Page 15
Even with her back turned, Florence can feel Miray’s gaze boring into her. “Are we just going to ignore the fact that she’s aggressively your type?”
At that, Florence almost drops the entire bottle of soy sauce. She barely manages to catch it in time, whirling around to stare disbelievingly at Miray. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean,” Miray says, “the way she looks. You know. Tall. Muscles. Masc.” She laughs. “Why do I even have to spell this out for you? You know what your type is.”
Golden retriever butches, Florence recalls saying once. And, curses, Miray is right. If there was a textbook definition of the phrase, Luca’s picture would be next to it. Florence loathes herself a little bit for being so utterly predictable.
Turning back to the stove, she turns off the burner and takes the pan off the heat. Miray hands her one bowl to fill, then the other. Florence grabs two spoons; Miray has already set two glasses of water down on the table. After three years of cohabitation, they’re a well-oiled machine.
“Are you worried I’ll be distracted by her?” Florence asks as she sinks down on her familiar chair opposite Miray. Their two plates barely fit on the tiny table—it’s the kind that folds up against the wall, a rickety contraption that they’ve been wanting to exchange ever since they moved in during their first semester but never got around to.
Miray, sitting with one knee pulled up to her chest, tilts her head at her. “I don’t think anything could distract you,” she says. “You just seemed rattled by her, is all.”
“I’m not,” Florence lies instinctively. “And even if I were, I wouldn’t make it the band’s problem.”
“You could, though,” Miray says.
“Could what?”
“Talk about it. With us. With me.”
Florence frowns. “Right. But I won’t. Because there won’t be anything to talk about.”
“All right, Flo,” Miray says placatingly. She blows on her spoon before taking the first bite. Her eyes scrunch as she hums happily. “Mmm. This is good.”
Some of the tension seeps from Florence’s shoulders. It is good. As they eat, she glances around their tiny kitchen—the photos on the wall, the plants hanging from the ceiling, the suncatcher on the window, scattering the pink light of the setting sun across the floor tiles. It still feels surreal that in three weeks, they’ll leave this flat and go on tour.
“How do you feel?” she asks, looking back at Miray. “About all of this?”
Miray holds a hand in front of her mouth as she says around a mouthful of rice, “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. I’ll probably start panicking when we start packing.”
Florence nods, just as her phone vibrates against the table. Since it’s face up, she can see the notification: Izzy has added Luca to their group chat. Below, there’s another pop-up message, this one from the band’s socials.
Florence waits until they’re done eating—they have a rule about not using their phones during meals—and have cleaned up the kitchen before she opens the notification.
@junowilde tagged you in a post
“Miray, did you see—” Florence begins, but Miray is already standing behind her, one hand braced on the back of Florence’s chair. She gives a little gasp as Florence taps on the notification.
A picture of Juno Wilde’s upcoming tour dates fills her screen. The caption reads, I am so thrilled to announce @scorpioseason as my opening band for the upcoming Europe dates! These girls are the coolest. Check out their music so we can all scream it together next month!
“Oh my God,” Florence whispers. The post has only been up for eleven minutes, and already their follower count has more than doubled, shooting from a modest 2,300 to 6,000 followers. Their inbox is flooded with messages.
“That means we get to announce it too, right?” Miray asks excitedly.
“Yeah. Do you want me to or do you—”
Miray is already unlocking her own phone. “I’ve got it.”
While she chooses a picture and drafts a caption, Florence keeps staring at Juno’s post.
Juno is a legend in the world of alternative rock. After winning a talent competition at nineteen, she rose to fame with her first album, Conversations in a Parked Car. She made headlines after coming out as bisexual five years ago, and then again when she launched an abortion fund for women in Ireland. Florence has cried to her music more than anyone else’s; when her first and only long-term girlfriend broke up with her at eighteen, she listened to nothing else for an entire month. Everything she knows about songwriting, she’s learned from Juno Wilde. And now she’s here, her band linked in a post on Juno’s account, Juno’s name in her follower list. None of it feels real.
While Miray refreshes her notifications to look at the comments trickling in, Florence copies the link to Juno’s post and sends it to her father. She doesn’t write anything else.
TOUCHSTONE TOUR 2025
Special guests SCORPIO SEASON
