Page 91 of Obedience

***

Dylan woke the next morning wrapped in the soft white hotel sheets, one arm outstretched under Greta’s neck while the other held her tight to the curve of her body. With Greta’s head rested on her bicep, Dylan sighed contentedly. Her thoughts immediately raced back to the hours they had spent together. It was the kind of night Dylan could only have dreamed of weeks ago, yet there they were; exhausted and tangled, with not a millimetre of space between them. Every time Greta had rolled away in her sleep, Dylan had pulled her back against her chest, or Greta had shuffled back on her own, never staying apart for long.

‘Good morning,’ Greta yawned, her voice deep and husky.

Dylan placed a chaste kiss on her shoulder, leaving her lips where they landed. ‘Good morning, G,’ she whispered against her skin. ‘What a kip. Did you sleep?’

‘I did,’ Greta replied in sleep-drenched tones, stretching into the contact. ‘I don’t think I moved all night.’

Tightening her embrace, Dylan hooked the arm under Greta’s neck to squeeze her shoulder. ‘I didn’t let you.’ Greta reached up, catching Dylan’s forearm and holding it to her mouth to kiss her soft, tattooed skin. ‘Have you never wanted a tattoo?’ Dylan asked, already pretty sure of the answer.

‘That would be a little like slapping an I’ve been to Blackpool sticker on the Eiffel Tower, Dylan,’ Greta deadpanned.

Dylan’s laugh rumbled deep in her chest. ‘Snob,’ she joked, giving her another firm squeeze.

A few seconds passed in comfortable silence as Dylan craned to watch Greta scanning the ink she could see.

‘Do they all have meaning?’ Greta asked softly.

‘Some do. Some mean a lot. Like this one.’ Releasing her hold, Dylan straightened the arm threaded under Greta’s neck, revealing the underside of her forearm.

In the middle of her sleeve design sat a small anatomical heart, decorated with vivid cherry blossoms and thin gold streaks running across the surface.

‘I got this one for Margs.’

Greta ran her fingertips over the design. ‘What does it mean?’ she asked, her morning hoarseness beginning to soften.

‘Have you heard of Kintsugi?’

‘I have,’ Greta’s thumb continued its slow trace. ‘It’s Japanese, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Didn’t you once mistake it for an edamame?’ Greta teased, making Dylan chuckle.

‘It’s the art of making the broken beautiful again.’ Dylan took a steadying breath. ‘Instead of throwing out broken shit, they repair it… I don’t mean like white goods and microwaves.’

‘Yes, thank you for the clarification, Dyl.’

‘Just checking we’re on the same page, Doctor Vincent.’ Dylan tutted, placing a soft peck on Greta’s ear. ‘Ahem. As I was saying,’ she continued with feigned impatience. ‘They repair ceramics, often with gold glue.’

‘How does that pertain to Margaret?’ Greta placed a kiss on Dylan’s bicep.

‘Mum loved—Mum loves—’ she corrected quickly ‘—ceramics and Japanese pottery, especially with red and white cherry blossoms. It’s her thing. Her and Pri watch back-to-back antiques shows. Antiques Roadtrip. Antiques Roadshow. Antiques Roadside Assistance.’ They both laughed. ‘Honestly, they’ll watch anything as long as it’s got dusty jugs and old shit in it.’ Dylan twisted her arm as though the tattoo would catch and reflect the light somehow and blew out a shaky breath. ‘When she was injured, my heart was broken. I don’t mean like hair-line fractured…it broke into a thousand pieces. Some days, especially in the early days, and sometimes now, I sort of feel like it doesn't work properly. Like the chambers don’t pump properly, they don’t fill and empty, and it’s like the electrical conduction is wrong somehow. Does that make sense?’

‘I think so,’ Greta whispered, sounding completely sure of it. She pressed her mouth to Dylan’s arm, her breaths warm and heavy against Dylan’s skin.

‘The only way I can describe my heart now is as Kintsugi. It’s broken…it always will be. It will break again when I lose her, but in the meantime…well I know now that I can’t function with a broken heart. It’s not sustainable, you know? So I have to try and keep it held together by the glue of good and new things… Jesus Christ, I’m such a cheesy bastard,’ she laughed. ‘But it’s the only way I can describe it. It’s broken, but I have to let things, even silly things like films, books.’ She hooked her chin over Greta’s shoulder, placing a chaste kiss on her temple. ‘And the not so silly things, like you, hold it together. Otherwise, it’s too sharp and painful to carry in my chest.’

A beat passed before Dylan felt the dampness of tears against her arm. Greta sniffled, scrubbing them away quickly with her fingers.

‘Hey,’ Dylan said softly, craning to look over Greta’s shoulder. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Not all of them have a meaning. There’s a Snoopy in a Stetson and cowboy boots somewhere… I’ll find him for you.’ Dylan shifted, rolling her arm to look for the tattoo.

‘No, it's okay. You didn’t…’ Greta started but her sharp whimper cut her off. For once Dylan’s joke hadn’t worked, and Greta’s shoulders began to shake as she gave up trying to fight back the tears. Dylan pulled Greta closer, scooping the backs of Greta’s thighs with her own and resting her cheek against hers.

‘I’m sorry, G. Going on about myself and my broken heart when Margs is still very much with us. That was insensitive. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, Dyl, please. It’s so beautiful.’ Greta turned in Dylan’s arms. ‘I’ve never thought about it like that before.’ She kissed her softly on the lips. Holding her chin with her fingers, she scanned her face. ‘You’re so fucking beautiful, Miss St John.’