23. Kintsugi #3
A smile tugged at the corners of Dylan’s lips. ‘What’s your problem with Converse, Doctor Vincent?’
‘I have no issue with Converse, Miss St John, but that particular pair should come with a public health warning.’
‘Oh good. I was worried you’d be coming after my Crocs next.’
‘You do not wear Crocs,’ Greta scoffed. Dylan tilted her head and shrugged as Greta’s hands froze. ‘Shit, do you wear Crocs?’
Dylan laughed and shook her head. ‘Not yet, but they do look hella-comfy. Especially the fur-lined ones.’
‘No, Dylan.’
‘But the ones with headlights poked in the holes are—’
‘Just no,’ Greta laughed. ‘Anyway, is that a yay or nay to shoe shopping?’
Rolling onto the sides of her feet, Dylan lifted each leg in turn to inspect the soles. She rubbed the top of one foot against the back of her ankle, as if giving the beaten-up canvas and rubber a little polish.
‘Hmm… I suppose so. But I can buy my own shoes, thanks all the same.’
‘I’m buying them for you.’
‘Are you gonna take me to Clarks and put my foot on that measuring thing, needlessly squeeze my big toes and make me walk up and down in front of the shop lady?’ Dylan teased.
Greta rolled her eyes. ‘Dyl. Just let me buy you a pair of fucking shoes.’
Dylan hummed, conceding with a grin. She slid her arms around Greta’s waist and kissed her cheek, her eyes still fixed on their reflection. ‘Well, the deal is, we get like-for like-ish Converse, and I buy brunch.’
Greta pressed her hands into Dylan’s forearms, her lips curling into a smile. ‘Deal.’
A few moments passed as they watched their reflections. The weight of unspoken words filled Dylan’s chest, pushing into her throat, almost forcing the confession out involuntarily like a breath. Before she could speak, Greta canted her head, resting it against Dylan’s cheek.
‘I really like you, Dylan St John,’ she said softly.
Dylan couldn’t stop the wide smile that claimed her face, despite her best efforts to play it cool.
‘I like you too, Greta Vincent.’ Dylan placed a lingering kiss on Greta’s temple.
‘Right!’ She clapped her hands together in front of Greta, making her tut and flinch.
‘Brunch? What about Federal Cafe? I need those ‘shrooms and that spicy sauce in, on, and around my boat race.’
***
They checked out of The Midland, the overnight bag slung over Dylan’s shoulder, her hand resting in the small of Greta’s back.
With their fingers entwined they wove through town toward the Northern Quarter, dodging the throngs of Saturday shoppers.
The sun was actually out, a rare treat in the usually rainy city.
It was pleasantly warm for spring, but whenever the shadows of the tall buildings brought back the chill, Dylan would pull Greta tightly into her side.
They joined the queue outside Federal Cafe, pressed hip to hip on the narrow pavement while the Metrolink trams tooted and rattled around them.
Greta had expected to feel exposed or awkward with the eyes of strangers on them, but she didn't. Being with Dylan, her nearness and affection, overrode every part of her doubt and self-consciousness. The feeling of Dylan’s hand in hers, the weight of her strong arm over her shoulder, the sure and steady way she held her waist as she guided her through the busy streets, was all Greta had spent so long wanting.
Over the past few months when her eyes had drifted shut at night, or during the times she had allowed herself to think of Dylan, she had imagined simply leaning into her firm body.
Not in exciting far flung and exotic places but just here; in her ordinary life.
On the familiar streets of her city. When Greta looked at Dylan, really looked at her, she didn't feel like a mere collection of memories and grief.
For the first time in years, she just felt like herself. She felt like Greta Vincent.
No longer willing to overthink, Greta had accepted, from the moment they left the hotel and Dylan possessively took her hand—as though she had been doing so for years—that this was it. Exactly this. Right now. She knew that there was no future for her and Dylan…not unless she allowed right now.
They moved along in the queue, chatting breezily about nothing in particular. Dylan drew in a fast breath and looked at Greta; already laughing at the—most likely— terrible punchline.
‘Wanna hear a joke?’
‘Always,’ Greta replied, a smile tugging at her lips.
They took another step. Dylan cleared her throat as though she were about to address a sold-out Albert Hall. ‘Why can’t dogs operate CT machines?’
‘Tell me, Dylan. Why can’t dogs operate CT machines?’
‘Because cats can,’ Dylan laughed. ‘Catscan…get it?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Greta scoffed, unable to stop herself from laughing; albeit at Dylan’s amusement at herself, rather than at the joke itself.
‘Nope. Not even he can help you now,’ Dylan chuckled.
As their laughter at the terrible pun gathered momentum, a soft Liverpudlian voice yanked them both back to reality.
‘Greta?’
Greta tore her eyes from Dylan and reflexively dropped her hand. ‘Leila— Erm… hi. How are you? Hi,’ Greta stuttered, the words tumbling into one another.
Professor Andy stood before them, smiling, her hand clasped around the hand of a much younger woman.
Greta scanned them quickly; they both wore wedding bands, looked close and very together.
The woman smiled as she leaned into Leila, her free hand pressed against Leila’s upper arm.
Steeling herself with a steadying breath, Greta pushed her hand back into Dylan’s, only to feel Dylan’s fingers wrap tightly around hers in response.
‘Miss Saint John, I presume?’ Leila said, turning her gaze toward Dylan.
To Greta the interaction stretched into eternity, even though Dylan answered quickly with a breezy, charming smile, hiding the fact that she knew who it was, and that her stomach had most likely plummeted into her knackered Converse.
‘Oh, it’s actually pronounced Sinjin,’ Dylan said. ‘But yeah, that’s me. Hiya.’ She gave a small awkward wave before pushing her hand back in her pocket. Her other hand squeezing Greta’s even tighter.
‘This is my wife, Kate,’ Leila said.
The women stared at one another, Greta blinking much more rapidly than usual. From the look on her face neither Dylan, nor she, were entirely sure what the fuck was happening. Unwilling to acknowledge even an iota of impropriety, Greta steadied her voice.
‘Hi, Kate. Lovely to meet you. This is my—’ She cleared her throat. ‘Dylan.’
Dylan bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling widely at the inadvertent confession of “my Dylan”.
‘Dylan,' Greta said again, flushed and flustered. ‘This is Dylan.’
‘Table for two, guys?’ a hipster server with an impressive beard and a man bun called out, his hands pushed into the front pocket of his denim apron.
‘Yeah, mate. Thanks,’ Dylan replied, turning back to the couple. ‘Nice to see you, Prof. Lovely to meet you, Kate,’ she spoke with sudden confidence, guiding Greta forward by the elbow as though she’d just arrested her.
‘Enjoy your food,’ Kate said kindly.
‘You too,’ Greta replied, despite the fact that the couple were leaving the cafe.
They exchanged a goodbye that was as bizarre as the hello. Relief washed over Greta as the interaction ended, but it was quickly replaced by something much heavier.
‘Oh my fuck,’ Dylan breathed, finally sliding into a chair at the little wooden table the server had shown them to.
The room was small and loud. Condensation dripped down the windows, the air immediately stifling.
The clatter of crockery, gurgle of the coffee machine and the low hum of conversation created a cacophony of sounds that, layered with the potent mixture of smells, made Greta immediately nauseous. She didn’t sit down.
‘Dyl, I need to go.’ Her eyes shimmered with unspent tears.
Immediately reading the seismic shift in Greta’s demeanour, Dylan jumped back up. After making a quick excuse to the server, she took Greta’s hand, holding it tightly as they stepped back into the sunshine.
‘Shall I get us an Uber?’ Dylan said softly.
‘It’s such a lovely day. Can we walk?’
‘Course we can.’
***
‘Are you okay?’ Dylan asked tentatively as they stood in the lift. Her tone was fragile, loaded with the fear that what had just happened would finally make Greta run.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘It won’t change anything, G. You were honest with her. If you’d lied about us and then—’
‘I know, Dyl. Let’s just leave it,’ Greta said evenly. The lift doors slid open on Greta’s floor. ‘Wait here,’ she requested, sending a surge of stomach acid into Dylan’s throat.
‘Why?’ Dylan was unable to hide the panic in her voice.
Greta turned, rocked back on her heels, then held Dylan’s chin with one hand and kissed her on the lips. ‘I’m just grabbing my car keys. I’ll be two minutes. Give me that and hold the lift.’ She took the overnight bag from Dylan’s hand and stepped out.
Dylan blew out a sigh of relief. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see your mum,’ Greta threw over her shoulder as she walked away. ‘And then mine.’