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“We can keep it professional,” Florence says. “Right?”

Luca swallows. Her heart is racing at being this close to Florence. The scent of her brings back every single thing they did in bed last night—every single thing that Luca will never get to have again.

She tries to picture herself saying no—leaving the basement and the band behind and going back to the never-ending clockwork of sleep-work-gym-sleep and staring at the Board and only playing the drums for herself every other day when the anxious buzz under her skin becomes too much.

She can’t.

And so, because she’s stupid and self-destructive and would rather chop off her own arm than miss this chance, she says, “Of course.”

“We have practice in two days,” Florence says. “Izzy will send you the sheet music, so you can prepare.”

“Sounds great,” Luca says weakly. Now is probably not the time to let Florence know that she has never learned how to read sheet music.

“Right. Okay.” Florence pauses. “Are you ready to go back to the others?”

Luca nods mutely.

She follows Florence out the door and back to the practice room. The muffled conversation inside falls silent the moment they enter.

Izzy looks up at them from where she’s sprawled across the sofa with her bass in her lap. “Good talk?”

“Yes,” Florence says tightly. “Luca is interested. She’ll join us for practice in two days.”

“Nice,” the guitarist—Toni?—says, effortlessly cool in a tight white top that shows off the tattoos scattered down her tanned arms.

“We can’t wait!” chirps the girl behind the keyboard, whose name Luca has already forgotten. “This is going to be so fun.”

“Can’t wait,” Luca echoes weakly. She juts her thumb at the door. “I’ll, er . . . leave you guys to it, then. See you at practice.”

“See you,” says Florence, almost inaudibly.

Luca takes the steps to the pub two at a time, bursting through the door so abruptly, the hulking barkeep looks up from the table he’s wiping down to raise an eyebrow at her. She mumbles an apology as she hurries toward the door.

After the darkness of the basement, the sun outside is blinding. Standing in the middle of the pavement, she takes a deep breath. Uncurls her fingers from where her nails have been digging into her palms. Drops her face into her hands and lets out a muffled, helpless laugh.

Five weeks of traveling together. Of sharing hotel rooms and beds. Of playing music together and killing time backstage and trying to forget that she ever learned what it feels like to come apart under Florence’s hands.

It’s going to be hell. Luca can’t wait.

6

Florence feels like a live wire for the rest of the evening. After they get home, she and Miray make dinner together in their tiny kitchen while Miray waits patiently for Florence to explain what’s going on. When their stir-fry is almost ready and Florence still hasn’t said a word aside from “Can you pass me the pepper?” or “Shall we put in the peas?” Miray delicately clears her throat.

“Flo. Are we going to talk about what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Florence asks.

The look Miray spares her as she squeezes past her to get two bowls from the cupboard is entirely unimpressed. She’s taken down her space buns, her chin-length brown curls still damp from her shower. She smells familiar and sweet, like the almond shampoo and vanilla body lotion she’s been using for as long as Florence can remember. “You’re almost vibrating. Is this because of Luca?”

“Why would it be?” Florence asks. She has to fight to keep her voice from going up an entire octave, the way it always tends to do when she’s lying. “I don’t know her.”

“Well, obviously.” Miray sets the bowls down on the table with a quiet clink. “What did you think of her?”

“She seems . . . cool.”

“Cool,” Miray echoes.

Florence pretends to be incredibly invested in adding soy sauce to the stir-fry. “Yeah. She seems nice.”