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“Oh?” Juno asks mildly. “Did you ask the press to run those headlines? Did you ask your father to bring you up on that talk show?”
Florence looks down at her hands and the croissant they’re still cradling. Picking at one of the buttery flakes, she asks, “Did you know who my dad was when you picked us as your opener?”
“No,” Juno says. “I picked you because I like your songwriting and because every time you get on stage, you play like you’ve got something to prove.” She pauses. “Candidly, knowing Jeffrey Blake was your father would have made me less inclined to take you on.”
Relief dissolves in Florence’s veins like honey in tea. Her lips attempt a small, fragile smile. “That’s fair. Have you met him?”
Juno makes a face. “A few times. He’s . . . exhausting, I think is the right word.”
Still smiling, Florence ducks her head. A companionable silence settles. Florence takes a small bite of her croissant—once she does, she finds it almost impossible to stop. She hasn’t realized, until now, just how hungry she is. Apparently, one can only survive off Earl’s pity peanuts for so long.
Opposite her, Juno looks right at home in the empty pub. The expression on her face is thoughtful as she brushes crumbs off her jeans and asks, “Can I count on you to finish the tour with me?”
“Yes,” Florence says. “I mean—I think so. Right now, the others are—we had a falling out. But I’m sure they’ll want to play the last few shows.”
Really, she isn’t sure at all. They’ve never fought before. There were her clashes with Izzy and the odd squabble during tour—about where to eat and where someone’s earbuds had gone and who got to use the bathroom first—but this is uncharted territory.
“It’s a huge advantage,” Juno says after a moment. “Having a band. It really is a built-in support network.”
“I guess,” Florence says. She sets her half-finished croissant down on the sticky bar counter. “I think I’m not very good at letting them support me. I’ve kept things from them that I shouldn’t’ve. I thought I was doing them a favor, but probably I was just being a dick.”
Juno’s expression doesn’t change; she still looks at Florence in that open, encouraging way, like there’s nothing Florence could say that would make Juno think less of her. Florence thinks she would’ve made an incredible therapist, if the whole music thing hadn’t worked out. “It’s easy to think that we have to shoulder our problems on our own,” Juno says. “But especially in this career, I think it’s essential you find the people who will help you carry them. I know it’s hard. But you’ve got to let people in. Florence the artist belongs to the public now. Florence the person should belong to someone else.”
“I’m not sure I even know who Florence the person is,” Florence rasps. She’s been working toward this for so long, she feels like she has built herself around the idea of her stage persona. It’s in everything she does: the matching pajama sets she wears even when it’s just her in her bedroom, the lyrics she writes in a notebook instead of her phone because that’s how her father does it, the way she sings in the shower, never out of tune even when there’s no one around to hear her. Even her tearful breakdown in the basement last night felt like it was played up for some invisible camera. Behold: the broken artist weeping cinematically over a dusty keyboard.
She doesn’t know if there’s a single moment she hasn’t been performing for the nebulous voyeur in her head. What if she’s like one of those Russian dolls, but it’s just masks and facades all the way down? What if there’s nothing at the core of her at all?
Juno interrupts her spiraling thoughts with a thoughtful hum. “When was the last time you felt naked?” she asks. Before Florence can respond, she adds, “I don’t mean literally. Hm. I guess the better way to phrase it is: When was the last time you felt a little bit too exposed in front of someone?”
The memory enters her mind unbidden: a hostel room in Vienna, her face tucked into Luca’s neck on the second night of her vocal rest, needy and tear-stained and feeling unbearably safe in Luca’s arms.
“Can you think of something?” Juno asks.
A small nod.
“Good. That’s where you start.”
Before Florence can say anything else, Juno’s phone chimes. “That’s my daughter. She’s probably waiting for her breakfast.” Sliding off the barstool, she picks up the paper bag with the remaining pastries. “I’ll see you next week, all right? Make sure you eat enough and get some sleep. You look like you need it.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Juno has almost reached the door by the time Florence gathers the courage to call out, “Juno? Is it worth it?”
All of this, she means. Being known. The headlines and the rumors and the constant performing.
With her hand on the doorknob, Juno turns around to face her. “That depends,” she says. “What would you do if no one ever heard your songs? If you didn’t have a single fan? Would you keep making music?”
The answer comes from all the way down in Florence’s bones. “Yes.”
Juno smiles, warm and knowing. “Then you have your answer.”
A moment later, the door falls shut behind her. Florence stares blindly at the opposite wall as she plucks at what’s left of the croissant and eats it, flake by tiny flake.
Discussion: Scorpio Season
GeorgieBaby: I just read an article about Scorpio Season’s Florence Gibson being Jeffrey Blake’s daughter and I’m honestly so disappointed :( I love every song they’ve put out so far and was super excited to see them get more popular, but now it seems like Florence is just another industry plant. Also, after the whole Star Factory thing I just really hate Jeffrey Blake. Does anyone else feel this way?
joshh3nders0n: I’m so sick of these posh private school girls ruining rock music. Not surprised to hear they were planted.
