chapter three
Frankie
Frankie was leaning against the side of the mixing board, arms crossed, Sharpie cap between her teeth, when Kara’s voice rang out down the hall.
“She’s here.”
Great.
Frankie didn’t move. Didn’t smile. She just shifted her weight and stared at the open door like it had personally wronged her. She heard the click of expensive boots on concrete before she saw her—the queen of cold entrances herself.
Willa Archer walked into the studio like she was about to give it a Yelp review.
Black coat still on, eyes scanning the room like she was above it, like she might catch secondhand chaos if she touched anything.
She looked exactly the way Frankie remembered—only worse, because now she was hot in that “I read five books on feminism and still judge people who wear glitter” kind of way.
Sharp cheekbones. Clean lines. Gold hoops that made her neck look like a damn sculpture.
Infuriating.
Kara trailed in behind her, clipboard in hand, radiating effortless authority like usual. “Hi,” she said, stepping forward with a polite smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Kara.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Willa,” came the reply, clipped and professional, as they shook hands.
Then Kara turned toward Frankie. “Frankie, this is Willa Archer. Willa, Frankie Monroe.”
Frankie didn’t offer her hand. She tilted her head instead, giving Willa a slow, deliberate once-over—just enough to let her know she was being looked at. Assessed. Cataloged. Her mouth curved into a smirk. All teeth. All challenge.
“Oh, I know exactly who she is.”
Willa’s fake smile tightened. “It’s good to finally meet you. In person.”
Frankie’s smile didn’t move. “Is it? Really?”
The air shifted. Sharp. Tense. Thick enough to chew.
They sat across from each other—Frankie in her usual spot, legs stretched out like she owned the room (because she did), and Willa perched on the edge of the couch like it might stain her.
They looked less like collaborators and more like two women about to negotiate a ceasefire with nail polish and murder in their eyes.
Willa opened her notebook and clicked her pen like a blade. “So, here’s how this is going to go,” she said, tone clipped, efficient. “I’ll need full access—rehearsals, meet and greets, dressing room, press events—”
Frankie cut her off with a scoff. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on.” She leaned back, arms crossed. “Why the hell are you telling me how this is going to go? Last I checked, I’m the one being followed around.”
“You agreed to this cover and feature,” Willa said smoothly, not even blinking. “Side B assigned me. I’m not a paparazzo, I’m not a fan—I’m a journalist. The access is part of the contract.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Right. But you’re not moving into my dressing room. I’m not trying to have you lurking in the corner while I change my socks.”
“I don’t need your socks,” Willa deadpanned. “I need behind-the-scenes context. Visuals. Atmosphere. No one’s asking for full-frontal vulnerability—just a few candid shots that make this article actually worth reading.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Charming.”
Kara cleared her throat before the eye-rolls escalated into an actual argument.
She stepped forward, sliding into her natural role as peacekeeper.
“Okay, let’s take a breath. Willa will have full access to rehearsals, meet-and-greets, backstage spaces, and press events.
Frankie, I know you need ten minutes alone before your set—that’ll be the only window that’s off-limits. ”
Frankie gave Willa a sideways glance. “Fine. That works.”
Willa nodded coolly. “I’m not trying to interrupt your pre-show chakra alignment. Just need to be where the story is.”
Frankie bit down on a retort and said nothing. Mostly because it would’ve come out as, your face is infuriating, and I hate how much I want to kiss it. Which wasn’t exactly helpful.
Kara kept going. “Now—interviews.”
Frankie groaned. “Fantastic. Can’t wait to be interrogated on my own damn tour.”
“I prefer ‘conversed with like a human being,’” Willa replied, not even looking up from her notes. “But I understand that’s new for you.”
Frankie blinked. Her smile twisted. “If I recall correctly, last time we talked, you said I was all glitter and no soul. So, forgive me if I’m not exactly thrilled to open up to you.”
Willa’s pen paused mid-word. Her jaw tensed.
“I didn’t say that in the article,” she said.
“No,” Frankie said, voice dropping. “You said it on the phone. And then you called me forgettable. Then hung up.”
Willa looked at her. Didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
“Still counts,” Frankie said.
Silence. Heavy, loaded. Not hate. But it sure as hell wasn’t anything softer.
Kara, sensing the room shift again, jumped in. “Okay, so interviews will be casual. Spread out. Conversation-style. No intense sit-downs unless mutually agreed upon. Everyone breathe. We’re all on the same team here.”
Willa forced a nod. “That works for me.”
Frankie didn’t take her eyes off her. “Sure. We’ll see.”
They closed their notebooks. Kara began her wrap-up, already listing follow-up emails and travel logistics.
But Frankie couldn’t stop staring.
Willa Archer, in her stiff-ass coat and perfect eyeliner, had sat in her studio and tried to act unaffected. But she was affected. Frankie could see it. And that was dangerous. Because she was affected too.
By the way Willa had looked at her like she was noise.
By the way Frankie had wanted to make her blush just to ruin her perfect little mask.
This tour was going to be hell.
But fuck, it might also be fun.
* * *
After that meeting, there was only one place—one person—she wanted to go to. Mimi. Her Mimi. Her best friend. Her biggest supporter. Her everything.
When Mimi got sick, it felt like the ground dropped out from under her.
The hardest part wasn’t just the hospital visits, the memory care facility, the doctors’ updates—it was knowing she’d never have Mimi in the front row of her shows.
Never see her clapping along, singing the words, grinning like she’d known all along this was where Frankie was meant to be.
But Frankie still told her everything anyway.
Every rehearsal, every late-night studio session, every little victory.
On the good days, Mimi lit up, and they talked about it like she was right there with her—like she really saw it happening.
On the bad days, Mimi would just nod, eyes drifting, and Frankie knew she didn’t quite understand.
Still, she kept talking. Because how could she not?
Mimi was the reason she’d ever opened her mouth to sing in the first place. The one who had shoved her toward the mic, who had told her—over and over again—that she was good enough.
God, Frankie wanted her to know that it was happening now. That she was really doing it.
She pushed open the glass doors of the memory care building, a rush of warm air wrapping around her like a blanket compared to the cold February air outside.
It wasn’t what people imagined when they thought of a place like this.
Not sterile. Not hospital-bright. The walls were painted a soft buttercream, lined with framed photographs of sunrises and oceans.
The faint smell of coffee and lavender hung in the air, and somewhere down the hall she could hear the low hum of a radio playing an old Motown tune.
It was… homey. And the staff worked hard to keep it that way.
She crossed to the front desk, leaning an elbow against the counter. “Hey, June,” she said, her voice carrying a smile.
The nurse behind the desk looked up from her charting, her face softening. “Morning, Frankie. You’re in luck—she’s having a really good day.”
Frankie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Oh, thank God.” She reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a little roll of butterscotch candies, crinkling in their golden wrappers. “Brought her these.”
June’s eyes flicked down, and she nodded. “That should be fine. She’s steady today—just keep an eye on her, but I think she’ll love it.”
“Perfect,” Frankie said, slipping them back into her pocket.
She started down the hall, her Docs squeaking faintly against the polished floor.
She knew this path by heart now. Three months of visits had etched it into her: the gentle left turn past the big ficus plant, the wooden bench where family members sometimes waited with coffee, the mural of wildflowers painted by a local art class.
The move had been hard—brutal, even. Mimi had resisted every step, her confusion sharp enough to cut through Frankie. But the staff had been patient, and Frankie, her mom, and Grace had hung photos and tucked in all Mimi’s favorite things, trying to make the place feel comfortable and safe.
And somehow, Mimi had adjusted. Faster than any of them expected.
Frankie came as often as she could. Because when she was in the room, Mimi seemed to find her way back. Not always, not completely—but enough. Enough to remind them both who they were to each other. And that mattered.
Still, as Frankie walked the familiar stretch of hallway, the ache in her chest tightened.
The tour was coming. Weeks away, miles away.
And she wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t be the anchor.
She knew her mom and Grace would come every day—someone always did.
She trusted the nurses here too. But the thought of Mimi asking for her—of Mimi drifting on a bad day, reaching for her face and finding only empty air—gnawed at her.
She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and exhaled slowly.
The door was open. Frankie paused at the threshold, watching her grandmother in her favorite chair by the window.
The TV in the corner flickered with some old black-and-white movie, the sound turned low enough to be more hum than dialogue.
But Mimi wasn’t watching. Her gaze was fixed on the rain trailing down the glass, steady and endless.
Mimi had always loved weather like this—rain, snow, anything that blurred the edges of the world. Since her diagnosis, it was the one thing that seemed to calm her, sometimes even bring her back.
Frankie cleared her throat gently. “Hi, Mamie.”
Mimi turned, and her whole face lit up. “Hi, Mae,” she said brightly, as sure as ever. “There’s my girl.”
Frankie’s chest tightened. The world called her Frankie Monroe. Even Grace called her Frankie. But Mae—Mae Frances—was who she’d always been to Mimi and her mom. Hearing it now, in this room, was like a hand reaching through the fog to remind her of who she really was.
She slipped inside, dropping into the window bench beside Mimi and folding her into a hug. Lavender lotion, soft skin, the warmth of home. “How are you today?”
“I’m doing okay,” Mimi said, her eyes back on the rain. “Just watching. I really like the rain.” A pause. “Waiting for your Poppa to get back.”
The words hit Frankie like a blade, but she didn’t let it show. Poppa had been gone for five years, but she’d learned not to correct her. Not to tear away whatever peace her mind had built. Instead, Frankie reached into her pocket, pulling out the little roll of butterscotch.
“I brought you something.”
Mimi’s face lit again, brighter than the lamps in the corner. “Oh, I love butterscotch.”
“I know,” Frankie said softly, placing one in her hand.
For a while, they sat together in quiet, the rain tapping at the glass like it had something to say. And then Mimi looked at her, eyes sharper than they had been in weeks. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? Going on that big rock star tour.”
Frankie smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her chest. “Yep. Just a couple of days.”
“I’m gonna miss you.” Mimi said softly.
“I’m gonna miss you too.” Frankie hesitated, then let the words tumble out, quiet but heavy.
“I’m scared, Mimi. Not about the shows. About…
her. There is this journalist coming with us.
She’s the one who said I was forgettable.
Said I was all glitter and no soul. And I can’t stop thinking about it.
I act like I don’t care, but I do. Because I meant every word I’ve ever sung, every note—and she couldn’t see me. Not really.”
Mimi squeezed her hand, a soft anchor.
Frankie swallowed. “I don’t just want to prove her wrong. I want her to see me this time. Really see me, Mimi.” Her voice broke, quiet but raw. “I don’t know if that’s stupid, but it’s true.”
Mimi’s thumb brushed slowly over her knuckles. Her voice was gentle, steady. “Mae Frances, you’ve always been enough.”
Frankie pressed her eyes shut. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to carry that with her on every stage.
Mimi leaned her head against hers. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”
Frankie nodded, breathing in the rain, the lavender, the truth of this moment. She hoped Mimi would remember her. But even if she didn’t, Frankie would remember this.
Frankie sat there, letting the silence stretch. The rain. Mimi’s hand warm in hers. The ache in her chest that she hadn’t admitted out loud to anyone but Mimi.
Almost without thinking, she started to hum. Just a few bars of a melody she’d been playing around with late at night—one Mimi wouldn’t know from the radio, because it was hers.
Mimi’s eyes flicked toward her, softening. “That’s pretty,” she whispered. “You always had music in you.”
Frankie’s throat tightened. That was Mimi’s line.
Always had been. From the first time she sang in the kitchen as a kid, to the talent show in middle school, to every shaky open mic.
You’ve got music in you, Mae Frances. Mimi had said it then, and she was saying it now, like her mind had cut through the fog just to remind her.
“Thanks, Mimi,” Frankie said, her voice breaking into a smile. “You’re the reason I ever believed I could do it.”
Mimi leaned her head against the glass, the rain still dripping steady outside. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone,” she murmured. “Just sing. That’s all you ever needed to do.”
Frankie brushed her thumb over Mimi’s knuckles, her chest aching with the weight of it. “I’ll sing for you, then. Every night. Doesn’t matter who else is listening.”
Mimi’s gaze drifted, her expression going distant again.
But the words hung between them, steady as the rain.
After a few quiet minutes, Mimi looked to her and smiled, “I really like the rain.” She said again, and Frankie knew, she was gone again, “I’m just watching it, waiting for your Poppa to get home. ”
Frankie just held her hand and sat with her.
After about an hour, she said her goodbyes, leaned in, kissed her grandmother’s temple, and whispered, “I’ll make sure they see me. I promise.”
And for the first time in weeks, she almost believed it herself.
* * *