Page 70 of Obedience

Her mind jumped to long days at work and Dylan’s responsibilities. There was no money for the night-time care package; Dylan was the care package. Greta shocked herself as her thoughts turned to remedying the situation, rather than running from it. Despite the speed and intensity, what was happening between them felt so right they’d have to work it out. Greta braced and waited for the familiar urge to bolt, to close herself off, but it didn't come. Instead, she stayed right where she was, already mentally rearranging her responsibilities to make space for whatever was next.

An inexplicable pride and excitement swelled inside her as she watched Dylan sorting the food. She smiled as she moved between the fridge and the wrong cupboards for napkins or crockery, before slapping her hands on her thighs and shrugging at Greta, who would point her in the right direction. Greta sat at the kitchen island, elbows on the surface, head rested in her hands, watching.

‘What?’ Dylan asked suspiciously while peeling the lid off a tray of sushi.

‘Nothing,’ Greta replied innocently.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ Dylan persisted, sucking soy sauce off the pad of her thumb.

Greta balled her fists under her chin. ‘I’m just watching you, Miss St John.’

‘Well yes, Doctor Vincent, I can see that,’ Dylan replied wryly. ‘But tell me pourquoi!’

‘Come here,’ Greta demanded softly.

With a cute smile on her face, Dylan stopped what she was doing and moved to Greta, pressing herself between her thighs. Reaching up, Greta gently tousled a curl, wrapping it around her finger before carefully laying it back down among the others.

‘I enjoyed today,’ Greta said softly.

‘You enjoyed going to a hospital on your day off from the hospital?’ Dylan quirked a brow. ‘You need to get out more, G, if that’s what you’re doing for shits and gigs.’

‘Nooo…’ Greta stretched, her voice trailing off. ‘I enjoyed being with you. I’m…’ Dylan didn’t try to finish the hesitant sentence or fill the silence. She just waited. Greta tilted her head, ‘I’m starving, and my gyozas are getting cold, so...’ She spun Dylan around, playfully smacking her arse twice to the words, ‘Chop! Chop!’ Dylan let out a delighted hum, looking back over one shoulder before theatrically tossing a tea towel over it. ‘Hmm,’ Greta hummed as she swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s your dissertation subject?’

‘Oh Jesus,’ Dylan sighed. ‘What dissertation subject?’ She perched on a stool at the corner of the island beside Greta, sliding a bowl of gyoza and ponzu dipping sauce between them along with the sushi. ‘That’s hot Japanese horseradish,’ Dylan added, pointing a finger at the neat green ball of wasabi paste.

‘Yes, thank you, Dylan, my hero,’ Greta said sarcastically with a heavy eye roll.

‘Don’t mistake it for an edamame like I did once. As you can imagine, that didn’t end well,’ Dylan chuckled.

‘Stop deflecting, Miss St John.’ Greta cocked a brow. ‘So, you don’t even have a title?’ She broke her chopsticks apart, giving them a sharp, cursory click test to check they were up to the job.

‘No! Do you?’ Dylan grinned mischievously.

‘Dylan, isn’t it due for submission soon?’

‘Yes, Doctor Vincent, it is. But may I remind you that my hot mentor’—she finger-quoted the word mentor while giving Greta a pointed look—‘abandoned me after shouting at me in her poky cupboard office, and now I have a fucking fossil boomer mentor. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘Who thinks that helping me is telling me to think laterally and critically. Like I didn’t know those two things were absolutely essential to the process of life in general, let alone for a Master’s dissertation.’

‘Who do you have?’

‘Doctor Holland.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’ Dylan put her beer down after a long swig from the bottle. ‘With all the due respect in the world, she’s been riding that retirement wave for about ten years… I’m surprised her surfboard isn’t driftwood.’ Greta snort-laughed making Dylan chuckle. ‘I had wanted to lean into the teenage and young adult aspect of trial access, hence me being thrilled when my first mentor got in touch. Fuck, she was hot,’ she added ruefully, her eyes drifting toward Greta with a sideways grin. ‘But I think perhaps I shouldn’t limit myself to the patient group, you know? Am I setting myself up to fail? Giving myself too much to do? I dunno.’ She shrugged and huffed out some air. ‘Plus, Doctor Fossy-McFossil-Face didn’t really rave about what I had written for chapter one.’ She dipped a gyoza in the ponzu, popped it in her mouth and chewed hurriedly. ‘I was thinking perhaps I could look at barriers to participation in clinical trials among under-represented groups. Rare disease groups, maybe? Rare tumours. Sarcomas, brain tumours. Something like that?’

‘Sounds good,’ Greta said, wiping her mouth with her napkin. ‘You could incorporate the TYA group with rare tumours, perhaps. It would reduce your patient scope, but that doesn’t mean it’s not something you could really sink your teeth into. It's a subject with lots of potential. Their trial access is without a doubt limited, particularly due the exclusion of under eighteen-year-olds from lots of studies…often arbitrarily. You just have to be prepared to put the work in.’ Greta leaned in slightly. ‘I have some very recent TYA uptake data for a randomised Ewing's Sarcoma trial at the PCI…and one of the ward sisters, Rae Mack, did a wonderful piece of research on TYA engagement and treatment compliance. I’ll send them to you. They might get your creative juices flowing.’

Dylan cocked a mischievous brow at the word juices. Greta caught the look and rolled her eyes with a sharp tut. Chuckling, Dylan reached to squeeze Greta’s forearm. ‘Thank you, that would be ace.’

Greta smiled. ‘Why didn’t you go straight into nursing once you had your degree?’

‘The degree...’ Dylan covered her mouth with her hand as she finished chewing. ‘As tough as I found it…and I did find it really fucking tough, strangely made me want more academia. By the time I’d done clinical placements and stuff, I just realised that perhaps nursing wasn’t for me. It would have been impossible to have a nursing income, do shifts and support mum. It made more sense, since I'd already deferred for so many years, to stay on another year and do my Master’s. Pack in some more crippling debt and pick up more Scortare cli—’ The word stayed in Dylan’s throat, her expression twisting with what looked like a sudden surge of retrospective guilt.

‘It’s okay, Dyl,’ Greta said warmly. ‘I’m glad you did pick up Scortare clients.’ Dylan leaned in to accept the soft kiss Greta was offering. ‘I’m glad we met.’