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Luca looks back at her, surprised. “Oh. They’re Ritalin. For my ADHD.”

Florence nods.

“Sorry,” Luca says after a beat. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Is that why you started playing drums?”

“Yeah. I got a drum kit when I was nine. I would shut myself in my room for hours and play until my arms felt like they were going to fall off. I’m pretty sure I drove everyone insane.”

The image of a nine-year-old Luca sitting in her room playing Nirvana songs on the drums makes Florence’s chest feel warm. “You were so much cooler than me at that age.”

“What were you doing at nine?” Luca asks.

“Singing in the children’s church choir.” Florence grins down at her hands. “I practiced my parts for hours every day. I took it very seriously.”

“Of course you did,” Luca says. When Florence looks up, Luca is studying her with fondness, of all things.

“Do you think we would’ve been friends? If we’d met at nine?”

“I think,” Luca says, lips twitching, “I would’ve been terrified of you.”

“What?” Florence asks, wounded. “Why?”

“Because you were you,” Luca says, “and I was a hyperactive kid banging cymbals for fun.”

Florence frowns. She hates that. She hates the self-effacing smile on Luca’s face and the way she says these things, like they’re universally acknowledged truths. “I wish you’d stop that,” she says.

Immediately, Luca’s smile crumbles. “Stop what?”

“The way you talk about yourself,” Florence says. “You just told me you’ve been playing since you were nine years old. You learned all our songs in the span of a weekend. Luca, you’re incredible at what you do.”

Luca flinches like she’s been struck. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I . . .” Luca closes her mouth. “I don’t know.”

Florence looks at her. At some point during the last five minutes, Luca has shrunk into herself. Now she’s sitting with her shoulders curled forward, her fingers picking anxiously at her nails. Florence reaches out without thinking, covering Luca’s hands with her own.

“Stop it,” she says softly.

She can actually see the sorry form on Luca’s tongue before she swallows it down. Her hands drop limply into her lap.

“Let’s make a deal,” Florence says. “You admit that you are an incredible talent at drums and I . . .” She trails off.

“You admit that you’re a better performer than your father,” Luca says.

“Fine,” Florence says. “Okay. You first.”

Luca, looking very much like a kicked puppy, says, “I’m good at drums.”

“You are great at drums.”

“I am great at drums,” Luca repeats. It’s not very convincing. “Now you.”

“I’m—oh, Christ. I don’t think I can actually say that.”

“Do it.” Luca’s chin rises a fraction. “Say I’m a better performer than my father.”