chapter two
Willa
Willa Archer stepped off the subway at the Bedford Avenue stop, tugging her coat tighter around her shoulders as a gust of cold February wind cut straight through her. It hurt like a shock—sharp, sudden, and a little personal. Welcome to Brooklyn.
She adjusted her earbud, the familiar low hum of the playlist in her ears and pulled her messenger bag higher on her shoulder as she started her usual walk through Williamsburg toward the office. Her boots hit the pavement in steady rhythm, a contrast to the mental noise playing inside her head.
She didn’t live in Brooklyn—she’d tried, years ago, back in her late twenties, but it never quite stuck.
These days she lived in Alphabet City, with Lena, her best friend since the first year of college.
The kind of friend who’d seen her cry over deadlines and heartbreaks, cheered her on through every byline and breakdown, and shared too many bottles of wine on their couch to count.
They weren’t related by blood, but they were family in every way that mattered.
Their apartment was small and uneven, with creaky floors and a front door that stuck when it rained.
But it was full of books and plants and late-night laughter.
The kind of place that felt lived in and loved.
Lena had painted the kitchen cabinets a soft sage green during a breakup last year, and Willa had added her own chaotic touch by pinning up clippings from old Side B issues in the hallways.
It wasn’t perfect—but it was theirs. And that was enough.
Brooklyn, on the other hand, buzzed too loudly. Williamsburg especially. Every block was alive with art and attitude, and part of her—buried under all the logic, loved it. She just wouldn’t admit that out loud.
The walk to Side B’s office took her past the usual landmarks, the mural of the girl with the galaxy hair, the record store she never let herself go into because she didn’t trust herself not to spend money, and the coffee shop with lavender lattes and baristas too beautiful to speak to before 10 a.m. She passed all three and made her way to the ivy-covered building nestled between a vintage shop and a late-night pizza place.
The black lettering of Side B gleamed subtly into the morning haze, simple and confident. No frills. Just vibes.
Inside, the office had the air of a place that was cool without trying.
Worn leather couches and retro lighting, faded rugs that probably had stories, the faint scent of someone’s palo santo clinging to the walls.
It was part studio, part think tank, part high-functioning chaos.
People dressed like they either made music or dated someone who did.
It was a sea of leather jackets, band tees, old Doc Martens, and eyeliner that didn’t quit.
Willa had barely taken five steps into the space before hearing the telltale voice.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She turned her head slightly, already smirking. Jordan, her favorite pain-in-the-ass junior editor, sat cross-legged on her desk with a croissant in one hand and her phone in the other.
“You’re early,” Willa said.
Jordan raised an eyebrow without looking up. “You’re late.”
Willa laughed with a shrug. She didn’t argue and kept moving.
She poured herself a questionably strong cup of coffee from the old-ass coffee pot that—in her opinion, made the best cup of coffee.
Her mug, cracked but loyal—read Sad Songs, Good Journalism in chipped font.
It was her mantra. Her armor. She didn’t even get a chance to sit down at her desk before she heard the voice that meant trouble.
“Willa.”
She turned. Julian Lake, her editor-in-chief and longtime chaos enabler, stood a few feet away, hands tucked in his pockets, the smug gleam in his eyes already making her suspicious.
“You have that look,” she said.
“What look?”
“The look that means I’m going to say no to whatever you’re about to ask me and you’re going to ignore me anyway.”
Julian grinned. “Come on. I promise it will be fun.”
“I highly doubt that.” She followed him to his office anyway. Because she always did.
Julian’s space was everything Willa’s wasn’t—minimalist, modern, curated to the inch. Color-coded bookshelves. An espresso machine that probably cost more than her rent. Everything in its place. It made her itch a little.
She dropped into the chair across from him, her legs crossed at the knee, one boot bouncing.
“Alright. Hit me.”
Julian leaned back, fingers steepled. “How was your weekend?”
Willa squinted. “We’re doing foreplay now?”
“Humor me,” he said with a nod.
She rolled her eyes. “Friday, I hit that little indie showcase in Bushwick. Saturday was editing hell. Sunday, Lena dragged me to an open mic at The Hallow. Lila and Brody showed up. It was chaos. But good chaos. Someone did a banjo cover of Mitski. It weirdly worked.”
“See?” Julian said, amused. “You still love this stuff.”
“I tolerate it.”
“I need you to do something.”
“Ah, there it is.”
Julian didn’t flinch. “I want you to cover Frankie Monroe for the next print issue. Seven tour stops, starting in Provincetown. Full feature. You’d ride along, interview her, photograph everything. It’d be your piece—your voice, your lens.”
She blinked. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” He shook his head.
“Julian—” Willa protested.
“She didn’t say no when I sent your name.”
“She probably didn’t look at the list.”
“She probably remembered your name. Everyone remembers their first hit piece.” He said with a smirk.
Willa stared at him, deadpan. “That wasn’t a hit piece. That was called criticism.”
“You called her performance ‘self-indulgent cosplay.’”
“It was.”
“You said her vocals lacked restraint.”
“They did.”
“You said—what was it? — ‘She’s all style and no soul.’”
Willa paused. “Okay, yeah. That was a little sharp.”
Julian laughed. “It was vicious.”
“She called me.”
“You answered.”
“I did. And I told her she was forgettable.”
Julian winced. “Still feel that way?”
Willa didn’t answer.
He leaned forward, voice dropping into something more serious. “She’s about to blow up, Willa. She’s good. Maybe really great, even. She’s going to be something. Better than she was. You saw the livestream from The Echo?”
She did. And it was—different than she expected. “I watched it.”
“And?”
Willa hesitated. “She’s grown. Still too much glitter for my taste. But… she’s got presence.”
“She’s blowing up, Willa. She’s a fucking phenomenon, already and she’s only going to get bigger,” Julian said. “And this piece? It’s going to be huge. The whole print issue. Your words. Your photos. Your face on the byline.”
That got her. Not the byline—but the photos. Her art. Her lens on someone the world was obsessed with. “You said Provincetown?” she asked.
Julian nodded. “Starting there—then Portland, Boston, Burlington, Northampton, Richmond, and wrapping your run in Nashville. Frankie will keep going after that, but that’s where your assignment ends.”
Willa stared at her mug.
It wasn’t what she really wanted. But it was something. And lately, something was enough. She sighed. “Fine, but I have some terms.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Julian nodded. “Let me hear it.”
“Five weeks. No more. And I am not traveling on the tour bus with her.”
Julian nodded, and she continued.
“I want full control—obviously you have final say—but I want to be able to write what I want, how I want. I don’t want a formula.”
He paused for a moment and nodded. “I trust you. Done. Is that all?”
She thought for a second. “That’s all.”
“You’re going to crush this,” Julian grinned.
“I am barely going to survive this.” She stood, left his office, and immediately shot off a Slack message to Jordan.
Just got assigned Frankie Monroe. Hold a candlelight vigil for me.
Then she opened a blank email window.
To: Kara Judd
Subject: Frankie Monroe tour coverage
Hi Kara,
My name is Willa Archer, and I will be working with Frankie for the Side B upcoming print issue. I would like to connect soon to coordinate on details for tour dates, access points, interview preferences, and any expectations you and Frankie have in terms of access or tone.
I know this feature means a lot—not just for the magazine, but for Frankie and her team—and I want to do it justice. Looking forward to hearing from you.
You can email, call, or text me
Best,
Willa Archer
Head Senior Writer & Photographer
Side B Magazine
She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, eyes skimming the lines like she was looking for a crack.
A weak spot. A word that might offend or overreach.
She added a period. Deleted it. And added it again.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She almost added a line about being excited—but it felt dishonest. She considered apologizing for the past—but it felt hollow.
So, she let it stand as is. Professional.
Neutral. Safe. With a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, Willa hit send.
The email flew off into the ether, a digital message in a bottle to a woman who, frankly, probably hated her guts.
It was done now. No take-backs. No pretending this assignment wasn’t real.
She leaned back in her chair, letting her head tip against the wall behind her.
She picked up her coffee cup, then set it back down.
It was still half full, had gone from hot to something sad and bitter she couldn’t bring herself to finish.
Outside her window, Brooklyn buzzed—sirens in the distance, the occasional yell, life happening without her input. Inside her chest: unease.
“This is going to be a terrible fucking idea,” she muttered, staring at the email confirmation on her screen like it might bite her.
Frankie Monroe.
God, even her name was exhausting.