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Daniel O’Hare, who went on to be eliminated from the show, reacted to the clip on social media. “I am shocked by the comments Jeffrey Blake made about me. I was a huge fan of him. Meeting him on the set was one of the best moments of my life.”
Jeffrey Blake has yet to come forward with a response.
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On the drive to Prague, they hear their song on the radio for the first time. When she recognizes the first chords, Florence yelps so loud, it startles Izzy into smacking her head against the window.
“It’s ‘swallow me’!” Miray screeches, turning up the volume. “Guys! They’re playing ‘swallow me’!”
“We can hear that,” Izzy grouses, rubbing her temple. She pauses. “Wait. Actually?”
“Holy shit,” Toni laughs, throwing her head back. “We invaded the airwaves through the sheer power of lesbian tension. This is incredible.”
Florence can’t help but grin, even as the reminder of the video that caused all of this makes her stomach swoop.
They’re in the middle of a country road somewhere behind the Czech border. Miray turns the radio as loud as it can go while they roll down all the windows. The wind steals the laughter from Florence’s mouth, hair whipping around her face as she sends the universe a delirious Thank you thank you thank you.
At this point in the tour, they’re so sleep-deprived, it’s a challenge to convince any of them to get out of bed before ten. They spend the time before the show doing some gentle sightseeing around Prague, strolling through the Little Quarter for a while before they separate, Florence and Miray to the Franz Kafka museum while the other three sit down at a café. When Florence and Miray find them again, standing in the middle of the Charles Bridge, Izzy and Luca are nibbling on some kind of pastry. It’s cylindrical and coated in cinnamon sugar, most of which seems to have ended up on Luca’s upper lip. Miray hums happily as Izzy lets her try it.
“Want some?” Luca mumbles around a mouthful, offering it to Florence.
Florence leans forward to take a bite. The dough is crispy and fluffy and not too sweet. Covering her mouth with one hand, she asks, “What’s it called?”
Luca adopts a look of utmost concentration as she says, tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar language, “Tredlník. Chimney cake. ’Cause of the way it’s shaped.”
“They’re trying to sell it like it’s this traditional Czech pastry,” Toni chimes in, “but it’s not. You can get it everywhere around here, though.”
Florence is only half listening; her eyes are still stuck on the sugar clinging to Luca’s upper lip. She reaches out to wipe it away with her thumb. Luca’s lips part on instinct, and it takes everything in Florence to pull back her hand before she does something terrible like slip her thumb inside the velvet heat of Luca’s mouth.
“All right,” she says, perhaps a little too brightly. “Let’s get to the venue.”
After the show, they pile back into the van and drive to a bar that Miray picked out earlier.
“Fifteen minutes until midnight,” Florence sings, reaching through the gap between the seats to tap Toni’s head. “Are you excited for your birthday, Toni?”
“Mostly, I’m excited for my bed,” Toni returns flatly, but Florence can see her eyes crinkle in the rearview mirror. “Which one of you is driving this baby back to the hostel, by the way?”
“I am,” Miray says.
“Everyone say Thank you, Miray,” Florence instructs.
“Thank you, Miray,” the others echo dutifully.
The bar, when they get there, is an unremarkable establishment tucked into a narrow side street. A sign by the door announces that it’s karaoke night; when they enter, two men are up on the small stage in the back, yowling vaguely to the lyrics of “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
Juno and her entourage are already there. Florence spots her two security guards, one posed by the door and the other sitting at the table next to Juno’s. Juno looks at ease in a black T-shirt and glasses, her dark hair pinned up. Waving them over to their table, she raises her voice over the noise inside the bar to tell them, “We already ordered drinks. Please, pick whatever you like. Tonight is on me.”
“That’s really not—” Florence begins, but Izzy pinches her arm before she can finish. “I mean—thank you.”
They sit, squeezing around the table. Florence ends up wedged between Toni and Juno’s violinist, Luca opposite her.
“Hey!” Izzy shouts, leaning around Toni to catch Florence’s eye. “You gonna sing for her?”
“What?” Florence shouts back.
Izzy jabs a finger in the direction of the stage. “You should sing! Happy birthday or something!”
Florence darts her eyes at her phone. It’s four minutes to midnight. Chair legs screeching, she gets to her feet and strides over to the guy doing the music. “Hey,” she says. “My friend over there is turning twenty-four in a few minutes. Can I . . .”
