chapter two #2
She’d thought about this moment before. Not the job exactly, but the possibility of their paths crossing again.
The way Frankie had called her back then—voice sharp, hurt masked with attitude, wanting to know why.
Why the review. Why the critique. Why the knife-in-the-gut phrasing Willa had chosen without really thinking how it might land.
And Willa answered. Once. She’d told her the truth, or what felt like it at the time.
You’re not as special as you think you are.
Now here she was, assigned to shadow her on her tour, for seven cities, and write a glowing, insightful, humanizing profile.
Willa groaned and dragged her hand through her hair.
She knew how these things went. Tour life was intimate.
Small spaces. Long hours. Vulnerability disguised as banter.
And Frankie? Frankie Monroe had a gravitational pull.
The kind that artists and fans and cities alike couldn’t help orbiting.
Even when they didn’t want to. And Willa?
She wasn’t immune to that. And she hated it.
She opened her laptop and started working for the day and got lost in the rhythm. Her phone buzzed an hour later. It was a text from Kara Judd.
Kara: Hey, got your email. Let’s schedule a call. I’ll send a few time options shortly. Thank you for reaching out.
Willa stared at the screen. The response was quick.
Efficient. No passive aggression, no subtle warning shots.
Just business. She respected that. Still, her stomach twisted.
With a deep sigh, she set her mug down and pulled out her planner.
Sharp, clean lines. A page already marked with the word Tour in ink.
She clicked her pen, then wrote under it in smaller letters:
Frankie Monroe -Five weeks.
Don’t fuck this up.
Then she underlined it. Twice.
* * *
At lunch later that afternoon, Willa and Jordan wandered down the block to their usual spot—a hole-in-the-wall place that called itself a ‘salad bar’ but had everything from salads to overpriced kale bowls.
The tables were always slightly sticky, and the music was too loud for a weekday afternoon, but it was theirs.
A ritual. A place to vent outside the office.
They grabbed their food and grabbed a table by the window.
“Frankie fucking Monroe,” Willa muttered, stabbing a piece of spinach like it owed her money.
Jordan snorted into her iced tea. “What did she even do to you, anyway? Be too hot? Look too good in overalls and glitter on her face? Sing about queer sex too loud for your delicate sensibilities?”
Willa opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Honestly? All of the above.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “So, your problem is… that she’s thriving?”
“No, my problem is that she’s exhausting,” Willa said, dragging her fork through the bowl like she could summon a better takeout option underneath. “She’s just so… flashy. So, glitter and grit. All eyeliner and crop tops and ‘look at me, look at me’ energy. It’s a lot.”
“You mean she’s a performer?” Jordan asked with a teasing smile.
“I mean, she’s a spectacle. She performs even when there’s no stage.”
Jordan shrugged. “Sounds like good copy.”
Willa rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
Jordan took a bite of her salad and leaned back, studying her. “You want me to do the piece instead?”
“Fuck no,” Willa said quickly, and maybe a little too loud.
A person at the next table glanced over, but she didn’t care.
“I may detest the girl, but I’m not an idiot.
I’m getting paid to travel, stay in hotels, write what I want, and finally—finally—Julian is giving me creative freedom.
I even get to photograph the whole damn thing. ”
Jordan grinned, picking at her avocado. “So, he’s bribing you.”
“Exactly,” Willa said, shaking her head with a scoff. “And I’m taking it with both hands.”
Jordan laughed. “God, you’re such a masochist.”
“I prefer opportunist,” Willa said. She sipped her water.
“Besides, worst case? I spend five weeks on a train and in hotels, listening to music and gritting my teeth through shows and interviews. Best case? I get to actually write something that doesn’t feel like clickbait.
Something messy and honest. Something good. ”
“You really think she’s got layers?” Jordan tilted her head.
Willa didn’t answer right away. She thought about the livestream performance from The Echo. About the way Frankie’s voice cracked halfway through a stripped-down ballad she hadn’t planned to sing. The rawness of it. The way the crowd went dead, like they were all holding their breath.
“I think,” Willa said slowly, “that she’s not as shallow as I made her out to be.”
Jordan blinked, surprised. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Jordan grinned again, sharp and amused. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“If you two end up hate fucking your way through hotel rooms, I want details.”
Willa choked on her sparkling water, coughing into her napkin. “Jesus, Jordan.”
“What? I’m just saying. Your type is literally angry, artistic lesbians with boundary issues.”
“I am not—”
“Lena. Your ex. That playwright from last year. And now Frankie Monroe. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Willa groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “This is going to ruin my life.”
Jordan laughed. “And I’m going to love watching it happen.”
Willa lifted her head, grinning despite herself. “I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
Willa took another bite of her salad and looked out the window, watching the world blur past.
No, she didn’t.
But she was definitely going to hate whatever came next.
* * *