Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

The sickly "okay-looking" boy is here. It's almost impossible not to glance over and watch him watch me. That's when I realize I never got his name.

I haven't gone to see Joey lately, not with practice, and Joey hasn't been forthcoming since I betrayed him.

This boy, though... He has a presence that fills up the room, like gas expanding into space. He takes up mental space just by existing in the same room.

I know a few people with that kind of energy. One of them is Gigi Howells. She has that way about her she demands to be seen, noticed, paid attention to. It's not anything she does or says, it's just her energy.

When I walked off stage with Gautier, the conductor, I saw Gigi, Joey, and Mom waiting for me in the banquet hall. Gigi had a bouquet of flowers, and Joey looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

I kissed Gautier's cheek to thank him and then marched straight to Gigi.

She pulls me into a hug. I can smell the faint trace of wine on her breath. It's there, lingering in the space between us. Gigi is what Mom likes to call a "functioning alcoholic," but in the way that wealthy people are eccentric, never problematic. Mom always explains things in terms of money.

Not that she considers herself wealthy, not in the way Grandma's kind is. Mom's wealth spans centuries, built on diamond mines and oil tycoons, stitched into the fabric of history. Grandma's kind is acquired wealth, earned through grit and business, not inheritance from being potato farmers to merchants. It's the kind of wealth that still feels the need to prove itself, to be loud and showy. Mom hates that. She tolerates Gigi, but I've always known she looks down on her—not for the drinking, not for the dramatics, but because she comes from money that was made, not passed down through blood. I hate the way Mom talks about these things. Like it all matters. Like it explains people.

"Rhian, your dress is absolutely stunning, and you were wonderful out there," she says, settling into her seat.

I sit next to Mom, on my right. She squeezes my hand her quiet way of saying, well done. I smile at her, but my eyes wander around the room.

Then I see him.

No one should be that good-looking.

He's wearing a tux, seated next to an equally beautiful older woman. They have the same blue eyes, and she's whispering something in his ear.

I wonder if he smells nice.

"Your roommate?" I ask Joey, eyeing the boy.

Joey looks up from his phone. "Yup," he says. "That's Tomas."

I like the name Tomas. It suits him. He does look like a Tomas.

I force myself to look away and focus on Gigi and Mama's conversation. The first course arrives some kind of cucumber soup. It smells amazing, but I can't risk eating that in this dress. I'm a messy eater. I'll stick to something more solid.

Dad joins us during the third course some fish with steamed veggies, served with a kind of creamy dressing. The hall is buzzing with conversation. Ty is at the piano, playing Chopin, and it looks like he's enjoying it. Ty and I were trained together.

I excuse myself.

I know this concert hall like the back of my hand. I grew up here.

The air is cold against my face, the sky heavy with clouds, threatening rain nothing unusual for Dublin in the summer . In the distance, I can still hear the faint melody of Ty's playing. I've always been able to tell when it's him. His music, though technically flawless, carries an edge of hesitation, as if he's not entirely convinced his hands can create what they do. I've never told him that. I value our friendship too much to diminish his passion.