Chapter 4: The Homecoming
The key on her ring slipped into the lock with a familiar click. Megan turned it, pushed the door open, and the smell of him followed her inside.
Mr. Garth's cologne was in her hair, on her collar, baked into the lace she'd tucked back into her skirt before leaving the mall. She'd washed at the station by the counter, scrubbed her chin until the skin was raw. But the scent lingered, woody and sharp, stubborn as guilt.
The apartment was warm. Not the velvet warmth of the VIP room, but lived-in warmth, the radiator ticking and the television on low. A takeout carton sat on the coffee table, chopsticks poking out. The smell of sesame and chicken filled the space.
Dave was on the couch, a worn band t-shirt stretched across his narrow shoulders. His mop of brown hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his face lit up when she walked in.
"Hey," he said, getting up. "You made it."
"Missed the bus." The lie was smooth. It slid out without effort, a polished stone. "Crazy day. You wouldn't believe how busy it got."
He was already crossing the room. Before she could say anything else, his arms came around her, folding her into his chest. He held her tight, his chin resting on the top of her head. She breathed in the smell of him, clean soap and the faint lingering trace of his deodorant.
"You smell different," he said, his voice muffled against her hair.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The training voice hummed in her skull, a low, soothing drone. There is no reason to talk in detail about what you do at work, outside of work.
"New store scent," she said. "They're trying all these floor sprays. Vanilla lavender. Supposed to increase sales." She pulled back, offering him a smile she hoped looked natural. "What'd you get?"
"General Tso's." He gestured at the coffee table, his smile widening. "With the extra crispy chicken you like."
"Perfect." She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the arm of the couch. She could feel him watching her as she moved, his eyes following the line of her skirt, the way the hem rode up her thighs when she bent to pick up the takeout carton.
"You okay?" he asked. "You seem a little off."
"Just tired." She settled onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. The movement made the garter belt press against her hip, a phantom reminder of the morning. "Rough rush after the afternoon. You know how it is."
Dave sat down beside her, close enough that his knee brushed hers. He popped the lid off the takeout box and handed her a pair of chopsticks. "I figured you'd be hungry."
"Starving." She took the box, the heat of the food warming her palms. The sesame sauce glistened, orange and sticky. She pulled out a piece of chicken and ate it, letting the crunch and spice ground her in the room.
He was still watching her. There was something in his expression, a softness, an openness. He looked so young in the lamplight. So trusting.
"So what was the rush about?" he asked. "Big sale?"
"Um." She chewed, buying time. "Yeah, actually. This huge order. A formal fitting. The client wanted a full set, and I had to do all these adjustments. You know how it goes."
Could not think about the client. Could not think about the fit. The wool of his trousers against her knees, the warm weight in her hand, the rhythm of his breath going ragged above her.
"Nice," Dave said. "Bet the commission's good."
"Better than I thought." She took another bite, washing it down with a sip of his soda. The cold carbonation cut through the spice. "Hey, what're we watching?"
"Rewatch of The Office. Middle of season two." He reached for the remote, then paused. "Megan."
She looked at him. His eyes were earnest. A little worried. "Are you sure you're okay? You just seem... I don't know. Somewhere else tonight."
The training voice was there, calm and clear. Protect the unique client relationship. Protect your energy.
"I'm sure." She put her hand on his thigh, squeezing once. The muscle was warm and solid through his jeans. "Promise. Just a long day."
He looked at her for a second longer, searching for cracks in the paint. Whatever he found, or didn't find, he nodded and turned back to the screen. The familiar theme song started, a jaunty little jingle that filled the quiet.
Megan ate her dinner. She let Dave wrap his arm around her, let him pull her close against his side. She rested her head on his shoulder and watched the flickering light of the screen, her body still humming with memory.
The cologne was fading now, losing its sharp edge. But in her head, she could still feel Mr. Garth's hand in her hair, guiding her, showing her the shape of her role. She could still feel the moment of release, the bright bloom of it behind her eyes.
"Hey, speaking of," Dave said, his chopsticks pausing mid-air. "Matt texted me earlier. He's probably gonna swing by the store tomorrow. He wants to get something for Jess, they're hitting three months on Saturday."
The chicken turned to ash in Megan's mouth. Matt. Dave's friend from the climbing gym. Big guy, loud laugh, always gave her a friendly wave when they ran into each other at the movies. She'd never thought of him as a customer. Never thought of anyone she knew walking into Silhouette.
"Oh yeah?" She kept her voice light. "What's he thinking?"
"Not a clue. He said he wanted advice, figured since you work there you'd know what girls actually like." Dave grinned around a bite of rice. "I told him you'd hook him up."
The training voice thickened in her skull, a low static behind her eyes. She thought of the fitting room. The way the customer had looked at her, undressed her with his eyes long before she'd modeled anything. The hard, evaluating grip of Mr. Garth's hand in her hair.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "It might be weird."
"Just like any other customer," Dave said, pulling her a little closer. "Well, maybe a little better, since he's your boyfriend's friend. You can give him a discount or something."
The laugh she managed came out tight, but Dave didn't seem to notice. He was already reaching for the remote, his attention drifting back to the episode. Megan stared at the glowing screen, seeing nothing.
Matt. Big hands, loud voice. The same hands that slapped Dave on the back at the gym. The same voice that called across the climbing wall, asking about routes and harnesses.
She set the takeout box down. Her appetite had curdled.
"Tomorrow, right?" she asked.
"Yep. Figured you could show him some stuff. You know, steer him toward something Jess would actually like instead of something he'd pick on his own." Dave grinned. "He's hopeless. A few years back he got his old girlfriend a sander for Valentine's Day."
The sander story was one of her favorites. She'd laughed so hard she cried the first time she heard it. Now it just felt hollow, a noise she couldn't summon.
"I can help him," she said. The words came out steady. "I'll open the floor catalog in the morning, see what's new."
"Perfect." Dave leaned over and kissed her temple, quick and warm. She let herself feel it, the soft press of his lips, the boy she'd loved since freshman year. Her body went still against him.
She slept fitfully that night. Dreams of mirrors, of infinite reflections, of Matt's face in the glass wearing Mr. Garth's expression.