Chapter 24
Frankie and Rae were working in silence, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Rae had shown up a full thirty minutes before school officially let out. When Frankie commented on it, she’d muttered something about early release for teacher meetings.
Frankie let it slide.
They were sorting through dusty boxes that had been snoozing in the corner of the bookstore. Rae, bless her little introverted soul, wasn’t a chatterbox. She just helped, quiet and steady. Which, for a teenage girl, practically qualified her for sainthood.
Frankie glanced sideways. Rae’s ponytail was frizzed out from the humidity. Her black hoodie was ghost-stamped with what used to be a band logo. Her shoulders slumped in the way people did when they’d learned to shrink to survive.
“What’s that smell?” Rae asked, popping open the next box like she expected a severed head.
Frankie caught a whiff and recoiled.
They peered inside the box.
Dozens of tiny liquor bottles stared back at them, each sporting a faded sticker that read: Get Your Nip at Nippleton!
“Well,” Frankie said, plucking one out for inspection, “that’s festive.”
Rae blinked. “Is this legal?”
“Hell if I know.” Frankie snapped the lid shut with a decisive thud. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted to bookmarks and boring totes. Liquor’s above your pay grade.”
Rae snorted. An actual snort. “You said hell,” she said, then reached for the next box.
Frankie straightened up. Did hell count as a swear word? It must. She cleared her voice. “Ms. Potty Mouth’s Rule Number One. Save your swears for maximum impact. Drop them too often, and people stop listening.”
“And rule two?” Rae asked, grinning.
“Rule two,” Frankie said, lifting a brow, “never underestimate the effect of well-placed sarcasm. It’ll get you further than profanity every time.”
The bookstore had been tolerable today, mostly thanks to some creative interpretation of inventory responsibilities. She’d reorganized the nonfiction section by spine color, alphabetized the employee recommendation shelf by first name, and flipped every romance novel upside down.
By mid-afternoon, she’d finalized her blueprint for Operation: Small-Town Chic, color-coded a to-do list so meticulous it could double as modern art, and texted Ziggy to brainstorm fashion-forward friendship prompts and ask him for his estimated time of arrival in Gi Gi’s Crossing.
He’d informed her in a full-fledged pout that he’d requested time off, only to have Ms. Birdie say she’d get back to him.
“Got it,” Rae said, slapping the lid on another box. “How many more before we can go to Threads?”
Frankie checked her watch. “Zero. Go wash your hands. I’ll grab my things and close up.”
Four minutes later, the bell over the door of Threads Thrift Store jingled as Frankie pushed it open, Rae trailing behind.
Frankie paused in the doorway, letting her gaze sweep across the cozy chaos.
Racks of clothes leaned like they were gossiping about each other.
Scarves billowed off shelves in muted rebellion.
The air was thick with the scent of mothballs mingled with vintage polyester.
Two scents you’d never see a candle company push.
Everything in the place felt worn but still clinging to its story.
Maybe that was what kept tugging at her. Unfinished things.
She hadn’t seen Marcus all day. Not once. Not even a blurry glimpse of him. Not that she’d been looking.
And yet…
She’d heard whispers.
Well, George had mumbled something vaguely cryptic about “unexpected company at the manor last night.” And if anyone else in town had spotted the BMW still parked in the drive this morning, they hadn’t stopped to give her the gossip.
This had left Frankie with nothing but time.
Time and curiosity. And the mental stamina to spiral like a gymnast on espresso.
A friend?
A woman?
A roving pair of insomniac Mormons spreading the word of God?
Frankie had stayed up far too late, half-expecting Marcus to knock on her door, on a mission to apologize and explain. But the door had stayed stubbornly undisturbed, and her phone hadn’t buzzed once.
Her new plan was simple: ignore him until he begged for her attention.
Then ignore him even harder.
And while she waited for that flawless strategy to pay off, she had Rae. Which, shockingly, wasn’t turning out to be a total disaster.
Earlier that morning, she’d pitched her latest plan to George during the drive into town. She’d called it Operation Small-Town Chic Club—left out the part about it secretly being a friendship club for the town’s most delightful weirdos.
“We’re talking transformation,” she’d said, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “Not just fashion. Confidence. Presence.”
George had grunted something about not owning anything that required presence. But he hadn’t said no. And that was enough to bump the idea from casual fantasy to officially happening.
Now, inside Threads, Frankie glanced back at Rae, who stood near the door with her shoulders hunched and her strategy dialed to full-on please don’t make this worse.
“You’ve been here before, right?” Frankie asked.
Rae tugged at the sleeves of her oversized hoodie. “Yeah. Mom shops here sometimes, but there’s never anything in my size. She says I’ll grow into it.”
Frankie smiled tightly. “Today’s lesson: We don’t settle for ‘good enough.’ We find things that fit.
” She hesitated, then added, “Or we make them fit. Because life isn’t about everything falling perfectly into place.
It’s about learning to pivot. In fashion.
In jobs. In men.” She arched a brow. “Especially men.”
Rae snorted. A soft, startled sound like her sense of humor had slipped out by accident.
As they moved deeper into the store, a voice rang out from behind a rack of sequined scarves.
“A treasure hunt, you say? Count me in!”
Frankie turned, startled, as a woman appeared. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with hair piled into a neon-pink beehive, a brocade jacket, and striped wide-leg pants. Like a time traveler from the 1970s who’d raided David Bowie’s closet, survived disco, and emerged victorious.
“You must be Francesca B,” the woman said, flashing a grin. “The runaway heiress. Gi Gi’s Crossing is buzzing about you.”
Frankie arched a brow. “You’ve heard about me?” She smirked. “Let me guess, just the PG version made the rounds. If the gossip didn’t include the part where my shoes are to die for, I want a rewrite.”
The woman laughed, clearly delighted. “Oh, your shoes made the top of the list. Right after your mysterious arrival and the rumor you once dated a deposed prince.”
“It was not my fault the prince was deposed. I simply suggested the monarchy needed a makeover.”
“Well. If that’s the energy you’re bringing, I already know I like you.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Evelyn Willow. Temporary ruler of Threads.”
“Temporary?” Frankie asked, shaking her hand.
“Grandmother left this morning to gallivant around the Mediterranean. I’m holding down the fort.” She turned to Rae with an easy smile. “And who’s this?”
“Rae,” Frankie said, nudging her forward. “We’re here to find her some clothes that fit and maybe feel like her.”
Evelyn’s grin widened. “You’re in the right place. Carry on with your treasure hunt and let me know if you want a second opinion.”
Rae didn’t say anything but brushed her fingers along the edge of a floral skirt like it might bite.
“Thank you,” Frankie replied to Evelyn, before steering Rae toward a rack of jeans. “Rule number one: Ignore price tags. Look for quality first. Then check the price. But never let a number tell you your worth.” She paused, then added, “Or a man.”
Rae hesitated, lifting a pair of worn jeans. “What about these?”
Frankie assessed the stitching. “Not bad. They’ll be too long, but we can fix that.”
As Rae rifled through a nearby rack, Frankie clocked Evelyn flipping through scarves, her outfit still blaring neon-chic confidence.
Frankie leaned in. “See Evelyn?”
Rae glanced over warily.
“She’s not wearing what everyone else wears. She’s wearing what she wants. Her style doesn’t have to work for anyone but her.”
Naked Runway’s guest columnist, Sophia E, had once said something similar in her column, Confessions of a Professional Daydreamer, except with metaphors and a fairy godmother reference.
Rae wrinkled her nose. “She looks…loud.”
Frankie smiled. “Loud gets remembered. Loud owns the room. Don’t be afraid to be loud. Just make sure it’s your volume.”
Rae didn’t answer, but she didn’t bolt either. Progress.
They kept piling potential treasures into a cart. Some were definite misses, others solid maybes. And one was a jaw-dropping vintage jacket Rae unearthed like buried treasure beneath a rack labeled: $2 or best offer.
At checkout, Rae eyed the pile nervously. “None of this is going to fit right.”
Frankie met her gaze without flinching. “Nothing worth having fits perfectly off the rack. You find what you love, and you make it yours.” She paused, heart catching in a way she hadn’t expected.
“This applies to everything. Clothes. Jobs. People. Sometimes you have to alter them to fit the life you want.”
“People?” Rae asked.
Frankie thought about it. “Scratch people,” she added, voice softening, “But it’s okay to voluntarily alter yourself, so you can fit into the life you deserve.”
“I don’t get it. Like I should change so the mean girls won’t be mean to me?”
“Hell no. But you might change some of your armor so the boy you like isn’t scared to cross the battlefield.”
The words felt too true. To close. She’d meant them for Rae, but they hit like a boomerang to the heart. Which was mildly inconvenient, considering she’d just told Marcus last night that she’d never be with a man who tried to change her.
Maybe she needed to revise that. Not retract it, just…refine. With conditions. Caveats. Boundaries and bullet points.