8. Let me sleep on it
Chapter eight
Let me sleep on it
The Uber pulled up outside Greta’s canal side apartment building.
Dipping her head slightly to fully take in the facade she had seen a million times before, Dylan looked up through the taxi window.
The old mill stood proud in red brick, its exterior darkened by time and weather.
Impressively tall, evenly spaced windows set in sills and lintels of worn sandstone ran uniformly across each floor.
The old painted company signage could still be seen on the brickwork, the word Textiles still decipherable amongst the faded letters.
Iron fire escapes lined the building’s edge, while sealed loading doors and steel beams jutting out from the neatly laid bricks, alluded to its industrial past. The Rochdale Canal ran quietly alongside below.
The building was a familiar sight to Dylan, she often wondered what the converted homes inside would be like, though she suspected she wasn’t about to find out.
‘Will you be okay?’ Dylan asked softly. She tried to ignore the driver’s prying eyes in the rearview mirror, flashing him a fuck-all-the-way-off look.
‘Yes,’ Greta replied, her voice barely a whisper.
Dylan couldn’t help but notice how fragile and small she looked. She lowered her head to snag Greta’s gaze. ‘Can I text you?’
‘I don’t think so, Dylan.’
The driver ostentatiously cleared his throat, making Dylan’s jaw clench.
‘Can I see you up? I won’t come in. I just want to make sure you’re okay.
’ Greta scanned her face. Dylan’s long lashes fluttered under the weight of the lingering look, as though Greta was allowing herself to trace every inch of her young complexion illuminated by the evening light.
‘Please, Greta. I promise. Just let me get you to your door.’
‘Sorry, girls, I’m going to have to rush you,’ the driver said sharply.
‘Girls? Really?!’ Dylan started to bite back but allowed a beat to pass before huffing out some air through a half smile. ‘He’s kicking us out, Greta. You sort of have no choice.’
Dylan got out, rounding the car quickly to open Greta’s door just as it began to swing wide.
She held out her hand. Greta hesitated, looking so overcome and so weak, before she relented and took it.
Dylan tossed both their bags over her shoulder and, to her shock and delight, felt Greta squeeze her hand as they walked into the building.
Biting her lip, Dylan managed to refrain from gushing over the building’s opulence or the no-doubt prohibitively expensive price tag, as Greta smiled at the concierge.
‘Hello, Michael,’ Greta said softly.
The white-haired old man nodded as they approached the lift. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor Vincent. Hello, Miss.’
Greta turned to Dylan who was smiling at Michael. ‘I’m okay now. You should go,’ she said, her voice thready.
‘Let me just take you up. I absolutely will not ask to come in, I promise.’
Greta nodded. They both entered the lift, and Greta thumbed the button for the top floor.
Dylan bit back a comment about penthouse territory, her need to fill awkward situations with jokes almost winning.
As they began to move, the silence stretched between them, becoming almost deafening.
Dylan desperately wanted to fill it, but the words—words that weren’t deflective puns or pointless—wouldn't come.
‘Dylan, I’m so sorry about—’
‘Don’t,’ Dylan shook her head. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’
The lift stopped with a ping and the doors slid open.
‘This is me,’ Greta said softly, stepping out onto the corridor after taking her bag from Dylan.
‘Can I...’ Dylan started, but the door began to close. She threw her hand out to catch it. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’
The words Dylan wanted to say were lost amongst the screams in her own head.
What she wanted to do was drag Greta into her arms, but she refused to put any more pressure on her by invading her space.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to get through the invisible wall Greta had thrown up since leaving the bookshop.
The doors attempted to close again.
‘For fuck’s—’ Dylan mumbled.
‘You’d better go. Michael will arrange a taxi for you.’
‘I’ll get an Uber, it’s fine.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Greta nodded. Dylan desperately pleaded with every part of her face. ‘Goodbye then,’ Greta said, turning to walk away.
‘Greta, wait!’ The lift door pushed into Dylan’s hand again.
‘Will you fuck off!’ she snapped, stepping forward to wedge a foot against the base of the door.
Greta smiled weakly. Dylan’s chest warmed at the sight; she’d been desperate to see her smile, even if it didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Can I call you? Text you? Email you?’ Dylan canted her head, a half smile pushing into one cheek.
‘Perhaps I could page you? Carrier pigeon? Telegram maybe? I’ve got some semaphore flags and a Morse Code machine somewhere.
’ She smiled as she patted down her pockets and chest.
A quiet chuckle left Greta’s throat. Dylan's warmth and charm had exactly the desired effect, though she knew it wasn't enough.
‘I don’t think so, Dylan. Margot and Remi are done. Therefore, we are done.’
‘But how can you—’ Dropping her head, Dylan forced out a slow breath as the door banged against the side of her foot. ‘Is it because of my work?’ A beat. ‘My Scortare work?’
When she looked up again, her gaze didn’t waver. She stared, steady and unflinching, determined to catch every flicker of Greta’s reaction.
‘There is a list as long as—’
‘Fuck the list.’ Another beat. ‘Please, Gret—’
‘Go home, Dylan.’
The insistent door banged against her shoe again. Stepping back, Dylan reluctantly removed her foot, allowing the doors to slide shut. She kept her eyes trained on Greta’s face until the grey steel occluded her view.
***
In desperate need of air, Dylan walked home from Greta’s apartment.
It usually took over an hour to walk home from the city centre, but it was time she needed to process what had just happened.
The whole thing had gone beyond anything she’d imagined.
Though Greta Vincent was a stranger to her—and if she were honest, the woman came across as a bit of a dick—she was under her skin now, and she knew there was more to it. More to her.
For two years, Dylan had never had an orgasm with Greta.
Their faces had never pressed together, their breaths never combined.
Yet that day, all those things had happened, and they were glorious.
What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?
How could she continue to lie awake at night, her mind a loop of Greta?
How much longer could she stare at the blinking cursor on a blank screen, at the space that should contain her dissertation, while thinking of Dr Greta Vincent?
***
Ignoring the clatter of the glass panel as the front door slammed behind her, Dylan headed towards her mum’s room, needing her nearness.
‘Hi Dylly,’ Priya said, her soft voice floating from the kitchen.
‘Hey Pri,’ Dylan replied forlornly, dropping her rucksack onto a kitchen chair, as Priya finished washing her hands in the kitchen sink.
While scanning Dylan’s face, Priya blew out an exasperated sigh.
‘Right!’ she said decisively. ‘I’ve had enough of this.
Please talk to me Dylan. I know there is something—’ Priya didn’t manage to finish her sentence before Dylan cracked.
She gave in, succumbing to the emotion and stress pushing under her skin and thrumming in her chest and mind.
Slumped in the chair sideways, in the middle of her dated kitchen, Dylan sobbed.
‘It’s okay, hen. Come here, it’s okay,’ Priya held her tight.
Her tiny five-foot-three height able to properly reach Dylan while standing behind her chair.
Pressing the side of her face into Priya’s chest, Dylan sobbed, ‘I’ve fucked up, Pri. I’ve fucked up so bad.’
‘What on earth has happened? Is it a lass? Is that why you’ve been training yourself silly and been so absent?’
‘Kind of.’ Dylan pushed the heel of her hand into her eye.
‘Oh sweetheart, everything is fixable, and if it’s really not fixable, there are always options… I know you, Dyl. There’s not a chance you will have messed something up so badly that it can’t be sorted and certainly not deliberately.’ Priya kissed the top of Dylan’s head. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Dylan nodded. ‘You need to go, Pri. It's late,’ she said through her subsiding sobs.
‘I’ll stay a few more minutes. Go and have a shower and wash the day off your skin.
Everything will seem better then.’ Dylan reached her arms around Priya over the chair, squeezing her tight.
‘Seriously, you need to stop with those weights…one of these days you’ll crush me and Margs to bloody death!
’ Priya joked. Dylan gave a humourless chuckle and ran her hands down her face, rubbing roughly as she sniffed.
‘Don’t let your mum see you like this, Dylly.
Go shower, baby. I’ll wait until you’re feeling better. ’
With her arms wrapped around Priya, Dylan pressed her face into her tunic.
A dull ache sat deep inside her chest. It was a longing for her mum—for her guidance, wisdom, hugs, and her unconditional love and support.
She missed her mum deeply. Although she was right there—-in the same house, warm, alive and breathing—she missed her.
She ached for her.
She grieved for her.
***