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“Why not?” Izzy demands.

They’re scattered around their practice room in the basement of The Hare and Oak. Florence is pacing the length of the tiny space, sidestepping the crates of beer and cleaning supplies. Toni is perched on an old, rickety barstool that Earl has graciously spared them. Izzy lounges on the faded green sofa, her legs draped over Miray’s lap as her dark eyes follow Florence around the room.

“Because,” Florence says, “it’s borderline pornographic. We should at least ease them into it.”

“‘swallow me,’ then.”

“How is that any better than ‘ballad’?”

“Toni,” Izzy says. “What d’you think?”

Toni doesn’t look up. Dark-blond hair falls into her eyes as she quietly tunes her guitar. “Don’t rope me into your shit.”

“Boring. Miray?”

“Why don’t we look at the rest of the setlist first and then decide?” Miray suggests diplomatically. In her pastel-pink overalls and heart-shaped earrings, she’s a bright burst of color in the glum grays and browns of the basement.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Izzy tilts her head back and looks at Florence again. “I think ‘ballad’ sets the tone.”

“I wasn’t aware our tone was debauched sex den.”

“It could be,” Izzy insists.

“This is our first tour.” Florence rubs at her temples. “The impression we make here is crucial in establishing our brand.”

“Why can’t our brand be sexy? Jesus, Florence, are you slut-shaming me?”

“What? How can I be slut-shaming you when I am the one who wrote the stupid so—”

Florence breaks off when she sees Izzy’s lips curl into a grin that clearly reads, Gotcha. It’s reserved for instances like this one, when she manages to rile Florence up in exactly the way she intended. Two years of being in the band together have given Izzy ample opportunity to learn how to push every one of Florence’s buttons.

Florence narrows her eyes at her. “We leave ‘ballad’ for the end. Second-to-last song.”

Izzy looks like she wants to keep arguing, but Toni beats her to it. “Hey, Iz. When did you say the next drummer’s going to be here?”

“Should be any minute now.” Izzy looks down at her phone to check the time.

“Has anyone else reached out?” Florence asks.

“Not yet. ’s pretty spontaneous, to be fair.”

The tension headache building behind Florence’s temples increases. They’ve been messaged by two other potential band members so far. One was a thirtysomething guy named Greg who immediately asked how much of a cut he was going to get (none—they’re going to be firmly in the red with hostel bookings and travel costs alone) and if he’d be allowed to play one of his own songs as well (Florence’s eyes still hurt from how far they rolled back into her skull). The other was an eighteen-year-old student who wanted something to do over the summer holidays.

“And you’re sure this one sounds promising?” she asks.

“She’s not a teenager and she’s not Greg,” Izzy answers with an expansive gesture. “That answer your question?”

Having finished tuning her guitar, Toni strums a solemn A minor. “Great standards we’ve got there.”

“I showed you the videos, didn’t I? She’s good,” Izzy says.

Florence grudgingly agrees. The videos were low-quality, shot on a phone in a dark basement not unlike this one, angled so that only the drummer’s hands and a sliver of her torso were visible. Even so, it was obvious that she knew what she was doing, her playing easy and confident over the tinny sound of an old Fall Out Boy song.

“Also, she’s, like—proper fit,” Izzy adds. “You’re gonna like her, Flo. Bet she’s gonna make you reconsider our debauched sex den potential.”

Florence bristles. “You don’t know what I like.”

“Yeah, I do.” Izzy’s grin grows impossibly broader. “You’ll see.”