Page 80 of Scorpio Season

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Suddenly, Earl is in front of her, and then her face is pressed into his shoulder and his hand is on the back of her head and Florence can’t help it—she crumbles. The sob that wrenches itself out of her chest is muffled by Earl’s flannel as she sags against him, feeling impossibly small as he wraps his arms around her.

“I hate him,” she manages. “I hate him so much.”

“I know,” Earl replies, clumsily petting her hair. “I know.”

They stand there for a few seconds, swaying on their feet a bit, like she’s a small child Earl is trying to soothe. Florence can’t stop heaving these big, sobbing breaths, her fingers curled helplessly into Earl’s flannel, desperate to cling to him in a way she hasn’t felt since she was little.

“It was going so well and then I—” Another sob cuts her off. “I went behind their backs. And now they probably don’t even want to speak to me—”

“All right,” Earl says, pulling back. “Pump the brakes on the self-loathing train. Have you eaten?”

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tough,” Earl says, and disappears into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, Florence finds herself sitting at the counter, picking at a sandwich while Earl goes back to stocking the fridge.

“I never should’ve agreed to speak to a label without talking to the band first,” she says quietly.

“Spilled milk,” Earl says without looking at her. “Et cetera.”

“You’re really bad at this comforting thing,” she murmurs.

“Eat your breakfast,” he returns.

Fighting against the lump in her throat, Florence nibbles at her sandwich. She only manages a few bites, too sick from crying and too full of guilt to stomach more.

“Your father,” Earl says after a moment, “is not a good man.”

She sniffs. “You don’t say.”

“Truly one of the most self-absorbed people I have ever met,” Earl goes on, unfazed. “And that was even before he had the nation at his feet.”

Florence’s eyes drift to the photo taped to the wall behind the bar: a Polaroid of her father, Earl, and the two other bandmates her father ditched the moment he got the opportunity to go solo. They can’t be more than twenty years old, posing against a graffitied wall in leather jackets and shades. In the picture, her father’s arm is slung over Earl’s shoulders, his mouth pulled into a lazy smile around an unlit cigarette.

“I didn’t want to leave the band,” Florence feels compelled to say.

Earl finally turns to look at her. “I know,” he says simply. His face is uncharacteristically earnest as he braces his hands on the counter and studies her. “Florence. Why do you think he did it?”

“What?”

“Why did he do it? Why did he choose right now to tell the world that you’re his daughter, after all these years? Why did he try to get you signed?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“Have you seen the headlines about him lately?”

Florence thinks it’s safe to assume she has read every single one. “Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“That he’s a homophobic prick who doesn’t deserve a platform.”

“Right,” Earl says patiently. “And what are you known for?”

Her heart sinks as understanding sets in. “Oh.”

“Lucky bastard’s always had a talent for capitalizing on the moment. Your career takeoff couldn’t have come at a better time.”