Page 3 of Scorpio Season

“One can only hope,” Toni says dryly.

“Well, then. A round on the house for the future rock stars.”

“Aw,” Izzy coos. “Gonna miss us while we’re on tour, Earl?”

“Not even a little bit,” he returns without missing a beat.

Florence turns back to the others. A shiver runs down her spine when she sees the tarot card she never got around to looking at waiting face down on the counter. While the others keep chattering, she gingerly turns it over.

The Wheel of Fortune. The flimsy handbook that comes with the deck informs her that it’s part of the major arcana.

The Wheel of Fortune symbolizes good luck and destiny. You have reached a turning point. Seize the opportunities that present themselves to you, and trust the Universe as you step into this new chapter.

“Here we go,” Earl says, setting four bottles of Florence’s favorite cider down in front of them. His large hand settles on Florence’s shoulder, squeezing. His voice is quiet in her ear. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Florence tips her head back to smile at him. Once she starts, she finds she cannot stop; she smiles through the clinking of their bottles, through her bandmates leaving to tell their loved ones the news, through the rest of her infinite, surreal shift.

All her life, she’s dreamed of this. She imagines her father’s reaction, imagines a crowd of five thousand listening to her, imagines endless drives and hotel rooms and a dream ripe for the taking. She has been waiting for this for so long. Now that everything she has hoped for is finally within reach, she wants nothing but to sink her teeth into it, swallow it whole, lick her fingers and then the plate.

You have reached a turning point.

It all starts here.

Florence feels like she’s floating as she makes her way home. It’s a stifling summer night, the air heavy and sticky as she drifts through Shoreditch, still dizzy with joy. The scent of petrichor heralds the brewing thunderstorm even before the first drops of rain pitter-patter on the warm asphalt.

The bus stop is empty when Florence gets there. She takes a look at her phone: The next bus to Whitechapel is still a few minutes away. She could walk the rest of the way—it’s only about half an hour to the flat she and Miray are renting—but she doesn’t trust the weather to hold until she makes it there.

She was right to be cautious. As soon as she pockets her phone, lightning crackles across the sky. The answering roar of thunder comes a few seconds later and then the rain, a downpour like a veil that blurs anything beyond the bus stop.

Florence is too happy to care. She’s fairly certain she could be struck by lightning right now, and it wouldn’t ruin her mood. She’s wondering if she should use the time until the bus comes to call her mum when a tall silhouette emerges from the rain and skids to a stop only an arm’s length away from her, soaked to the bone and panting.

Florence casts the newcomer a sympathetic glance. “You tried.”

“I really—really did.” The stranger gasps for breath as she steadies herself against the glass wall of the bus stop. She looks to be around Florence’s age, with short hair that’s cropped close at the sides and longer on top. Her black T-shirt clings to her, and water is trailing down her neck and the freckled bridge of her nose.

Suppressing a grin, Florence searches through her tote bag for her cigarettes and lighter. While she finds the former after some digging, the latter is nowhere to be found. Izzy, probably—they have a habit of stealing each other’s lighters after their shared cigarette breaks.

“Excuse me,” she says, looking to the stranger, who is staring out at the rainy street with a mournful expression while shuffling from foot to foot. “Do you have a light?”

“Er—no. Sorry.” A sheepish smile. “I don’t smoke.”

“I probably shouldn’t, either,” Florence admits, letting the pack of Marlboro Reds disappear into her bag. Miray always admonishes her, in her sweet and gentle way, that the smoking’s going to ruin her voice.

Lightning flashes again. The thunder sounds even louder this time.

“Christ,” the stranger murmurs, leaning forward to peer out into the darkness. “It’s really coming down, huh?”

“Yeah.” Florence checks her phone for the time. “The bus should be here any moment.”

The stranger makes a face and shakes her head, sending drops flying. The image reminds Florence a bit of Miray’s family’s golden retriever after a dip in the inflatable kiddie pool. “I only just showered,” she mutters.

Florence’s eyes drop to the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She’s probably on her way back from the gym. Her freckled arms are toned, and for the first time, Florence really looks at her. Even with her shoulders curled forward, she has a few inches on Florence. In the harsh light of the buzzing fluorescent tube, her hair is a dark auburn, her eyes a warm hazel rendered more vivid by the dark circles beneath them.

Florence becomes a bit more aware of the way she’s standing. She turns her body to face the stranger and says, voice dropping slightly, “I’m Florence.”

The stranger offers her a smile. There’s a slight gap between her two front teeth that has absolutely no right to be as attractive as it is. “Luca.”

“Charmed,” Florence says, holding out a hand.