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“I’ll keep it professional,” Luca says. “I have to.”
“Okay,” Mason says.
“We can be friends. People become friends with people they’ve slept with all the time, right?”
“I . . . guess?”
“Right. So. There’s no need to worry.”
There is, in fact, a lot of need to worry. Her brothers know as well as she does that Luca isn’t exactly great at keeping secrets. Sometimes, things leave her mouth quicker than her brain can catch up. It’s why she usually tries not to say very much at all.
Her breaths are coming shallower than they’re supposed to. “This is a really bad idea, isn’t it.”
“Luca.” Suddenly, Mason is in front of her, blocking her path. His touch is gentle but firm as he takes her by the shoulders. “It’s going to be fine. Hey. This is incredible. You’re going to be touring all over Europe with a band. Fifteen-year-old Luca would be having a fit if she knew.”
She would. Luca sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”
“If you become famous,” Henry says, “I want you to tell everyone that I was the one who got you into drums.”
“You weren’t,” Luca says automatically.
“Yes, I was. I convinced Mum and Dad to get you a drum set for Christmas.”
“I’m pretty sure that was Lukey,” Mason says. “She wouldn’t shut up for weeks. There were a couple days there where I actually think drums and please please please were the only words we heard from her.”
Luca winces. She was a nightmare child. A nightmare teenager too. “Sorry.”
Mason shoots her a funny look. “You were nine years old. You were allowed.”
“The point is,” Henry says, “remember me for your award speech.”
“We’re not winning any awards if I implode the band because I can’t keep it in my trousers,” Luca tells him.
“I wish you wouldn’t phrase it like that,” Henry says before he, too, gets up. “Luca. You’re good at drums. You’re incredible. And it’s only five weeks. Repeat after me: I can keep it together for five weeks.”
“I can keep it together for five weeks,” Luca says.
“Okay, now say it like you mean it.”
“I can keep it together for five weeks,” she repeats, with all the desperate fervency of a prayer.
Henry nods solemnly. “Yes, you can.” He boops her nose, face splitting into a familiar grin. “And if not, it’ll at least be a hilarious story.”
10
Florence wakes up at five in the morning with a level of nervous excitement she doesn’t think she’s felt since Christmas morning when she was twelve years old. Miray finds her in the kitchen two hours later, chugging black tea and rereading the email Juno’s tour manager sent a few days ago detailing their schedule. They’re both too nervous to eat anything, so they get ready in a loaded, anticipatory silence before lugging their bags and gear downstairs.
Florence paces the pavement while Miray texts her friend who will be taking care of their plants while they’re away. She’s about to call Izzy to ask what the holdup is when a beat-up silver van rounds the corner and comes to a screeching halt in front of them. There are speckles of rust and too much duct tape to inspire confidence in its ability to transport them safely across the continent. A whining guitar solo blares from inside.
“Jump in,” Izzy shouts over the music, poking her head out the open window of the passenger seat.
Florence makes eye contact with Toni through the windshield, trying to silently communicate Is this safe?
Toni lowers the volume of the music before shoving at Izzy’s shoulder. “You. In the back. Miray’s better at navigating.”
“Ouch,” Izzy says. “That is hurtful, Antonia.”
When Toni gives no response beyond a meaningful raising of her eyebrows, the passenger door opens, and Izzy’s long legs appear. “Unbelievable,” she grumbles, grabbing one of Florence’s bags.
