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Before Florence can say anything to that, Izzy’s phone goes off. She points a finger at Florence as she gets to her feet. “We’re not done with the setlist discussion.”
“Izzy,” Toni says. “Go get the newbie.”
Izzy goes, letting the door slam shut behind her.
“Are you two going to get through the tour without ripping each other’s heads off?” Miray asks, fiddling nervously with one of her space buns.
“I’m not the one who started it,” Florence says petulantly.
“For the record,” Toni says, “I don’t think Izzy’s wrong. We could lean into it. The whole dark, sexy vibe we have going on in ‘ballad.’”
“I don’t know if we should,” Florence says. “We’re an all-female rock band and we’re queer. We’re already going to be fetishized and held to different standards. I don’t want them to think we’ve only gotten this far by being hot gay women.”
Toni’s lips twitch. “We are hot gay women, though.”
“Are you worried about your father?” Miray asks gently.
Florence cringes. Trust Miray to take one glance at her and pull to light her most tender insecurities. That’s what she gets for being friends with someone since primary school, she supposes. “He might see the things they say about us. He might agree with them.”
“Sure,” Toni accepts. “Good thing he isn’t in our band.”
When she says it like that, it sounds so simple.
Before Florence can reply, the door swings open, whining plaintively on its hinges. “It’s a shithole,” Izzy is saying to the person behind her, “but it’s our shithole. If you make nice with Earl, he’ll even let you in on the salted peanuts he keeps behind the bar.”
The person behind her laughs. The sound does something strange to Florence’s stomach even before she sees who it is. Then Izzy steps aside, allowing the newcomer to enter the practice space, and Florence has to grip the edge of the keyboard so she doesn’t keel over.
It’s Luca. Bus-stop Luca. Running-through-the-rain Luca. Head-between-Florence’s-thighs, melting-at-having-her-hair-pulled Luca.
Luca, who Florence has been thinking about since she woke up this morning, still feeling the phantom touch of her fingers on her skin.
Luca, who she was certain she was never going to see again.
“Everyone,” Izzy says, “this is Luca. Luca, this is Toni, our lead guitarist. Miray plays the keys. And that’s Florence, our lead singer. She writes all our songs. I play bass.”
Izzy’s voice is almost drowned out by the rushing of blood in Florence’s ears as Luca’s gaze latches on to hers. In those few seconds of silence, Florence can see the entirety of their last encounter play out behind Luca’s eyes. She looks as mortified as Florence feels, her face draining of blood as her ears turn an alarm-signal red.
Florence makes a small noise that might generously be called a laugh if it didn’t sound so strangled.
“We met at the coffee shop,” Izzy is saying. And then: “Florence. You with us?”
“Y-yes. I’m here,” she manages.
Luca abruptly looks away. One of her hands comes up to scratch at her neck, the same nervous fidget she showed when she invited Florence up to her flat not even twenty-four hours earlier, right before they—
Oh, God. She can’t think about that right now.
Somehow, she manages to scrape together the dignity to say, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Luca says scratchily.
“All right.” Izzy drops back onto the sofa. “I’ve done my job. Someone else take over.”
Florence takes that as her cue. Her own voice sounds far away as she rattles off her script. “Thanks for coming. Like we wrote on the flyer, we’re looking for a drummer to join us on tour. We’ll be opening for Juno Wilde.”
The dazed expression on Luca’s face gives way to blatant disbelief. “Wait. Juno Wilde? As in . . .”
Florence nods.
