17. I can’t just fuck #3
Dylan draped a leg over Greta’s thighs. Greta’s hand rested on Dylan's calf, holding her there.
‘Nothing about the fact that I’m almost fifty? No?’
‘I couldn’t give less of a shit, G. My mum will probably die young.
She can’t take much more. I’m watching her ebb away.
I have no family…I’m trying to get through my fucking dissertation.
I’ll need to get a job soon. I really don’t see how you being a bit older has any bearing on whether or not we try. ’
‘A bit?’ Greta drew in a breath. ‘Although your generation loves to YOL— ’
‘My generation?’ Dylan snorted.
‘You can’t YOLO your way through something so significant.’
‘I’ve never said YOLO before in my life and I don’t intend to start now.’ Dylan blew a huff of air through her nose. ‘Did you hear any of what I just said?’ she asked earnestly.
‘I’m listening, yes.’
‘You didn’t hear me, though, did you?’ Dylan pushed her arm under her head, eyes fixed on Greta’s as she straightened the throw over them. Greta’s brow furrowed. ‘Of the things I just said, you plucked out age as the biggest issue? The biggest hurdle we’d face?’
‘Real life doesn’t care about issues and hurdles,’ Greta countered. ‘It cares about what it can gossip about. What it can hate, what it can other, rather than face or try to understand.’
‘Listen, Greta,’ Dylan said, sounding suddenly serious, making Greta’s stomach lurched. ‘If Sarah P and Holland T can do it—’
‘Steady on, Dylan, I’m not eighty.’
Dylan chuckled and pressed a kiss to Greta’s chest. ‘Greta, it isn’t the nineties. Things are better now. People don’t care who’s with who and if they do, fuck ‘em.’ Greta quirked a brow. ‘Do you like me?’ Dylan asked quickly.
‘No, it isn’t the nineties but—’
‘Do you like me?’ Dylan reiterated with a smile.
‘Dylan, it’s not that straightforward.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Greta, just answer the question.’
‘Yes!’ Greta replied, perhaps a little too forcefully. ‘Yes,’ she mellowed. ‘I do.’
‘Okay, so, how is our age difference the most important thing on my list, when you are the only positive thing on it?’
Dylan pressed her head lightly against Greta’s, running her hand back and forth over Greta’s smooth hip. She pecked the tip of her nose before kissing her softly on the lips.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ Greta confessed suddenly.
‘Then don’t.’
‘I don’t want you to hurt me. I couldn’t survive another heartbreak. I wouldn’t survive if I lost—’
‘I won’t. I won’t hurt you…and you won’t lose me.’
‘You can’t promise me that you won’t die, Dylan.’ The words came out, or were forced out, on one anxious breath. Greta held Dylan’s gaze as she tried to blink back her tears.
‘What was your wife’s name?’ Dylan asked softly. The weight of the question forced Greta’s eyes shut. Dylan pressed her palm to Greta’s face. ‘It’s okay. You don't have to answer.’
Greta opened her eyes and looked at Dylan. ‘Muriel.’ The name was barely a whisper. ‘Muriel Emerson. We met at University…’ She paused to inhale. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Dylan.’
‘That’s okay. We don’t have to.’
A few beats passed as Greta allowed herself to think about Muriel.
She didn’t cry. She would tell Dylan about her another time; she felt ready, but naked in bed wasn’t right.
Her mother's words thrummed in her brain, a low hum of looping thoughts telling her to stop denying herself what she needed.
She could picture her parents' unwavering faces as they spoke.
Their love and unconditional acceptance; it was all born from love. It all bloomed from love.
The brooding, all-consuming anger had started to dissipate since she recognised her feelings for Dylan.
It was being replaced by something else, something bigger that would fill her instead of leaving her with the cruel irony of an agonising hollowness that wouldn’t allow room for anything else to grow.
The gut-wrenching pain could be soothed.
Dylan could soothe it; she could replace it with her big heart and good soul.
She could choose Dylan.
She should choose Dylan.
Greta pushed herself half on top of Dylan, propping her head on a bent arm with her other hand pressed to Dylan’s sternum.
She kissed her softly, a delicate kiss that sent the butterflies in her chest that had only just settled, bursting back to life.
Pulling away, she searched Dylan’s smiling face before resting her head against her chest. The strong, steady beat of her kind heart thumped beneath Greta’s ear as she absorbed the warmth of her skin.
A few minutes passed in comfortable silence.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Doctor Vincent.’
‘Jesus, you can have them for free.’ Greta laughed lightly before drawing in a steadying breath. ‘We should try, shouldn’t we? Us, I mean. We have to—should we try?’ Greta said earnestly.
Dylan tightened her hold. ‘Please don’t say something you don’t mean, or don’t intend to follow through, Greta. You can’t say it unless you mean it, because I can’t just have sex with you if—’
‘I like you, Dylan. I really like you. That’s all that matters from my list, too.’