Page 76 of Obedience

Greta typed a measured and extremely professional reply to Professor Andy, clicked send, and snapped the laptop shut. She had considered sending the screenshot, but Dylan already had enough to deal with. What would be the point? What would it change? Greta would have to sort this alone, as she did everything. The impulse to text and ask after Margaret strained against a need for distance. But fuck, she needed Dylan. Dylan would know what to do. Twenty-eight years old and she would know. Could they face it together? The thought felt ridiculous. Greta pushed it down. It was too much. Dylan had a whole life and career ahead of her. How could she possibly risk it? But she would. Greta knew Dylan would risk everything, but Greta wasn’t brave enough. Besides, Greta had more to lose.

‘You’re a selfish bitch, Vincent,’ she hissed at the empty room.

With her knee hugged close to her chest she leaned back in her chair. Her phone vibrated on the desk. Before picking it up she stared at the sender's name for a long, heavy beat, her hand hovering. Leaving the phone on her desk, she slid it closer, unlocked it with her pin and flicked open the message.

Dylan:

‘It’s been 27 hours. That’s a long time to panic. Shall I bring a brown paper bag round for you to breathe into? Dx’

She signed off with a winking emoji.

Staring at the message, Greta imagined the words coming from Dylan’s perfect mouth. The image of Dylan as she spoke was clear in her mind; her perfect smile, fingers rubbing her brow as she laughed. Sighing heavily, Greta started to type a reply, then deleted the words, reluctantly watching them disappear one by one. After closing down the app she pushed the phone away, her stomach roiling. A complete, gut-wrenching break was the only way to move forward and face the inevitable fallout.

***

The following week, Greta was dog-tired as she dragged herself through her second week of barely any sleep. The time she had spent with Dylan the previous week, which had initially made her feel lighter despite her fatigue, now rested dark and heavy under her eyes. The stress of Professor Andy’s email and the deep, persistent ache for Dylan were becoming unbearable. Dylan had messaged her once every day. Not with demands or anger but just to check in, making Greta’s feelings of cowardice twist in her gut. She was doing exactly what she promised she wouldn’t; ghosting and panicking.

Sitting up in bed, back pressed against the headboard, she toyed with the idea of a sick day, but the mountain of work waiting for her pushed the thought aside. With no patients to see that day, she quickly sent an email to Paula, her secretary, to say she wouldn’t be on site but was working from home and contactable. After showering, she sought the comfort of the soft grey and white cotton of her favourite loungewear, pulling her hair into a messy bun before heading to her office with a coffee. The vibration of her phone in her hand stopped her dead in the hallway. She thumbed open WhatsApp.

Dylan:

‘I know that I’m not actually a proper nurse but I have a degree in it and I know, for sure, that a panic going into week number two should probably be treated with benzos, or something. Ones that go up the bum. Not revealing a new kink over text, just saying I’ll assist if you need it. It’s straightforward enough. I got loads of practice during my A&E placement: on your side, knees to your chest, I’ll pop it in, you CLENCH. You have plenty of lube, so we’re good to go. There’ll definitely be an NHS guideline for it. I’ll check.

I really miss you, G.

Talk to me, please. Dx’

Greta’s eyes stung with the words. Dylan was lovely and funny and sweet, too fucking lovely and funny and sweet. Why wasn’t she angry? Why wasn’t she demanding to know what was going on? Greta knew exactly why and felt her resolve to push back and resist start to fall away.

Greta:

‘It’s gone too far, Dyl. Gx’

She sent the screenshot. A beat passed as she stared at her phone in the middle of the hallway.

Dylan:

‘Fuck. You don’t have to do this alone, G! Where are you?’

Greta:

‘I’m WFH’

Dylan:

‘I’m on my way. Dx’

Greta didn’t protest. She didn’t call her to stop her. It had been over a week since she had seen her or spoken to her properly. While standing in the hallway, her feet warmed by the under-floor heating that Dylan had called “boujee as fuck”, she knew she needed her to come.

***

At Greta’s behest, Dylan let herself into the apartment. Greta had given her the building’s code and a key the previous week, after ‘Stoolgate’ had made her late. She found Greta on the sofa—an enormous, low-back corner group of dark maroon corduroy—her feet resting on the huge ottoman opposite. The walls were draped in art Dylan didn’t really like, and twin floor-to-ceiling iron pillars stood as grand reminders of the building’s industrial past. Through the huge corner windows framed in exposed brick, the balcony looked out over the city they loved, the city that had raised them both.

Standing in the doorway, head pressed against the frame, Dylan waited for a beat, watching Greta stare vacantly out of the window.

‘Hey.’ Dylan’s voice was quiet, barely cutting through the silence of the huge room.

Greta blinked, as if pulled from the deep reverie she had slipped back into after Dylan had announced herself from the hallway. Her eyes finally refocused as she slowly raked her gaze over Dylan. Standing there in her 501s, a grey geometric print sweater, and the battered Converse on her feet. Her olive skin was still flushed from the rush to get there. Greta blew out a long breath as she drew up her legs, she didn’t say anything. She just dropped her head to her drawn-up knees, hugged her legs to her chest and let out the first sob.