7. House of Books and Friends
Chapter seven
House of Books and Friends
Two weeks passed in silence and Dylan’s plates were now spinning more precariously than ever, as she juggled her mother’s care and a stalled dissertation with the escorting she now loathed.
While she once enjoyed her clients' escapism and seeing them truly having a good time, thoughts of Greta now consumed her completely, leaving no room in her mind for anything else. Training daily, sometimes twice, she still couldn’t clear her mind of the woman she now physically ached for.
‘Dyllydally, what’s going on with you?’ Priya said, eyes locked on Dylan as she busied herself loading the dishwasher.
‘With me?’
Priya scrutinised Dylan’s face. ‘Aye. You.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ohh, right, nothing is it?’ Priya echoed, arms crossed over her chest. ‘So you’re just out here living your best life, that right?’
‘Mmhmm,’ Dylan hummed nonchalantly, tonguing her cheek as she popped a detergent tablet inside the tiny compartment of the dishwasher door, and closed the little flap with a satisfying click.
With narrowed eyes, Priya slowly raked her gaze over Dylan. ‘What are you hiding from in that gym?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why are you in that gym every day? It’s not health—’
‘I’m not!’ Dylan interrupted, her tone incredulous as Priya tilted her head to the side. ‘I just… Well, it’s my diss, isn’t it. It’s stressing me out,’ she lied, partly.
‘I thought you had a mentor now. Can’t they help?’
The whole story sat on the tip of Dylan’s tongue but she couldn't face the judgment.
She didn't want anyone, especially Crew Mamacita, to label her a sex worker. She hated that, despite knowing there should be no shame in what she or anyone else did with their bodies, the stigma still bothered her. The inevitable look in their eyes was something she couldn’t stomach.
Huffing out a long sigh, Dylan closed the dishwasher door and turned to lean on it. ‘She couldn’t commit, annoyingly. Too busy. I’m waiting to be allocated a new one,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘Shame,’ Priya replied gently. A few moments passed as she looked at Dylan. ‘Dyl, you can talk to me, you know. I’m not just here for your mum.’
A steadily building sting prickled at Dylan’s eyes, as she blinked rapidly. ‘I know, Pri. I’m good, honestly. Scouts honour.’ Pressing three fingers to the side of her head, Dylan smiled and performed a little salute. ‘Dib-dob-duulah. Or whatever the frigg it is they say.’
Priya laughed, stepping toward Dylan, her expression softening.
‘Come here.’ She pulled Dylan into a hug.
Stooping to reach the tiny nurse, Dylan melted into Priya’s body, drawing on every fibre of her being not to break down, though her chin quivered against Priya’s soft tunic.
‘I know something isn’t right, Dylan, but I’m not going to go on.
I just want you to know I am here whenever you’re ready to talk,’ Priya said softly, her voice not sounding like her own as Dylan’s strong shoulder forced her chin up, stretching her neck.
Dylan turned her head to the side, resting her cheek on Priya’s shoulder and squeezed even tighter.
A silent beat passed before Priya heaved a dramatic sigh.
‘Right,’ she said, playfully pushing Dylan away.
‘You big daft bugger, that’s enough of that.
I’ll be half crushed to death by the time you’ve finished with me. ’
Pulling away, Dylan held Priya at arms length. ‘Thanks, Pri. Don’t worry about me though, yeah?’
Priya sucked her teeth, eyes narrowed again as she looked Dylan up and down suspiciously. After all the time they had spent together, Dylan knew that if Priya’s expression meant anything, it was do not count on it.
***
It had been a month since Greta had left Dylan standing in her hallway.
She had thought about her first thing in the morning and last thing at night, busying herself in between to distract herself from the torrid ache in her belly.
Navigating their now linked lives felt impossible.
She was terrified of bumping into her on campus, or at the PCI.
Although fairly sure that Dylan’s schedule probably wouldn’t include much time—if any—at the hospital, the uncertainty was anxiety-inducing.
When she did think of Dylan being there, she imagined her entering her office uninvited and fucking her against the door.
Hands running down Dylan’s firm stomach, fingers pushing beyond where she had gone during their last meeting at Gotham.
She would tear herself from the thoughts immediately as a tidal wave of self-reproach took their place.
On constant high alert, her mind pulsed with anxiety at the prospect of seeing Dylan during the lecture she was about to give to the Clinical Research Master’s cohort—a group she was only teaching as a favour to the faculty lead after the original lecturer fell ill.
Entering the auditorium, she couldn’t bring herself to look at the students.
Instead, she busied herself with her laptop, and made small talk with the previous lecturer.
It was her turn. Fuck.
After stepping up to the lectern, she cast a furtive glance over the seated crowd while maintaining an ostensible air of calm authority.
‘Good afternoon everyone,’ she began. Her voice sounded confident, like it belonged to her.
Thank Christ. A couple of mutters and coughs rippled over the auditorium, then a hush descended.
‘My name is Doctor Greta Vincent. I am a medical oncologist based at The Pankhurst Cancer Institute. My specialism is TYA oncology, and I am currently the Principal Investigator of numerous clinical trials currently open and recruiting at the PCI here in Manchester. I am also Chief Investigator for an upcoming molecular profiling study aimed at enabling translational and biomarker research, with the overall aim of enhancing personalised cancer care and improving clinical trial access. I have been asked by Doctor McClure to speak to you today about the importance of centralised biobanking.’
The moment Greta began speaking about her work she grew calmer, her nerves dissipating completely.
Her work wasn’t just a career; it was her entire world.
On the cusp of her professorship, she had one singular ambition for her time on Earth, and that was to make a difference for her patients—and if not them, the ones that came after.
The audience participation was excellent, and she was confident that Dylan was not amongst them.
She felt she would have sensed her. The lecture concluded to a round of enthusiastic applause, as she thanked the attendees.
The auditorium emptied and grew quieter as she busied herself packing away her things.
‘Doctor Vincent,’ a quiet voice came from behind her.
Greta froze, inhaling sharply, refusing to turn.
‘Greta,’ the voice said again in a much softer, more familiar tone, leaving her with no doubt as to who it was.
Greta dropped her head as though her own name had flown through the air, knocking it forward. ‘Greta, please.’
Sucking in a breath, she bit her cheek. The sharp pain grounded her, a reminder of who and where she was. As she slowly turned, Greta’s gaze fell on the woman she had thought about every day for weeks. ‘You can’t be here, Dylan,’ she said coldly.
Dylan’s smile pushed into her cheeks despite her apparent apprehension. ‘Err, I can actually. This is my course. My lecture. My—’
Greta cut her dead with a look. ‘You know what I mean. I don’t have time for games, Miss St John.’
Dylan’s smile widened as her surname hit the air. She took half a step forward. ‘I don’t want to play games, Gret—’
‘Doctor Vincent,’ Greta corrected, her tone overly stern.
Dylan frowned and canted her head. Her expression carried a brief flicker of amusement as Greta felt a flash of embarrassment run over her. After all they had done together, insisting on Dr Vincent was utterly absurd. Greta’s attempt at a professional barrier had failed completely.
‘I need to see you…’ Dylan hesitated before boldly saying, ‘Greta.’
Blinking quickly, Greta tried valiantly not to allow her breaths to quicken or her heart to beat so loudly that it would echo in the now empty auditorium.
‘You’re looking at me right now. Say what you need to say and go.’
Immediately regretful of her coldness, Greta cast her gaze to the floor and tongued her cheek. Dylan had done nothing wrong, Greta knew that, but she couldn’t let her close. If all she had to keep her at a distance were cruel words and an abrasive tone, she would use them to her full advantage.
‘You know what I mean,’ Dylan replied. Her tone was different, bold and unrelenting. She moistened her lips with her tongue, took another small step closer and lowered her voice. ‘Meet me. Anywhere. I’ll book a room. I’ll… Please, Greta, meet me. I’m going insa—’
‘Excuse me, ladies!’ A loud male voice boomed from the entrance of the vast room, bouncing off every wall and surface. ‘I’m shutting this room down now. Lights off, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Greta replied politely, though her voice treasonously fluctuated in pitch. She cleared her throat and met Dylan’s gaze before coldly saying, ‘We’re done here.’
Dylan blew out a sharp breath of air, as though she had been punched.
Stepping to the side, she watched Greta’s every move as she picked up her bag, threw her jacket over her arm and sauntered past. As she drew level, Dylan inhaled deeply, her eyes sliding shut for a beat.
Greta slowed for the briefest moment, her stomach roiling and tightening though she kept on walking.
‘Miss!’ The man’s voice barked.
Dylan whipped around to face him. ‘Right! Jesus!’ she snapped. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ she followed up, palms facing him in apology as he gestured angrily to the door, his pot belly wobbling with the momentum.
Greta snapped her gaze away from Dylan, and walked through the exit.
***