Chapter 26
The next afternoon, Frankie and Evelyn hovered near the counter at Threads, pretending to chat about the quirky new shop on the corner of Main and Yesterday. In truth, they were watching the door.
Rae was late.
Not panic-late. Just suspense-late. And after spending most of the previous afternoon hemming jeans, adjusting seams, and dispensing emergency candy, Frankie was desperate to know how Rae’s debut had gone.
Especially after her own night had ended in a blur of popcorn, whiplash-level mixed signals, and a mattress comment so off-putting it had replayed in her head on a sadistic loop.
She’d wanted a fun evening. Maybe even a makeout session.
Instead, she’d been honked at, insulted, and made to buy her own snacks.
Then, fifteen minutes before the movie was over, he’d decided they should leave early to “beat the rush.” He’d driven her back to the manor, parked out front like an Uber on a countdown, and told her to watch her step on the walk to the cottage.
No kiss. No proposition. Just headlights and the urge to file a one-star review.
Task: Make Marcus Grant Her Friendship Crash Test Dummy? Not a roaring success.
If she were grading herself on Chapter Seven: How to Cultivate a Friendship Without Accidentally Making Out (or Committing a Felony), she’d land at a C-minus.
Generous curve. Would’ve been a D-minus if she hadn’t resisted his baffling offer to relive their greatest hits. What the hell did that even mean?
The bell jingled.
And Rae stormed in like a thundercloud with a designer bag full of attitude.
Frankie caught the scowl and gave Evelyn a small, abort-the-hugs head shake.
Rae stomped up to them. “You lied!” Her voice cracked with a mix of fury and hurt.
“About?” Frankie asked gently. Nothing stabbed deeper than feeling like the one person who was supposed to have your back had let you fall.
Rae’s nostrils flared, and her small hands clenched at her sides. “Middle schoolers don’t magically become nice just because you dress to impress.”
Frankie winced. “Of course, they don’t. A killer outfit just gives them one less thing to target. I’m sorry if I made it sound like it would fix everything.” Her chest ached. She remembered what it felt like to be that girl. The one others chewed up for sport.
Rae planted her hands on her hips. “You made it sound like clothes were the only thing wrong with me.”
A strangled noise slipped from Evelyn. “Darling, you are not the problem. The problem is people who need to tear someone down just to feel tall.” She rounded the counter and stood beside Frankie. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
Rae’s mouth wobbled. “Half the school made fun of my outfit.”
“How?” Frankie asked, narrowing her eyes.
“For starters, Tiffany recognized the scarf Evelyn gave me. Said it used to be her mom’s favorite before they donated it.” Rae blinked hard, like she could force the sting away.
Frankie stilled. Damn it. She should’ve anticipated that. Should’ve armed Rae with a comeback, or at least a shield of sarcasm.
A memory stirred. Secondhand underwear and a locker room full of laughter. But dragging that out would tear a hole in the polished person she’d worked so hard to build.
“That had to hurt,” she said. Too small a sentence for that kind of betrayal.
Rae snorted, tough-girl reflex in full swing. “I handled it.” She glanced away, but not before Frankie caught the watery glint in her eyes. “Or I thought I did.”
“What did you do?” Evelyn asked softly, handing her a bottle of water.
Rae unscrewed the lid and took a long drink. Then shrugged. “I used that phrase you two wouldn’t shut up about. Chic on a budget.”
“And?” Frankie asked.
“Now my nickname is Budget Barbie,” Rae snapped, hurling the words like she hoped they’d bruise someone. “So thanks for that.”
Frankie’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to charge into that school with a verbal machete.
Instead, she inhaled and slowly exhaled.
“Tell you what. Let’s go to my place. I’ve got several trunks stuffed with clothes I smuggled out when I ran away.
We’ll dig until we find something worthy of your comeback tour. ”
“Nope.” Rae lifted her chin. “I’m not backing down. Retro chic is happening. I’m just early to the trend.”
She plucked a battered army jacket from the rack and gave a defiant shrug. “How about this?”
Evelyn raised a pink eyebrow. “I admire your gumption, but…are you sure?”
“A few kids said I looked nice,” Rae muttered. “Other losers like me. Just, you know, with better backpacks.”
“I like them already,” Frankie said. “Give me names. They’re getting exclusive invites to our fashion club. Strictly invite-only.”
“A fashion club?” Rae perked up.
Frankie nodded. “Its official title is Operation Small-Town Chic Club. Evelyn’s in.”
Rae’s mouth curved. “The cool kids are going to lose their minds when they find out you’re hosting fashion meetings they can’t buy their way into.”
“Exactly.” Frankie nodded at the jacket Rae had yanked from the rack. “Let’s find your next look. What drew you to this one?”
“Beth has one like it,” Rae said. “It shouldn’t get me roasted.”
“So, it’s a self-preservation pick?”
Rae frowned. “What?”
“Do you actually like it, or do you think because Beth owns one, the agitators will let it slide. No GI Jane jokes. No fashion sniper fire.”
“You think they’ll say that?” Rae hastily rehung the jacket.
Evelyn plucked it right back. “We’re going to make yours better than Beth’s.”
“How?”
“I’ll tailor the sides. Give it some shape. Less ‘borrowed from Dad,’ more ‘borrowed by choice.’”
Frankie nodded. “And we’ll add a patch or two. Just enough to say it’s yours. Put-together without being try-hard.”
Before Rae could answer, the front door banged open with theatrical force. The bell above it shrieked in protest.
Frankie whirled, fully prepared to lay into someone for storming into Threads on a mission to disrupt peace.
But the dramatist in question wasn’t just anyone.
Gold lamé pants. Wind-tousled hair. Arms out like he’d just burst through a curtain and needed an encore.
Ziggy.
Her jaw dropped.
Ziggy never simply arrived. He curated his entrances with ETA alerts, mood boards, emotional temperature updates, and, once, a footwear warning.
And yet, here he was after a full day of ignoring her early-morning ETA text.
He spotted her and launched himself forward.
“Darling, I asked one binocular-wielding person where to find you, and suddenly the entire town had opinions. Then there you were in the window, the very picture of a fashion icon. And before you say anything, you simply must know Eddy dumped me! I mean, it was mutual. Possibly. But oh, Fran…Francesca, I am emotionally dismembered. Ruined, I say!”
Frankie bit back a smile. She’d asked for fashion reinforcements, not a spontaneous emotional striptease, but with Ziggy, rhinestones and drama always came as a set. Beside her, Rae clutched the army jacket, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, posture frozen in full-blown culture shock.
Frankie gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “He’s fine.
That’s just how Ziggy processes emotions…
loudly, fashionably, and usually in surround sound.
” She offered a dry smile. “We met at a designer sample sale in Paris. He tackled a duchess for a sequined trench. I was trying to escape the carnage with a cashmere wrap and my dignity.”
It wasn’t remotely true, of course, but it fit the narrative she’d been selling Gi Gi’s Crossing. Hopefully, it would remind Ziggy that her banishment came with a curated backstory.
Evelyn watched the scene unfold like she was mentally calculating Ziggy’s heartbreak-to-makeover potential. Her expression said she already had three possible outfit upgrades and a trauma-facial booked in her head.
“How did you know I was hiding in Gi Gi’s Crossing?” Frankie asked, feigning curiosity. Because if she didn’t, God knew someone in this gossipy little town would.
Ziggy pressed a theatrical hand to his chest. “I ran into your father right after Eddy and I had our little…public discourse,” he said, flipping his bleached bangs with a dramatic flourish. “It happened during the Manhattan Knitters’ weekly knit night.”
Of course it had. She should have known Ziggy would be ready for improv. “You were at Knit Night?”
“They’ve got an opening. I’d had the loftiest plans of snagging it before the club went public with the application link.”
“My father was there?”
Ziggy hummed and inspected his nails. “He was at the comedy club where the knitters sometimes gather. Not exactly yarn-friendly lighting, but very big on emotional unraveling.”
“And he recognized you?”
“Darling, I’m like Chanel No. 5 at a backyard barbecue.
I don’t fade.” Ziggy’s grin tilted. “He approached me after the spectacle. Said if I could convince you to come to your senses, move back to Manhattan, and marry whatever algorithm-generated dreamboat he picked for you, he’d make it worth my while. ”
Frankie scowled, purely for show. “What did Daddy Dearest offer?”
Ziggy fluttered his lashes. “Bitch, please. There’s no bribe lavish enough to make me play fairy godfather to a spreadsheet in slacks.”
Frankie’s lips twitched. This was…kind of fun. “Just as well, because nothing could entice me back to that insufferable arrangement.”
“Of course not! But never mind that. My heartbreak, Francesca, is a couture-level tragedy, and you are the only soul fabulous enough to bear witness.” Ziggy flung his shiny Weekender bag onto a nearby bench.
“If you get to flee from controlling family expectations, then I’m absolutely entitled to flee a relationship that mistook me for a character in a restoration tragedy. ”
Evelyn approached, beehive bobbing, offering a polite smile. “Hi there. I’m Evelyn. Welcome to Threads.”
Ziggy spun, eyes going wide. “Darling, I adore your aesthetic. If heartbreak could be healed by beehive energy alone, I’d be reborn already.” He turned to Rae. “And who might you be?”
Rae, looking slightly stunned, hugged the army jacket to her chest. “Rae. I’m learning to thrift. Fashionably.”
Ziggy fanned his cheeks with both hands. “Oh, how I adore budding fashionistas!” He extended his hands. “May I?”
Rae reluctantly revealed the jacket. “The kids at school think I’m poor and clueless.”
Ziggy inspected the piece like it might blink first. “With a few tweaks, this could say you’re bold enough to lead but chill enough not to care what they think back.”
“Evelyn’s been teaching me to sew,” Rae offered.
“Marvelous,” Ziggy declared.
Evelyn nodded at Rae. “Try it on again.”
Ray slipped into the jacket. Ziggy circled like a proud fashion fairy godmother.
“Cinched here,” he said, tapping the waist. “Shorter hem. Maybe a hand-painted flower on the pocket…cheeky but heartfelt.”
Evelyn handed over a pincushion. “You pin. I’ll stitch.”
Ziggy got to work, then stepped back, arms crossed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Comments?”
Frankie approached, squinting critically at the sleeve. “One more cuff fold. Softer line.”
Ziggy adjusted with flair and threw both hands skyward in a jazz-hands finale. “Perfection!”
Frankie laughed. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel like an exile faking her place in the world.
She felt like a woman building something that might actually matter.
A club. A friendship. A life she was shaping piece by piece.
Just temporary, of course.
The idea of staying longer than planned flickered across her mind, quick and quiet. She swatted it away. There was work to do. A mission to finish. And a town full of budget Barbies in desperate need of a rebrand.