23. Kintsugi #2
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.’
Dylan grimaced, ‘Stobbit you big dafty I’m—’
‘Stop,’ Greta interrupted, with a peck on Dylan on the lips. ‘Just take it.’
With the most tender of touches, Dylan moved Greta’s hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand, leaving it resting on her neck, her thumb brushing over her cheek in a soft curve.
Drawing in a long slow breath she examined every inch of Greta’s face.
In total silence she traced the soft brown of her eyes, the arch of her thick sculpted brows and the natural curl of her lashes.
She looked at the faint lines around Greta's eyes and mouth—the map of a lifetime of emotion and expression—the bow of her top lip and the plumpness of the bottom. Dylan’s brow furrowed under the weight of the words she was holding back.
The words felt right, hidden deep in her chest, but it was far too soon to say them aloud.
She couldn’t risk giving Greta a reason to run.
‘I don’t half fancy you,’ she said instead.
‘Are you, in fact, a teenage boy?’ Greta laughed.
A wide smile spread over Dylan’s face as she whispered, ‘Shut up and kiss me.’
***
‘I’m impressed with your overnight bag packing, Dylan,’ Greta said to Dylan’s reflection, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Were you worried I’d have bundled you into a taxi in last night's clothes sans your kecks, with a blanket over your head? Like some miscreant leaving court?’
‘A little,’ Greta laughed as she finished applying her mascara in the mirror. She caught Dylan’s reflection again and raised a brow. ‘Miscreant? That’s a great word.’
Dylan dropped into a mocking—but surprisingly good—Trump impression.
‘Oh, I know words. I know all the words. No one knows more about words than I do. Big, beautiful words. I may have even just invented that word right here on the spot. We’re not certain, but I think we’re gonna check it out.
We’re working on that right now.’ She sucked in a dramatic breath, her hands moving as though she were playing an air-accordion.
‘You know who hasn’t invented any words?
’ Greta shrugged, eyebrow quirked as she watched Dylan in full performative glory.
‘Sleepy Joe Biden.’ A deep throaty laugh came from Greta, shaking her head as she slid the wand back into its tube.
‘Anyway,’ Dylan chuckled, her voice back to normal.
‘It wasn't all for you, Doctor Vincent. I love you in that colour.’
Along with Greta’s creams and makeup, Dylan had brought the outfit she had hand-picked.
Her eyes had immediately been drawn to the dark green shirt dress hanging in Greta’s wardrobe.
Though the fit was relaxed, the deep emerald made Greta’s pale skin glow.
It was the same colour as the shirt Greta wore the day their real lives collided.
A colour she had never really paid any mind to before she turned on her chair and life was forever changed.
Paired with her brown brogues, the sight of Greta’s smooth, naked legs and the open buttons flashing a hint of cleavage were enough to drive Dylan to distraction.
Three neat packing cubes sat open nearby on the bed, the precise organisation had immediately drawn Greta's eye. The meticulous order was definitely a far cry from the woman who had come undone in the restaurant and fucked Greta against the hotel room door the night before.
In the mirror, Dylan pinched and poked at her full soft curls, standing just behind Greta in slouched jeans and a dark maroon sweatshirt. On her feet were the dreaded Converse.
‘Shall we go shopping?’ Greta asked Dylan’s reflection.
‘Err, yeeeah,’ Dylan’s tone was both curious and a tad suspicious. ‘What for? I need some food first, and I’ll be going to see Margs, but— ’
‘I want to buy you some new shoes,’ Greta said matter-of-factly, fastening a silver hoop through her lobe.
Dylan looked down at her feet, frowning as she poked out a pondering bottom lip. ‘I don’t need new shoes.’ She pulled her gaze back to Greta’s in the mirror.
Greta moved to the other ear. ‘Dylan, your shoes are objectively disgusting,’ she said without a hint of amusement.