Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

She shrieks when she sees me and demands a full recap of Warsaw. For someone so small she sure is loud. In exchange for the delicious details of what happened in warsaw, Blue has given me permission to use the dying bestfriend card whenever i need it. I'm still foreign to the concept of girl talk, but I think I'm getting the hang of it—at least, with Blue.

"My brother likes you."

"Uuuuh, Rhye, did you just 'my brother likes you' me?"

"Well, yeah. I think he really does."

We walk toward the cafeteria for jelly. Blue eats yellow jelly the way a crackhead consumes crack—rapidly and without stopping.

"How many have you had today?"

"Twelve," she answers proudly. "It's not like they'll make me any sicker. I'm already dying." She smiles.

Blue is the only person in the hospital who says when instead of if when talking about death. She doesn't just acknowledge it—she welcomes it. She never intentionally avoids the topic.

I smile at her as she digs into the jelly. We're seated by the bay window, overlooking the gardens. For a place so full of death, it's so freaking beautiful.

"Well, do you like him too?" I push.

"I do," she admits. "But in that way a dying girl likes a hot boy. Because time is limited and she really wants to live in it. You can't trust those kinds of feelings."

"But they're the ones you have. You need to trust them."

"You mean because there's no hope of me ever existing in any other state than this one—weak and dying?"

I feel bad, but I know she's joking.

I laugh. "Exactly, Blue."

"He is hot. And so freakishly tall. I know he's packed."

"Oh, okay, Blue. No need to say that out loud."

We laugh and watch the sunset.

Blue is in palliative care. She decided she wanted to die in the hospital. She didn't want to haunt her dad with her death—since he'd be the one staying in their house. And she didn't want him to sell it. So, she moved her cute bit into this place and started causing trouble while also dying. Her words, not mine.

We talk some more, and then I drive home.

Ale is there, making dinner. I wave hello before heading straight to the shower. I needed to wash the hospital off of me before Ty showed up.

He arrives at exactly 8, a silly grin on his face, and we head to the music room.

I hear him play Clair de Lune, and Gautier is right—he's too heavy. Too forceful.

I settle next to him and play it for him instead.

"Do you hear the difference?"

He nods.

"Try it again. Like, maybe imagine you're caressing a baby's cheek or something. And try not to jump on the pedals."

He tries—but I don't know if he's imagining caressing baby Hitler, because man, he's even more forceful than usual.

I let him play it to the end.

We end up just talking and laughing because Gigi offered Ty wine, and he thought it would be too rude to decline. Drunk Ty is an experience on a whole other level.

He plays better when he's drunk—less serious, more carefree. I almost suggest he should play Debussy like this. Honestly, I kind of enjoy drunk Ty.

"Your Gigi is kinda cool," he says.

"Yeah, she is."

We're on the floor now, just hanging out.

"How come we've never done this before?" he asks.

"We have. We were twelve, I think."

He laughs. "Well, that explains it."

"Explains what?" I ask, curious.

"Because when your boobs came in, I was too shy to be around you. I had a massive crush on you."

I ignore the fact that he just admitted that. "You? Shy? But they're my boobs." I start laughing, the absurdity of this conversation not lost on me.

"Well, I didn't want to be the guy always staring at them. Now I can look discreetly."

We both crack up.

He's three glasses in, and I'm still stone-cold sober when he asks me to film him and send it to him later. We always do this—it's how you perfect your technique. Funny thing is, he sounds better and better the drunker he gets.

He films me while I mess around with Bach's Prelude Cello Suite No. 1. I found a guy online who arranged it for piano, and I thought it was beautiful.

I airdrop him the videos and walk him to the door. It's always 1 a.m. when he leaves.

The next morning, I wake up early. No breakfast—I have surgery tomorrow. Both liver and bone marrow. I'll be in recovery for four weeks.

I take my bike and head for the lake. The weather is too good to pass up.

The sun is deliciously warm on my skin when my phone starts going crazy—so many notifications.

Ty posted on Instagram, a mashed-up video of him playing and me playing. He captioned it: First we start with Debussy, and we finish on De Bach.

The boy probably shouldn't quit his day job, but he's hilarious.

I double-tap and leave a simple lol in the comments.Which he hearts.