Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

Nervous and excited. And then there was Aga—another layer of emotion I wasn't ready to untangle just yet.

There's something about flying that fills me with tangible excitement. The moment the wheels lift from the ground, I feel a sense of freedom, unburdened by expectations or responsibilities. It's the closest thing to weightlessness, to pure possibility.

Grandpa Howells used to fly for fun. He had a creaky, dilapidated aircraft that he took us up in every summer. It wasn't much to look at, but to me, it was magic. His father had been a World War II pilot, and though he passed down everything he knew about flying and aircrafts, it was in the sky that Grandpa Howells felt most alive.

On warm summer evenings, he'd take Grandma and me up in JollyBee, his beloved aircraft, and we'd watch the sunset from thousands of feet above the earth.

"Rhiannon," he'd say, "there's nothing more peaceful than a sunset in the air." He was the only one who called me by my full name.

Gigi, of course, had insisted we go dress shopping yesterday. She's the only adult family member besides Joey who knows what I'm up to today.

"Now, Rhiannon," she had said, eyes twinkling with mischief, "when you meet a boy you like, you must look breathtaking."

After much deliberation, we settled on a Carolina Herrera backless floor-length gown in forest green. But Gigi wasn't satisfied with just that. "We simply must get black Jimmy Choos," she had declared, waving away my protests. And then, as if it were non-negotiable: "And don't you dare straighten those curls."

The flight was relatively short, and before I knew it, we were descending into Warsaw. I landed at 10:45, turned on roaming, and began searching for a hotel. Food, a bath, and sleep—those were my priorities in that order before anything else.

At baggage claim, my suitcase appeared on the conveyor belt, and I rolled it to my side, still scrolling through hotels. That was when I saw him—a neat-looking blond man holding a card with my name on it.

He glanced down at what I assumed was a photograph of me, then waved me over. "Hello," he said in a thick Polish—or maybe Ukrainian—accent. He took my bag and led me outside to a sleek black Mercedes.

"Gigi sent me," he added with a small smile.

Of course she did. I instantly relaxed as we drove through the rain-soaked streets of Warsaw, the city lights blurring past. When we arrived at the Hotel Mercure, he opened my door and said he'd be back in the evening to take me to the event.

At reception, I discovered that Gigi had booked me the penthouse suite. Because of course she had.

Checking in was smooth, and soon, I was soaking in a suspiciously deep bath filled with lavender-scented bubbles. I let the heat sink into my skin, but I didn't wash my hair.

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

Along with breakfast, a parcel and a note had arrived.

Every Howell on her 18th birthday deserves to look like a million bucks.

Makeup at 18. The Carolina Herrera is too safe. Paint the town red, dear, and use a condom.

Inside the box was the most scandalous-looking black Vera Wang gown, what I estimated to be over half a million worth of Bulgari diamonds—a necklace with matching earrings and bracelet—a value pack of condoms, and—because it was Gigi—two bottles of lube.

I burst out laughing.

I had breakfast, then fell into bed, sleeping soundly until the hair and makeup team arrived. They did such an incredible job that, for the first time in my life, I felt truly beautiful.

As I was admiring the final look, my phone rang. The concierge. My ride was here.

I glanced at my reflection. I was wearing what could be the equivalent GDP of a small African country.

Downstairs, Aleksii, my driver, opened the door for me, and as I stepped out, I took in my surroundings. The grand hall before me was named after the great Frederic Chopin.

I felt alive. Lucky.

My eyes wandered through the well-dressed guests. And then—I saw him.

Black suit. He had finally cut his hair.

Tomas.

He grinned when he saw me, and before I could move, he was already walking toward me.

I was rooted in place. Somehow, he was more beautiful than the images I had stored away in my mind for when I felt sad.

"Rhye, you look stunning."

"As do you, Tomas." I hesitated, then added, "Remission looks sort of beautiful on you."

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, as he pulled me into a hug. His hand rested on my bare back—hot against my skin.

I breathed in, savoring the moment, the feeling of him.

He inhaled deeply too, then whispered, "You smell like you."

He took my hand in his, fingers warm and steady, and together, in silence, we walked into the hall.

We don't talk as we take our front-row seats. I am yet to ask how he managed a last-minute front-row seat for himself. For a philharmonic pianist, I'm probably the only one in a million who rarely attends a piano concerto that wasn't me playing. It's not that I don't support other artists. It's just that I have the bad habit of moving my fingers and my feet as if I were the one playing. It's quite distracting.

I could watch Joey play the cello without getting distracted or playing the piece in my head as some form of bizarre practice.