Page 16 of Obedience

It was too messy now, and besides, what if Greta only wanted Remi? Dylan wasn’t sure she could play the role with Margot now that she’d met Greta. Her trembling thumb hovered over the ‘Confirm’ button. Blowing out a long, slow breath she pushed herself back into the pillows. Exhaling, she brought her thumb down hard on ‘Decline’, before slamming her eyes shut and tossing the phone onto the mattress.

***

Sitting at her work desk, Greta scrolled through her phone as a banner message appeared on the screen:

‘Team Scortare are very sorry that we haven’t been able to make your booking...’

Her stomach sank. She tapped the notification to read the full message:

‘...Your requested personnel are unavailable. Please check the app for alternative bookings.’

Fuck. She’d waited two days before succumbing to a moment of madness and booking again. She’d managed to convince herself that she just wanted to tell Dylan that she’d done nothing wrong, to explain why they couldn't meet again. That had been the plan. Now, staring at the message, she felt pathetic. Disappointment swelled in her gut, the force of it pushing her heart into her throat. These feelings were wrong. Dylan was an escort, for Christ's sake, she didn't owe her a thing. It was done, she decided. Just as it needed to be.

***

‘We’re looking at home by the end of the week, Miss St. John,’ the ward doctor said.

‘Please, call me Dylan, Doctor Lister.’

The doctor offered a warm smile through his salt-and-pepper beard, his tired looking eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘She has responded well to the antibiotics. We need to see how she manages the transition off intravenous antibiotics and wait for the final blood culture results, but I’m confident the source of her sepsis was her chest. We can start discharge planning, if you feel that’s appropriate? You have everything you need in place at home, I assume?’

Dylan looked at him over the rim of her Starbucks cup as she sipped from it. ‘Yeah, we’re good. Thank you.’

‘Margaret is clearly very well cared for,’ Dr Lister said, his tone soft. ‘You’re doing an incredible job, Dylan.’

A pink blush crept over Dylan’s cheeks. ‘I’m excited to get her back.’

‘In that case, we’ll start prepping her discharge.’

Dr Lister nodded and shook her hand. The gesture still felt a bit strange—even so many years post-pandemic—but Dylan liked it. She loved human touch, hugs especially, though they had to count. No arched backs or belly avoidance. For a hug to matter, it had to be chest to chest, stomachs pressing. She desperately missed her mum’s hugs. Dylan still hugged her every day, but it had been so long since she'd felt her mum’s arms wrap around her unexpectedly, pulling her in, lips pressed against her cheek as she whispered, “Love you more, said it last, Dyldyl”.

Dylan turned to face her mum. ‘Hear that, Margarita?’ She smiled at her. ‘Home in a few days.’

Margaret’s half smile was weak, but Dylan could see the happiness behind it. She was an expert when it came to her mother’s face; she knew every grimace, every frown, every line.

After another long day at the bedside, Dylan caught the tram back home. With a loudly grumbling stomach, she headed straight for the kitchen, and pushed two slices of bread into the toaster. Leaning back against the counter, she pulled out her phone. There was nothing from Scortare, much to her relief. They’d been disgruntled, after she had told them she was unavailable for the week but she didn’t have the energy to care. Her clients would have to get by with their vibrators for a few days, or God forbid, their husbands. As she waited for her toast, she opened her university inbox. Her eyes locked onto the most recent unread email.

Subject: Mentor Allocation Program

07678 999212

Greta

Snapping her weight off the counter, Dylan gripped the phone with both hands, pulling the screen closer to her face, despite there being nothing wrong with her vision. What the actual fuck? Unable to blink, she stared at the number until the air stung her eyes. The toast popped up behind her, the sudden snap jarring in the silent kitchen.

‘Shit!’ she hissed at the toaster. ‘Made me jump, you stupid bastard.’ Leaving the toast where it was, her eyes burned into her screen as she read the email again. Was that Greta’s number? It had to be. Who else could it belong to? She checked the email sender again. Definitely Greta. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she whispered. Slowly lowering herself onto a chair at the kitchen table, she punched the digits into her contacts and hit save, her heart hammering against her sternum. She didn't have a plan. She didn't even have a move. Her thumbs bounced over each other as they hovered over the glass before the silence of the room became too much. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ she snapped aloud, bringing them down to open WhatsApp, immediately opening Greta’s profile picture. A sunset. ‘Bollocks.’

She had been hoping for a personal photo, something different from the professional headshots, or various conference pictures she’d found on Google—because of course she had Googled her after they had met. It was impossible not to be impressed by Greta’s academic achievements and accolades, sure, but she wanted to see her at ease, more personal. Greta had no social media presence either, much to Dylan’s dismay. After typing and editing several text messages she closed WhatsApp. She considered calling, then remembered it was 2026 and nobody did that anymore. She thought about replying to the email with her number to force Greta to make the first move, but it felt childish. Finally, she re-opened WhatsApp and settled on:

‘Hope you are ok. Dyl St J xxx’

No. Too desperate. She shaved off two kisses, then deleted the whole thing. She typed again:

‘I’m so sorry if you felt ambushed. I had no idea who you were. Please let me know you’re ok, Greta. Dylan x’

She hovered. She breathed. She hit send.

Fuck.