Chapter 9 - The Last Fitting
Three years passed faster than Megan expected.
And slower.
Dean wrote every Sunday.
Not love letters at first.
Observations.
Prison food.
Books.
Dante's terrible financial updates.
Samuel refusing to visit if Dean complained about coffee.
Megan answered irregularly.
Deliberately.
She built life.
Jimmy retired after forty-three years.
Instead of selling to luxury chain, he offered shop to Megan through seller financing.
“You kept this place alive while mobsters used it as evidence locker.”
“I nearly got you killed.”
“You also doubled wedding business.”
Fair.
She bought Shaw & Bell Tailoring—keeping Jimmy's family name Bell on sign because history mattered.
Fiona became operations manager two days a week and complained full time.
Megan hired apprentices.
Women.
Immigrants.
One formerly incarcerated man excellent with trousers.
No one worked nine hours without sitting if she could help it.
She remembered shaking at nightclub door.
No one should have to beg powerful man for safety because ordinary systems failed.
So shop quietly partnered with local support organization, providing interview clothes and emergency alterations for women leaving abusive situations.
Not charity performance.
Practical skill.
Clothing could help people enter courtroom, job interview, new life feeling like themselves.
Dean never funded it.
He offered once.
Megan said no.
He never offered again.
Respect.
When Dean was released, Megan did not wait at prison gate.
Dante did.
Samuel too.
Megan was fitting a bride.
At 3:40 p.m., bell over shop door rang.
She looked up.
Dean stood there.
No entourage.
Dark coat.
More gray at temples.
Leaner.
Still unmistakably Dean.
Bride whispered:
“Is that—”
Megan:
“No.”
Technically lie.
Dean waited until appointment ended.
Then:
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Long silence.
“You didn't come.”
“You said I didn't have to.”
“I know.”
“You're disappointed.”
“Yes.”
Honest.
“Good.”
His mouth twitched.
Then she pointed fitting platform.
“Stand there.”
“What?”
“Your suit.”
“I didn't order one.”
“You've been wearing prison-release department-store jacket for four hours. It's upsetting me professionally.”
He laughed.
She measured.
Shoulders.
Chest.
Sleeve.
Touch familiar but different.
No blood.
No fear.
He watched her.
“Three years.”
“Yes.”
“You changed sign.”
“I own place.”
Pride crossed face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
No “I could have bought it.”
Growth.
He asked about relationship.
“Are you seeing someone?”
“No.”
Relief visible.
She added:
“Were you expecting me not to?”
“No.”
Lie.
She smiled.
“Good answer.”
They started coffee.
Again.
Not resumed romance immediately.
Dean now worked as consultant for regulated logistics company partly owned by Samuel? Better independent. Under post-release restrictions.
He attended therapy.
He had no armed men following.
Still looked over shoulder.
Still had instincts.
One night at restaurant, loud bang from kitchen made him reach under jacket where gun no longer existed.
He looked embarrassed.
Megan placed hand on table.
Not on him.
“Here.”
He breathed.
“Here.”
Healing wasn't clean.
Months passed.
Then Dean asked:
“Can I kiss you?”
The question warmed her.
“Yes.”
He did.
No mafia king.
No frightened tailor.
Two adults who survived different versions of same war.
Then Luca's old funeral jacket returned to shop from evidence storage by Elena Marini.
She had kept it after case.
“I don't want this,” Elena said. “But I think you should decide what happens.”
Megan touched black wool.
The hidden pocket she had opened years earlier.
She thought of Luca.
Cruel.
Complicated.
Dead.
“What do you want?”
Elena asked.
Megan:
“To finish it.”
She repaired lining.
Removed hidden compartment entirely.
No secrets left.
Then donated suit—without identifying details—to theater costume program.
Fiona:
“You're putting Luca Marini in community theater?”
“Best use.”
She laughed.
Then one final piece of drama arrived.
Lorenzo requested meeting before sentencing appeal? Already serving. He sent through attorney offer to reveal remaining money if Megan publicly stated Luca attacked her because he was intoxicated and “not himself.”
Image rehabilitation.
Elena wanted family name cleaned.
Megan refused.
“He was himself.”
Elena nodded sadly.
“Thank you.”
Truth over legacy.
Lorenzo later lost appeal.
Marco too.
Victor died? Could remain prison.
No need.
Then Dean brought fabric to shop.
Midnight navy wool.
“I need suit.”
“For what?”
“Wedding.”
Megan's stomach jumped.
“Whose?”
“Dante's.”
She exhaled too visibly.
Dean smiled.
“You thought—”
“Don't.”
He enjoyed.
She fitted him.
At final fitting, Dean looked mirror.
“Blue Jade.”
“What?”
“That's where I want to take you.”
“Camping?”
“Yes.”
“You spent three years incarcerated and want sleep outside?”
“I have complicated nostalgia.”
She laughed.
They went after Dante's wedding.
Same campsite had reopened under new owners.
Cabin, not tent.
Megan insisted on mattress.
They walked trail.
Dean stopped where he had collapsed ten years ago.
“Right here.”
“You were bleeding there.”
“You called me an idiot.”
“You tried standing.”
“I was stabbed.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
Then reached pocket.
Megan immediately said:
“If that's ring, put it away.”
Dean froze.
She laughed.
“I'm serious.”
He slowly removed something else.
Old ugly wrist tattoo photo? Actually he takes cloth bracelet she tied on him from old camp? Maybe he kept? He had found in evidence? Let's do small blue fabric strip, from shirt she tore to bandage him, preserved by him? implausible but sentimental. He'd kept piece all years.
“I kept this.”
Megan stared.
Faded blue cloth.
From her camping scarf.
“I used it to tie bandage.”
“Yes.”
“You kept bloody fabric for ten years?”
“I was emotionally unhealthy.”
“Was?”
He laughed.
Then:
“No proposal.”
“Good.”
“I wanted ask something else.”
“What?”
“When people ask what you are to me, what should I say?”
She considered.
Not my woman.
Not debt.
Not savior.
“Partner.”
Dean nodded.
“Partner.”
Then she kissed him first.
No promises made in panic.
No vows born from blood.
Just choice.
The last fitting wasn't suit.
It was whether their lives still fit after everything.
They did.
Almost.
One adjustment remained.
May you like
Time.
---
