Page 86 of Scorpio Season

milkywayoversurrey: i kinda get what you mean but tbh i don’t feel like this should impact your enjoyment of their music. from what i’ve seen they’re decently talented and seem to genuinely enjoy themselves. i do think it would be a shame if gibson left the band this early on

girlkisser09: 1) Pretty much anyone in music has some kind of connection nowadays and 2) What does hating Jeffrey Blake have to do with Scorpio Season? It’s not like Florence chose him as her dad. We don’t know what their relationship is like, if there even is one.

sammmyyyy: i get what you mean. it feels a bit shady to me how quickly they broke into the charts.

BerlinRetro: so being related to a celebrity automatically negates the value of your art?

TimeMachine72: Oh my God, can we stop it with the industry plant discourse already? I feel like 9/10 times these discussions are aimed at young women. Clearly, the band has worked hard to perfect their craft. I saw them open for Juno Wilde in Warsaw and they were terrific—their lead guitarist is incredibly impressive and Florence Gibson’s vocals were on point the whole set. Very clean production, very tight. Personally, I think they have potential to be the next big thing, if the media doesn’t tear them apart before then.

pumpkin__dance: lmao i don’t believe a thing JB says until i hear confirmation from the band about florence’s plans to leave. if i were related to him i would also try to hide any connection to him

daniel_millz_09: i know some of these girls from uni! they’ve spent the last three years playing pubs around london for a few quid. my mate is renting them his old van for this tour. if they’re nepo babies, their nepo parents are neglecting them lol

33

The next day is more of the same. Luca goes to work. She does laundry. She spends three hours scrolling aimlessly through social media, unable to tear herself away. She goes to the gym for a punishing workout that leaves her brain briefly quiet and her entire body aching.

She checks in with Miray, asking if she knows how Florence is doing. Miray tells her that Florence didn’t come home the previous night. Luca knows she’s at the pub but squashes the urge to show up there and see if she’s all right. Florence set a boundary with her; they’re bandmates and nothing else. The rest of the band are keeping to themselves, so Luca does the same, even as the distance makes her feel sick to her stomach.

On the second evening back in London, Luca takes the train to Kent.

She hasn’t been home since her dad’s birthday in May. She told her parents it was because she was busy with uni; in reality, she has spent the last few months desperately trying to avoid having a real conversation with them. She’s never been a very good liar.

When she gets there, the rest of her family is in the garden, setting the table and bringing out drinks while Mason oversees the barbecue. Her mum is the first one to spot her.

“Luca!” she exclaims, hurrying toward her with a salad bowl clutched in both hands. Her ginger hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing denim overalls, stained green at the knees from gardening. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I feel like it’s been ages!”

The sight of her dimpling smile makes Luca feel simultaneously safer and closer to tears than she has since coming back. “Hi, Mum,” she says as her mum pulls her into a one-armed hug. The plastic bowl presses against Luca’s tummy.

Her mum only lets go of her when her dad clears his throat behind her. “Excuse me?” he says in exaggerated exasperation. “Do I also get to greet my child?”

Luca lets out a strangled laugh and goes to him.

Her father’s hugs are the best she knows: tight and thorough and the perfect duration. They remind her, a little, of the weighted blanket she bought last year. “Good of you to show your face around here,” he says, still in that joking cadence he uses when he’s in a good mood. “We were afraid they were keeping you in a little rock star factory to clone you and make a million more little rock stars.”

“I’m not a rock star,” Luca protests, hiding a small, involuntary smile against his shoulder.

“Yet,” Henry says. His greeting is a hand appearing out of nowhere to ruffle her hair.

Last up is Mason. He’s slightly sunburnt and wearing a silly apron that says Kiss the cook. He gives her a tight squeeze before ordering everyone to the table.

Luca ends up sitting between her mum and Henry at the large wooden table under the old apple tree with a pile of grilled veggies and soy steak on her plate. Green-tinted sunlight dapples through the leaves as a handful of bumblebees buzz in the lavender her mother planted when Luca was little. It’s homey and peaceful and long overdue, and all Luca can think about is Florence, shut in a room somewhere, mourning the premature death of her music career at the hand of her own father.

The picture enters Luca’s mind unbidden: Florence, sitting at the table next to Luca’s dad, sunbathed and laughing as she sips a glass of Luca’s mum’s homemade rhubarb lemonade. It’s completely unrealistic. Still, Luca can’t suppress the sharp stab of longing at her center.

“So.” Her mum beams at her as she breaks off a piece of bread. “How is the tour going?”

Luca hesitates. How is the tour going? Thrilling. Exhausting. A feverish blur of shows, only broken up by crystal-clear snapshots of her evenings with Florence. “It’s been . . . a lot.”

“How are the other girls?” her dad inquires. “Are they nice?”

Luca laughs against her will. With the exception of Miray, she doesn’t think nice accurately describes any of them. “They’re . . . eccentric.” A vision of Florence, barefoot and with her hair wild, licking honey off a spoon while swaying to Jeff Buckley in an Amsterdam changing room. “And talented.” Toni, tuning her guitar by ear in a stuffy hostel room, fingers dancing across the strings while she chatted with her brother on the phone. “Intimidating. But really lovely when you get to know them.” Izzy’s cool rings brushing Luca’s jaw all the times she did Luca’s makeup, intensely focused while turning Luca’s face this way and that.

Henry sends her a meaningful grin. “And how were things with Florence?”

This might be the worst part: the whole world thinking that Florence is madly in love with her, when they have only shared a single kiss—one that Florence regrets, even if she didn’t say it in so many words. The whole thing feels like some cruel cosmic joke.

She takes a large sip of lemonade before she can get out, “Good. Everything was really good.”