Page 58 of Obedience

Chapter seventeen

I can’t just fuck

Greta got home after seeing her parents, looking pretty dreadful it had to be said. Despite her puffy face and dark bloodshot eyes, she felt lighter, as though the knee on her chest had relented a little. The release of pressure was finally allowing her to breathe, drawing in enough oxygen to perfuse her brain and enable her to think properly, for the first time in a long time. She pulled out her phone to text Dylan, staring at the cursor as it blinked, waiting for her thumbs to formulate a message. She started to type.

Greta:

How is Margaret? Are you ok? I miss you. Gx

Blowing out a long breath, she deleted ‘I miss you’, retyped it, deleted it again, and finally pressed send.

As she walked through the quiet hallway—each footstep echoing louder than she had ever heard before—she dragged her fingers over the long console table, the green marble cold to the touch. Head canted, breaths slow, she stood and looked at the artwork hanging on the walls.

It’s a shrine, darling

After dropping into the soft, high-backed brown leather chair in her office, she leaned forward, both arms pressed against the oak desk. Her office was the only space that was truly hers. Muriel had spent years trying to renovate it, to “drag it kicking and screaming into the 21st century” she had said, but Greta had pushed back. She needed comfort and warmth while she worked, not clean lines and concrete. A framed picture of Muriel sat on her desk, Greta fixed her gaze on it while gently bouncing her phone against her lips; the word shrine looping in her thoughts. The vibration of a notification shocked her back into the room.

Dylan:

Not good. At South Manchester Gen. Being admitted, waiting for a bed. I’m sorry.

Greta:

Dylan, why are you apologising? Come to me if and when you can. If you need to stay with your mum it’s fine but I don’t want you to go home and be alone.

Dylan:

Really? Are you sure? It might be late.

Greta:

I don’t care. Just come. Gx

Dylan:

Ok. Dx

***

Greta busied herself with catching up on any major developments from her missed clinic the day before and important email replies. Hours passed as she made her way through a seemingly never-ending to-do list before finally taking her glasses off, dropping them onto her desk and rubbing her sore, swollen eyes. She showered, splaying her hands against the not yet warmed tiles, weaving her head, as though trying to catch every drop from the enormous showerhead. Her conversation with her mother ran through her mind, back and forth. Over and over.

She’s incredible.

She is incredible. She is fucking incredible.

We don't care about age.

If her parents didn’t care about the age gap, then why did she?

You don’t smile with your eyes anymore.

Fuck.

It was almost midnight. Wrapped in her green striped dressing gown, tied at the waist, she headed to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. The apartment buzzer sounded, making her jump with the wine mid-flow, causing a splash to hit the island.

‘Shit!’ She hissed in the quiet room, wiping it up quickly before heading to the door.

Dylan was on the intercom screen, one arm stretched over the buzzer system, her face slightly turned, ear poised for a reply.