Carved in Her Bones

Rhian- Now

Tomas left this morning. He insisted on making breakfast for us, saying I needed to eat something since I'd been up all night vomiting from the stress of his leaving. He stayed by my side in the bathroom, holding my hair back, saying little but sharing the space with me as I battled what felt like withdrawal. He tried to lighten the mood with funny stories from Spain—about Marco accidentally eating his mom's "special" brownies. It was funny, but I couldn't bring myself to laugh. At one point, he mentioned offhandedly, "You know, I was sick like this once." He didn't elaborate, and I didn't press.

I offered to go with him to the airport, but he declined. It was unsettling, knowing this man I'd only met less than three months ago mattered so much that a mere four weeks away from him left me so anxious.

The first day at the new job was awkward in that way first days always are for now reason at all. Onboarding was quick and relatively painless; there was no forced introduction, just a bright-eyed, slightly over-eager team. The building was more impressive than I'd expected. They specialized in manufacturing monoclonal antibodies here, mostly contract work, so our team's job was to design production lines for various biotech clients. The tour of the quality control labs was the most exciting part for me. But all the while, I couldn't shake the awareness that Tomas was landing soon. I hoped he'd call as soon as he did.

We signed a mountain of NDAs and contracts, then got our work laptops. Thirty minutes passed with no word from Tomas, and every minute made him feel further away. Finally, a guy named Meinhard from Austria suggested grabbing lunch.

It was a welcome distraction. Meinhard was Austrian but he had made it a point to let everyone know he grew up in Berlin, thrilled to be  home home he had said, and he talked almost nonstop about it. He led us to a "very healthy lunch bar," and as we got in line, I suddenly realized I was broke. I never thought about money when I was with Tomas. Rich people seem to exist outside those considerations. The cheapest sandwich was six euros. I checked my account and found 10,231 euros there. I'd never had that much money since leaving Ireland.

Without thinking, I called Tomas.

He picked up on the first ring. "Hey, baby. How's your first day?" His voice felt like a balm, and I had to close my eyes to stop the rush of tears.

"Good," I said, barely able to get the words out. "I made a friend."

"What kind of friend?" I heard the edge in his voice, his Klaus coming out. The idea that he was jealous—even now—made me want to melt.

"I'll tell you later." I paused, trying to find the right words. "Did you send me money?"

"Yeah, yesterday. For food, Ubers, and whatever you need." His voice was so casual, as if he hadn't just dropped a small fortune into my account.

I hesitated. "I don't need it. You've already bought the apartment, and now this..."

"Baby, you don't have an active source of income..." He paused, like he was waiting for an argument.

"I know. Thank you." As soon as we hung up, I transferred the money back to him. I felt keenly aware of the distance between us. but all I could think about was Tomas—where he was, what he was doing, and whether he missed me even half as much as I missed him. Just when I thought I was managing to distract myself, my phone pinged with a message from Tomas.

You sent the money back?

Don't need it.

Rhian, it's been a day, and you're already making things difficult.

You gave me an apartment. That's enough.

Just then, my bank app pinged with an incoming transaction: 20,000 euros.