Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

Tomas left. I'm afraid to text him. I know we made out, we had fun, and we like each other—but I don't want to seem like a clingy hookup. I have zero idea about the protocols of handling post-makeout affairs in the modern dating world.

I rush down the stairs, already late for practice. We're playing the Royal Albert Hall in two weeks, and the nerves are making me physically sick. Gautier's playbill this time around is just him showing off, to be honest. Not only am I playing Tchaikovsky, but I'm also playing Rachmaninoff—Piano Concerto No. 2. My hands ache. I might actually be developing carpal tunnel, which would suck.

I arrive at the conservatory at exactly 9 a.m.

I have no idea what tall giant was sitting here last, but the bench is way too far back. Do people actually have such long legs?

Adjusting the bench and pedal as fast as I can, I lay out the music before Gautier arrives. I love memorization. It's slow, and I usually take my time—it's always just me and Gautier.

I start on the Tchaikovsky, which I know by heart. I've played it so many times now I could do it in my sleep. Midway through, I realize the piano feels heavy.

Fuck. I hate playing right after Ty.

Halfway through Rachmaninoff, Gautier walks in. He stands right behind me and barks orders. Softer on that. Try to feel it. I love the guy, but man, he can be suffocating.

Later, I make my way to coffee with Ty, still debating whether or not to text Tomas. Just to say hey.

Ty is already seated when I settle across from him.

"Got you the matcha."

"Thanks, babe."

Ty is conventionally attractive—tall, thick blond hair, gray eyes that sometimes look blue. I wonder why I never found him attractive the way I do Tomas. I mean, obviously, he is attractive, but Tomas is beautiful. So quietly manly. Shit. Since when was Tomas my male attractiveness barometer?

"I'm so fucked, Rhye. You have to help."

"What happened?"

"I'm playing Debussy." He rolls his eyes.

Ty's musical preferences lean toward the Russians and the Germans—big, dramatic, full of emotion. Debussy is too soft for him. He loves statements, not whispers.

"Gautier says my touch is too heavy."

I could have told him that. Ty is all drama, no subtlety. But now, he's been handed Clair de Lune. A whisper, not a statement.

I sip my matcha as he dives into a monologue about how the playbill isn't suited for a pianist of his caliber. The audacity of this man is astounding.

"Will you help?"

"Sure, Ty."

I agree, partly because I'm not busy, and partly because it'll save me from the overwhelming thoughts of Tomas—his lips, his hands, his unbearable silence. Maybe I'm not that good at kissing.

"Usual spot?" he asks.

Ty and I met when we were twelve in Mrs. Haug's class. We've been more or less friends since then. We never hang out outside of music. I don't know much about Ty apart from his life at the conservatory.

I thank him for the matcha and send him my grandma's address. Gigi got me a Sauter Pure Noble last year, so I don't have to go back to my house to play when I'm staying with her. Which has been longer and longer lately—since, well, I don't love my house.

Joey is sadder than usual today, and I think I know why.

I walk him back to his room. He cut his hair. He didn't want to have to lose it.

Once we're settled on his bed, he opens his notebook—the one he's always scribbling in now. I don't respect the guy's privacy, but this book? I don't even touch it.

"Rhye."

I look up from my book—Pride and Prejudice this week's choice. I can probably recite it by heart at this point, but I'm a sucker for love stories that surpass all odds. And also, Darcy reminds me of Tomas.

"Yeah?" I close the book, noting the way Joey looks—so deeply sad.

"I think this is it."

"What do you mean?"

"I just want to go home and have fun. I don't want to die here."

I'm on his bed in a second. I hate the death talk.

"But Joey, the trial might work. You'll get better."

"No, Rhye."

The finality in his voice makes me pause.

"I'm tired. And I can't keep taking from you." There's a gleam in his eyes—the tears he's trying to hold back.

"Joey, you're not taking. I'm giving. And I would do it a billion more times." I hesitate. "And you'd do the same for me."

The tears finally spill down his increasingly hollow cheeks.

I hug him as he cries. Strangely, I don't cry. I don't feel the need to. I need him to survive this.

"Joey," I whisper, "just promise me you'll take the bone marrow and the liver. And if that fails—then you have my permission to die."

I look at him.

"But not now, okay? We fight now." I squeeze his hand. "I love you, Jojo."

I lie down beside him. We're both quiet. But I wouldn't choose to be anywhere else. Right here, right now, with him.

"So...Blue. You like her?"

"Yeah." He exhales. "But she doesn't like me."

Like that actually bothers him.

After his afternoon meds, I leave and go see Blue.