imagine in my future.
The thought made it hard to swallow.
Sarah dates men, I reminded myself again, as if repetition could make longing behave. So I bit it down. And changed lanes a little too sharply.Sarah noticed. Of course she did.
“What were you about to say?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
Sarah turned her head to look at me properly.
“No,” she said slowly, and there was no softness in it. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“Look, it’s… silly!”
Her mouth curved slightly. “Try me.”
I gripped the steering wheel. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
“I had this… crush.”
Silence. She waited. I swallowed.
“On… a girl.”
There. Said. The engine carried on doing what engines do. The aircon struggled, so I turned it off. My heart was hammering in my ears. I fixed my eyes on the road—looking at Sarah would have felt like stepping off a cliff.
Sarah’s voice, when it came, was calm.
“And?”
I blinked, startled.
“And? What do you mean: and?”
“And what happened?” she said, as if I’d confessed to liking chocolate.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Nothing happened. I um—never told her,” I admitted, my mouth dry. “ Look, I didn’t even really tell myself. I just…” My voice caught. “I locked it away.”
Sarah was quiet for a beat.
Finally she spoke, very matter-of-fact: “Well, that’s a lot of things, but silly isn’t one of them.”
I dared a glance. She was watching me, and there was something in her expression that took my breath away.
Warmth.
My pulse skittered.
“Sarah…” I began, then stopped. My hands tightened on the wheel. “Please don’t—”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t mess with me,” I said, and hated how small my voice went. I swallowed and tried again. “I’m not… I’m not up for guessing games right now.”
Her expression didn’t harden. If anything, it softened.
“I’m not messing with you, Lauren,” she said. Calm. Certain. Like a hand on the small of your back in a crowd. I let out a breath that shook.
“Then… what is this?” I asked, and my attempt at lightness came out thin. “Is this you being kind because you know I’m hurting?”
Sarah’s mouth curved—warm, almost rueful.
“Yes, it’s me being kind,” she said, “because you’re hurting.”
The turn signal ticked in the quiet.
“And it’s me,” she added, quieter, then paused. “Liking… you.”
I blinked, stunned by the simplicity of it. She didn’t reach for my hand. She didn’t make it a scene. She just looked at me like she’d already decided I was worth gentleness.
“You don’t have to do anything with that,” she said.
A beat.“I just—” she swallowed. “I didn’t want you thinking you were alone in feeling this way.”
Joy—indescribable, volcanic, overwhelming joy—hit first.
Trust came limping after it, wanting certainty.
“When you say… not alone,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “do you mean—” I stopped. Tried again. “Do you mean this is real tomorrow as well?”
“Today, and tomorrow,” she said softly. A beat. “And long after you stop asking.” I glanced over at her: her eyes were shining. “We go at your speed, Lauren.”
Her hand moved then—small, deliberate—across the narrow space between us. Her fingers rested lightly on my forearm. Warmth through fabric.A touch that said I’m here.
Then she withdrew, like she didn’t want to give more than I could hold.
The red light ahead glowed. I slowed the car, heart still pounding, mind full of a new kind of possibility that felt too bright to stare at directly.
I didn’t say anything more.
Neither did Sarah.
But her smile lingered with a kind of satisfaction, as if she already knew she had me.
And I realised, as the light turned green and I drove us home, that my future included Sarah.