Measured Rebellion Of Hemlines & Heartlines

A cup of coffee delivered by the staff had grown cold on the dresser as Renée stood before the small open closet in her hotel room. Two garment bags hung side by side.

One contained the dress she'd initially bought for the wedding, back before she made the mistake of talking to Naomi. The other held the bespoke suit that had started as a mistaken act of defiance against her anxiety to be seen as 'successfully okay'.

The dress was objectively perfect for a wedding while fitting her preference. Silk chiffon in a deep teal that complemented her coloring, cut in an A-line with a midi hem length and a high neck that overall suggested rather than announced her figure. The sort of dress that said:

"I clean up nice but I'm not trying to steal focus."

Her voice murmured her assessment.

[The sort of dress that says I'm doing just fine.]

She unzipped the other garment bag and let her fingers trailing over the suit. Buying it - even going in to get it made - had been an impulse that kept repeating itself. Every time she'd gone in for fittings, she'd felt more certain about the choice - and more uncertain about her reasons for making it.

Her friend's 'sage advice' echoed in her head. She wasn't quite sure if either of the outfits were sexy, though one was definitely a suit. Renée knew that neither would be completely comfortable.

[I'm really not looking for anything. I'm just here to show her I'm fine.]

But as she slipped the dress back into its protective bag, she knew she was lying to herself. It would have been enough for showing Ayla she was doing good. The suit... the suit was something else entirely. The tailor had worked magic with the proportions.

As she began to get clothed, her hands moved to her shortened hair. The writer was still not quite used to the style. Without any strands falling to her shoulders, the ash green looked different compared against the crisp white of her dress shirt. The precise cut of the jacket across her shoulders showed her slim figure and the way the trousers made her legs look longer.

Each piece of the suit felt like adding armor, but also like revealing something. 

[What exactly are you trying to prove here?]

She worked the tie through her fingers, muscle memory taking over as she created the knot. How many times had she practiced this in front of her mirror at home? The tailor had shown her a knot whose slight asymmetry would complement the suit's clean lines without looking too studied.

Standing before the mirror, Renée watched herself transform. The suit and its details did more than fit - it belonged. Of course, that was to be expected with its price and with it being made exactly for her. The smoky eye makeup she'd planned for the dress even worked with this, doing its job of turning her usual green-hazel gaze into something more intense.

[I kind of feel like a rock star.]

She thought about Ayla, as she looked at herself. The cream linen women's suit and the intentional distance on the ferry. How they'd grown into different people during their years apart. About all the things they still didn't know how to say to each other.

The dress would have been safer. Usual. The suit… it said:

"Look at me."

Her voice was sultry, demanding, and a little desperate. Renee picked up her room key and wallet and tucked them into her inner pockets. The garment bags hung forgotten as she stepped into the hallway so that she wouldn't be late. Her oxfords clicked against the hallway tile with a rhythm far steadier than her heartbeat.

[Well. I guess I'm done pretending this is just about an impulse.]

⛌-⛌-⛌

Ayla's breath caught in her chest when she saw Renée enter the ceremony space. The charcoal suit was masterfully tailored - no excess fabric to be found. It flowed with an ease that spoke of expertise in the cutting.

The notched lapels were proportioned perfectly to work with her slender frame, creating clean lines that drew the eye naturally upward without emphasizing her height or making her shoulders too wide or slim. Someone had clearly understood exactly what they were doing with her figure.

The aubergine colored tie she wore was knotted in a Four-in-Hand that looked good enough that it could be a clip on. The color itself echoed the deep purple polish on her delicate fingers. It was the sort of detail that might escape notice unless you knew to look for it. 

Unless you had spent years learning to study the language of formal dress, or years learning the particular poetry of Renée Laurent's personal style. Ayla found herself unconsciously counting the subtle ways her ex had evolved it while maintaining that essential quality that made her uniquely herself.

The ash green of Renée's tousled pixie cut should have clashed with the formal ensemble. Instead, it provided a perfect counterpoint to the traditional takes on suits worn by the men in the crowd. Like a further deliberate rebellion against convention.

The overall effect was devastating in its thoughtful design - professional enough for a wedding guest, creative enough for a writer if worn again in the future, and confidently worn enough to make Ayla's composure waver.

[Even though you already stand out to me, are you trying to attract more and more people to look at you?]

She recognized the perfect fit as bespoke work, likely from one of the city's better tailors. Maybe even one she'd used herself. The fabric caught the island light coming through the glass walls. The weave of threading impressed upon one a kind of depth.

A reminder of the way Renée had approached life - layers upon layers of meaning, waiting to be discovered by those who cared to look closely enough. In her writing. In herself. Even now, years later, Ayla found herself wanting to unravel every thread of intention woven into this carefully constructed appearance.

[Why did she wear this today?]

She didn't realize she had drawn closer until she could make out the understated gleam of silver accessories - a simple tie bar and matching cufflinks. They suggested attention to detail rather than ostentation, providing another reflection of Renée. 

The pocket square was a whisper of grey silk with the faintest hint of pattern in the right light. Unlike the rest it wasn't perfectly arranged - it had that slight dishevelment that Renée always managed to make look intentional rather than careless.

When their eyes met, Ayla felt her carefully maintained cool composure slip further.

Her ex had done that thing with her makeup, the smoky eye in plums and greys that transformed her gaze from merely striking to downright dangerous. It was a makeup look Ayla had watched her perfect over their years together through video tutorials.

One that had always served as a sign that her partner was feeling like she wanted to be particularly… 'devastating' to Ayla that evening. Combined with the suit, it was almost unfair - like brandishing a loaded weapon in what was supposed to be a peaceful reunion.

[If I stand here any longer, I'm going to say something unfortunate. Ask something. Or I'll *do* something like fix her pocket square.]

The muscle memory from all those times she'd adjusted Renée's clothes made her fingers twitch at the thought. She'd told herself then it was all about presentation, about maintaining the standards she'd been raised with and sharing that part of herself with Renée.

Straightening a collar here, smoothing a wrinkle there.

Only later did she recognize it for what it was: a need to leave her mark, however subtle, on everything the woman wore. A quiet claim of territory staked through every small adjustment. All of it done long before she'd found the courage to say those three words that night.

/ I love you. /

The ones that would make her intent to 'claim' obvious.