Page 45 of Obedience

‘Margs is still asleep,’ Dylan offered, in a valiant attempt to change the subject as she blew her nose.

‘She’s fine, I poked my head in. Do you want to talk?’

Dylan stared at her hands, her fingers pulling at the piece of paper towel, picking at the edges, the frayed pieces falling onto her jogging pants, making them look dusty.

‘I don’t think I do, Pri, but thank you. Maybe when I have slept a bit? I’m just going to hit the gym to—’

‘You are not hitting anything but your bed. You bloody silly bugger.’ Priya chided. ‘Upstairs now, I’ll bring you some sweet tea and toast before I get started with your mum.’

Dylan began to protest, but Priya waved a dismissive hand in the air while firmly reiterating her instructions, her stern motherly tone—and amplified Scottish accent—not to be argued with.

‘Thanks Pri,’ Dylan relented, too exhausted to disagree.

***

Post a hot shower, Dylan lay on her bed, bathed in the sounds of Portishead quietly playing through her speaker, while the tea and toast still sat untouched on the bedside cabinet. On the iPad screen Priya chatted away to Margaret and set herself up for the day ahead. Closing down the camera feed Dylan rolled onto her side, hugging her knees to her chest as exhaustion engulfed her. She'd been awake since the day before. Overnight she had tried in vain to contact Greta, to explain, to apologise but Greta hadn’t picked up. The messages sat in their WhatsApp thread, now read but unanswered. The two blue ticks taunting her, using the last of her dwindling reserve. Tiredness tugged at her eyelids as she let her phone fall from her hand. The quiet noise of her bedroom door opening snatched her from the edge of sleep.

She rolled over. ‘I’ll eat it in a mo, Pri. I'm just a bit knackered.’

‘Priya sent me straight up. I hope that’s okay?’

‘Fuck! Greta!’ Dylan whipped her body around, leaping from the bed as she began rambling. ‘Are you… I’ve been trying to call you. You didn’t reply to my text. Are you okay?! I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I am so sorry. Was it because I left? I had to come home. My mum, she’s—’

‘I know, I know now,’ Greta said, looking as exhausted as Dylan, her voice dropping to a low, weary thrum.

Greta stood in the doorway, in stark contrast to Dylan’s white vest and grey shorts, still wrapped up against the chill of the morning. Her camel coat fastened as if the buttons and material were holding her together. Against the weight of the coat and the thick brown knit of her jumper, she looked smaller, more fragile. Her hair was gathered in a loose, hurried bun. She looked a very different woman to the woman Dylan had held just the night before. Dylan wanted to move to her, to scoop her up, to hold her but wasn’t sure what to do. The self-assured Dylan of last night was no longer in the room. The doubt and exhaustion had got the better of her. Of them both.

‘Are you okay?’ Dylan asked, frantically scanning Greta, as though looking for flesh wounds she should tend to. ‘I thought you’d be working. Well, I didn’t know. I–’

‘I’m working from home,’ Greta said with a sigh. ‘Apparently.’

‘Shit, I didn’t mean to fuck your Friday up. I’m sorr—’

‘It’s okay. My registrar is covering my outpatient clinic. Can I come in?’

‘Fuck, of course. Yeah. Please. Come in. It’s a bit untidy, I’m sorry, I’m not always this mess—’

Before Dylan could gesture toward the piles of clothes and papers—a futile bid to justify the current chaos of her life—Greta pushed into her. She threw herself into Dylan’s arms and pressed her lips to hers. With her shoulders hunched toward her ears, Greta cupped Dylan’s face tightly with both hands, kissing her as though she’d just returned from a long-fought war.

She seemed desperate for her as she took Dylan’s top lip, then her bottom. Her mouth wide and soft, tongue gently seeking, searching for Dylan's taste, like she needed every piece of her kiss. A whimper escaped Dylan landing in Greta’s mouth as she was completely consumed. Pressing her hands into the small of Greta’s back she pulled the heavy wool of the coat—and the woman inside it—as close as she possibly could. When Greta finally pulled away, Dylan followed, pressing her lips to Greta’s forehead, leaving them against her warm skin.

‘I’m sorry,’ Greta whispered.

‘For what?’

‘How I have treated you. I don’t know how to fucking do this. I’m just so sorry.’

Dylan didn't answer with words; she simply held Greta’s head to her chest, her vest pulled taut over her torso where Greta’s fingers had clutched the back of the material. Greta shifted back just enough to see Dylan, raking her gaze over her face, devouring every detail before pulling her back into another deep kiss.

‘Portishead, Dylan? I’m impressed,’ Greta said softly as they pulled apart .

Dylan smiled and quirked a brow. ‘All the best things were made in the nineties.’ Greta drew in a breath, as if too exhausted to so much as consider that the music playing in Dylan’s room was potentially recorded before she was even born. ‘Can I take your coat, Doctor Vincent?’

The curve of Greta’s smile pressed into their gentle kiss. ‘Very chivalrous, Miss St John.’

As Dylan’s hands slid under the heavy coat, Greta shimmied her arms backward, allowing the wool to slide in a swift descent off her body. Dylan held onto the coat for a moment, reluctant to break the connection she had craved like a drug for months. A loud Scottish offering boomed from the bottom of the stairs, startling them apart.

‘I’m putting the kettle on! Can I tempt anyone?’ Priya shouted.