Page 71 of Scorpio Season

“There she is,” Izzy says approvingly while Miray cheers from behind her keyboard.

From across the stage, Florence meets Luca’s eyes, her smile brighter than all the spotlights combined.

There she is.

Now that Luca knows what to look for, it’s easy to see echoes of Jeffrey Blake in Florence’s performance. It’s the way she moves on stage, taking up space like it’s her birthright. It’s the haughty tilt of her chin. It’s the way she overarticulates some words, rolling her Rs and pronouncing her Ts, a dramatic little accent she only does on stage.

Luca wonders if it’s intentional. She knows that Florence has watched her father’s performances more often than is probably healthy. Maybe she absorbed his mannerisms subconsciously. Or maybe this is another result of the voice in her head telling her she won’t make it unless she imitates every step of her father’s career.

For her part, Luca prefers the moments when Florence is herself. There’s a part in “big teeth” where she spends the entire bridge skipping across the stage in her thrifted cowboy boots, head tossed back as she laughs and twirls, her hair wild and her dress billowing around her. Luca has seen video compilations of Florence’s dancing, and of her own face as she watches, soft and awed and entirely too obvious. Still, she doesn’t look away.

She’s not sure when the chasm between Florence Gibson and Florence became so obvious to her. Probably, it has something to do with evenings in hostel lobbies and the fragile weight of Florence in her arms the night before. Probably, she should try to do something about the ache in her chest. But probably, it’s too late for that now.

“What’s your favorite song you’ve written?”

“My favorite song?” Florence asks. “God. I hope I haven’t written it yet.”

Luca squints at her. “That’s a cop-out answer.”

“It’s true.” Laughing, Florence tucks her legs under herself. “I don’t know. I like all of them. As much as you can like anything you created yourself.”

They’re sitting in the lobby of their hostel in Vienna. There’s a fake fireplace going next to them and soft jazz music playing over the speakers. Florence is curled up on the sofa next to Luca, close enough for their knees to touch, though Luca tries not to focus on that.

“Is it hard? Writing them?” Luca asks.

“Sometimes. It depends. ‘ballad’ popped into my head like it always lived there. ‘alexandria’ was like pulling teeth.” She pauses. “It depends what emotion I’m writing from, I think. Angry songs like ‘big teeth’ come easy to me. Sexy songs too, I suppose.”

Luca rests her cheek on her arm where it’s slung over the back of the sofa. They’ve been here for an hour already, but there isn’t a single part of her that wants to go to bed. Now that Florence can talk again, it’s like a dam has broken. “Why do you think that is?” she asks.

“Is this an interview?” Florence laughs.

Luca tries to hide her smile behind her knuckles. “Just wondering.”

“Mm-hm.” Florence playfully narrows her eyes at her.

Luca nudges Florence’s shin with her foot. “Go on.”

“I think,” Florence says after a moment’s consideration, “that the common denominator is hunger. Most of my songs are about craving something.”

Something about that answer makes Luca’s face feel warm. She’s reminded of the way Florence looked at her when they slept together: dark, intense, like she wanted to swallow her whole. She still catches that expression on her sometimes.

“You know,” Florence says, unaware of Luca’s small internal crisis, “I don’t think I’ve ever written a love song. I’ve written about love, but never in a romantic way.”

Luca’s mouth feels very dry. Her voice comes out scratchy as she asks, “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think I’m more comfortable with what we have going on now.”

Luca thinks she knows what Florence means. Florence’s songwriting isn’t overly concerned with revealing any hidden, soft parts of herself. If she does, they’re wrapped up in ten layers of symbolism and metaphors and references to myths that Luca has never read. Her lyrics are clever and challenging and aesthetically coherent, one facet of Florence polished to a shine.

Luca thinks of the fake gold rings that leave green imprints on Florence’s skin. Of perfume testers carefully selected for every setting. Of the fake accent that Florence slips into when she’s singing on a stage.

And then she thinks of Florence’s tear-stained face tucked against her neck, of the hurt in her voice when she speaks about her father, of her bright laughter in a dingy karaoke bar and the frustrated furrow between her brows when she isn’t happy with her own performance.

She asks, “Don’t you ever want to show the world something real?”

Florence’s eyes widen. “What?”

Luca bites down on her tongue. It’s not what she meant to say, or at least not the way she meant to phrase it. But . . . they only have the show in Zurich left before they drive back to London. This is one of their last nights together before the break. Yesterday’s kiss has been replaying in Luca’s mind over and over again, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can keep this up. She doesn’t know if she even wants to.