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“Of course he lied,” Izzy scoffs. “All that man does is lie.”
Florence still hasn’t said anything. Luca feels like she’s watching a car crash happen in slow motion. There’s a ringing noise in her ears as she looks at Florence and Florence doesn’t look back.
“Florence,” Luca says, “what did you do?”
The bickering around her abruptly falls silent.
“Wait.” Miray’s voice is frail and high-pitched with anxiety. “Don’t say . . . You aren’t really thinking about leaving the band, are you?”
“Of course not,” Florence says weakly.
The ringing in Luca’s ears grows louder.
“Explain,” Toni says. She seems calm in the way that an active volcano might seem calm.
When Florence finally speaks, she does so without looking at any of them. “I didn’t know it was his label. When I looked it up, it didn’t . . .”
“You can’t be serious.” Izzy whips her head around to look at Florence. “He was telling the truth? You signed with a label?”
“No.” Luca doesn’t think she has ever heard Florence’s voice sound so faint. “I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“But you spoke to them,” Izzy says. “You spoke to them, and you didn’t tell us. What is wrong with you?”
“Izzy,” Luca says quietly.
The inside of the van suddenly feels charged, like hot summer air right before the first clap of thunder.
Miray looks like she’s about to cry. “When were you going to tell us?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Florence insists.
“What was it like then?” Izzy snaps. “You talked to a label behind our back to—what? Swap film recommendations? Chat about the weather?”
Florence averts her eyes. It’s as good as an admission, and enough to make Luca feel sick to her stomach.
“Well.” Toni’s voice is perfectly even; the only sign that she’s fuming is her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “At least the tour’s almost over. You won’t have to endure too many more shows with us.”
Florence says nothing. Luca tries to catch her gaze, but Florence won’t look at her. She wants to take Florence by the shoulders and tell her to stop joking, to tell them what really happened, because Luca refuses to believe this is it. Florence wouldn’t do this. The band is the most important thing to her. She told Luca that herself not even forty-eight hours ago—it’s the whole reason for all the suffering she’s put them both through. If all this is true, then what was any of it for?
Luca desperately needs to hear her say it: That’s not what happened or I didn’t or I would never lie to you.
But Florence doesn’t defend herself. She just sits there, jaw set and shoulders straight. Still refusing to be read. Still clutching every single one of her cards close to her chest, like she’ll die if she shares even one of them.
Luca thinks she might hate her a little just then.
After a moment, Toni turns on the radio again. The volume rattles Luca’s teeth, but it’s still not loud enough to drown out her thoughts.
London is dark when they arrive. None of them speak as Toni maneuvers the familiar streets and double-parks outside Florence and Miray’s flat.
The engine cuts off. Florence’s lips part like she wants to say something, but all that comes out is a quiet, “Can you let me out?”
With a lump in her throat, Luca opens the car door and gets out. She helps Florence open the trunk and then lifts out her suitcase, depositing it gently at her feet.
“Thanks,” Florence says without meeting her eyes.
“Florence,” Luca says.
Florence doesn’t look at her.
