Page 75 of Obedience

‘Greta.’ A voice came from nowhere but didn’t fully register as she stared in horror at the email. ‘Greta Cortado!’ the voice boomed, snapping her out of her trance.

The barista stared at her impatiently, the same look of annoyance that waiting staff have when they bring food to a table, and no one can remember what they ordered. She screenshot the email, accepted her coffee apologetically, and almost power walked to her office.

Her Monday schedule was—as per usual—jam-packed: clinic, lab, and multidisciplinary team meetings. There were inpatient ward rounds, an incredibly important Site Initiation Visit for the new clinical trial she was to lead as Chief Investigator, and now this. This. What the fuck was she meant to do with this? Anguish twisted in her gut while she moved through the day, biting her lip to stop from snapping at people. A gnawing fear pushing her closer to losing it altogether.

***

Slumping into her office chair with the heavy weight that her day was nowhere near over despite it being five o’clock. She thumbed open WhatsApp.

Dylan:

Almost there, G. Don’t forget about your bravery reward. Dx

She had ended the message with a winking face, a taco and aubergine emoji.

Greta put her phone face down on her desk. Resting on her elbows, she pressed her fingers into her temples as she searched her more than adequate, in fact brilliant, mind for a solution. How was this going to end well? It couldn’t. There was no solution. One of the two paths she faced would mean having to either drag herself over hot coals professionally and be irrevocably burned. The other, she would have to deny it all and give up Dylan. The latter made her want to retch. She couldn’t imagine it now. They were barely a thing, but how could she just simply give Dylan up? The notion felt inconceivable to her. Yet the risk of damage to her reputation and all she had built, everything she had worked her arse off to achieve, was not an option. She couldn't—she wouldn’t—allow herself to be portrayed as the sexual deviant her biological father believed she was.

A knock at the door startled her, cutting dead her racing thoughts. She pushed her fingernails into her temples just hard enough to cause a jolt of pain and inhaled.

‘Come in,’ she snapped.

The sound of the door opening was followed swiftly by a soft, cheerful voice. ‘Doctor Vincent.’

Greta whipped around to see Dylan, face painted with a cute, half-cocked grin, hands behind her back as she walked backward to push the door closed. She looked incredible—which was crazy to Greta, because all she wore were brown Carhartt trousers and a blue T-shirt with a tiny pink anchor embroidered over her heart. Her curls were pushed forward, resting on a perfectly arched eyebrow; her fade was fresh, Greta noticed. With her well-weathered Converse and rucksack, she looked every bit the student.

Greta’s immediate feeling was warmth. She was right there, not two meters away. Touchable. Kissable. She wanted to go to her, but the elation and yearning were violently barged aside, replaced by the anxiety crushing her chest and throat. Dylan looked so young. Too fucking young. It all suddenly felt wildly inappropriate.

‘Dylan, you cannot be here,’ she said sternly, rising from her chair.

‘What? But I—’

‘Please go.’

‘I’ve come to walk you to your—’

‘Go, Dylan! Please. I can’t explain right now, but…’

Reaching out her hand, Dylan took a step forward. ‘What’s happened? Whatever it is, we can fix it, G. We can fix anything. You said you wouldn’t do this, you prom—’

‘Please!’ Greta’s chin clenched as her watery eyes fell to the hand Dylan had offered. She ignored it. ‘Please!’ She held up her hands, palms facing Dylan. ‘Please, just go home.’

A silent beat passed as Dylan searched her face. ‘You panicked.’

‘Dylan, please, this is so much bigger than you think. It’s—’

‘You fucking panicked.’ Dylan seemed unable to steady the tremor in her voice.

With that, Dylan hitched her bag higher up her shoulder and reached for the handle. Staring at Greta, she shook her head once, turned her back and left.

***

Sitting in her office at home, Greta’s eyes burned as she stared at the flickering cursor in the blank space that still contained no reply to Professor Andy’s email. She scanned the room. Amongst the journals, achievements and research papers that packed the shelves, the spine of the protocol file for her pending clinical trial seemed to jut out to taunt her.

CBP: Centralised Biobanking Platform: Improving Access to Clinical Trials. Chief Investigator: Dr Greta Vincent.

She turned her chair to the window. The street lamps, building lights, and traffic were preparing Manchester for the night, bathing it in a new, exciting aesthetic. The black surface of The Rochdale Canal shimmered in the dying sunlight as it stretched along Canal Street.

Taking off her glasses, Greta pressed a thumb into her brow and blew out a long, heavy breath. There had been no word from Dylan since yesterday, and the email summoning her to the Associate Dean’s office still sat without a reply. Ignoring it was no longer an option, nor was standing to be apart from Dylan, but deep down, she knew that was something she’d have to get used to. The ache could be buried. Years of practice had made her an expert in burying emotions, feelings, and desires.