chapter four
Frankie
Rain slammed against the windows like a drumbeat.
Not the soft, cinematic kind—this was grey-sky, wet-sock, sweatshirt-weather-with-a-hint-of-dread kind of rain.
The kind that made the city feel slower, heavier.
More dramatic. Which felt about right, considering Frankie Monroe was smack in the middle of a full-blown pre-tour meltdown.
Her bedroom looked like a vintage store had exploded. Faded tees, mesh tops, leather pants, two corsets, at least three pairs of combat boots, and the aforementioned lime-green offender were strewn across every surface. Her bed was buried. Her chair had vanished. Her dresser wept glitter.
The tour starts tomorrow. The first show was the day after that. And her entire body was vibrating with nerves, anticipation, caffeine, and far too much dry shampoo.
Kara’s voice buzzed from the speakerphone, calm and efficient despite Frankie only half-listening. Somewhere, Kara was no doubt folding color-coded packing cubes and maintaining a spreadsheet titled Frankie Chaos Control.
“…Willa will meet us at the venue in Provincetown around four,” Kara said. “I’ll be with you. She will shadow you through soundcheck, stay for the meet-and-greet and the performance. She’ll probably want a few quotes, so try not to say anything you wouldn’t want tattooed on the internet forever.”
Frankie, naturally, absorbed about ten percent.
She was busy holding up a pair of soft joggers. “Good for the drive,” she mumbled. Then a worn band tee. “Travel shirt.” A sequined jacket with beaded fringe. “Onstage slay, obviously.”
To be fair, her show wardrobe was already packed—steamed, sorted, and waiting to meet her on the road, thanks to her stylist (and Kara, the actual MVP of her life).
Frankie’s job was to bring the essentials: comfort clothes, snacks, tarot deck, grounding crystals, her journals, and enough ADHD meds to keep her orbiting Earth instead of spiraling off into space.
She stepped back, surveyed the glitter-strewn battlefield of her room, and ran a hand through her twisted-up hair, sighing.
“Provincetown,” she whispered to herself. Queer. Coastal. Full of magic and mermaids and drag brunches on every corner. One of the gayest cities in the country. It felt like a blessing. A beginning. The perfect place to start again.
Even if Willa Archer would be there. Of course, the first person to document her debut tour was the same one who nearly crushed it the last time. No pressure.
The apartment door cracked open with the familiar screech of worn hinges.
“I’m here!” Grace, her sister, called out from the hallway.
“I’m in my room,” she yelled. “Hold on, Kar.”
“Uh-huh,” Kara said.
Grace strolled in like a queer caffeine fairy, holding out an iced coffee in offering. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in two French braids. She looked too calm for the storm she was walking into. “For you,” she said, like it was a sacrament.
Frankie gasped and took it with reverence. “You are a literal goddess. Like Aphrodite with better taste in shoes.”
“You’re welcome,” Grace said, flopping onto the bed like she lived there—which, to be fair, she basically did. She landed on a heap of leggings, crop tops, and one halfway-folded denim jacket without batting an eye.
“You didn’t happen to bring any weed, did you?” Frankie asked, voice hopeful.
“No smoking, Frank!” Kara snapped. Frankie froze, forgetting she was still on the line.
“Ooh, busted,” Grace laughed. “Hi, Kar!”
“Hey, G,” Kara said on speaker.
“Don’t worry, Kara, no weed. I know she’s not allowed to smoke before tour, to keep her voice and brain on par,” Grace laughed.
“Thanks, Grace. Frankie, I’m going to go. Don’t get sidetracked—finish packing.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Frankie groaned. “Love you, bye.” She hung up.
“You’re so responsible and wise. Gross.” Frankie grinned and took a long sip of her coffee. “I’m trying to keep a clear head anyway. But it’s… a lot.”
Grace looked around at the mess, letting her eyes sweep the chaos. “Uh—I see that. Are you packing or opening up a queer fashion museum?” She laughed. “You’re so lucky you’re talented, because if this was based on your ability to plan ahead? You’d be doomed.”
“Okay, shut up,” Frankie said, but there was no bite to it.
Grace sat up on her elbows, a small smile on her face. “Are you so fucking excited?”
Frankie didn’t even pretend to tone it down. Her eyes lit up, her whole body practically vibrating. “Oh, my goddess, yes. I’m excited and nervous and spiraling and so fucking caffeinated, and also, I think I forgot how to sleep?”
Grace nodded. “Iconic. Are you gonna cry when you walk on stage?”
“Probably. But like, in a cool rockstar way.” She paused. “You’re coming to a few stops, right?” she asked, suddenly softer. The edge of her excitement curled slightly inward—just enough to show the nerves underneath.
Grace made a face. “Not the first two. I’m hoping to make it by the third. I’ll definitely be in D.C., though. I can’t get off work before that.”
Frankie sighed, relieved. “Good. I need a familiar face in the chaos. Mom can’t come—because she needs to stay with Mimi. And with the whole Willa situation, I need you.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “You mean the hot journalist who called you forgettable?”
Frankie glared at her. “Wh—how do you know she’s hot?”
“She didn’t deny it,” Grace laughed, and Frankie threw a shoe at her. “Jesus, Frank—that was a platform boot!”
“Well, don’t say stupid shit,” Frankie said, shaking her head with a devilish grin.
“But I’m right—right?” Grace grinned.
“Okay fine yes, She’s very fucking hot.” Frankie rolled her eyes. “Happy?!”
Grace nodded, “I am actually.”
“But just because she’s hot doesn’t mean she isn’t super fucking annoying.”
She muttered and sat beside Grace on the bed, laying her head on her sister’s shoulder. She folded her legs underneath her and stared down at her chipped black nail polish, making a mental note to have Grace repaint them before she left. Then she sighed.
“What if she hates everything? What if I bomb? This is the fucking print issue. What if I completely fuck it all up?”
Grace sat up straighter, all the jokes gone. “Okay. No. Pause.”
Frankie looked up at her.
“You’ve got a voice, Frank. You’ve got vision. You’ve got a message that actually means something. You’ve been working your ass off for this moment, and Willa Archer? She’s not here to make or break that. She’s just a passenger.”
Frankie’s throat tightened.
Grace kept going. “I’m not saying don’t be nervous—nerves are part of it. But you are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Don’t let someone else’s past opinion shrink you down.”
Frankie’s eyes shimmered, just a little. Then she looked down and whispered, “Thanks.”
Grace nudged her. “You’d better not cry. You haven’t even left yet.”
“I’m not crying,” Frankie sniffed. “You’re crying.”
They both laughed, and for a moment, the tension broke—floating somewhere between the glitter and the laundry and the iced coffee.
Then Grace stood. “Okay, let’s finish packing. I’ll help you sort through shoes.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “You know that’s the hardest part.”
“I know,” Grace said, grinning. “That’s why I came.”
* * *
Willa
Across the river, Willa Archer was falling apart.
Well—internally.
Externally, she looked composed. Perfectly curated chaos: black joggers, a cropped grey hoodie that showed just a sliver of her stomach, and her hair twisted into one of those messy buns that somehow looked artful instead of accidental.
Her favorite gold hoops were in. She even had mascara on, for god’s sake.
But inside? Absolute mental carnage. Her suitcase was open on the bed, an overstuffed disaster. Clothes spilled out in waves—structured blazers, two different pairs of boots, three pairs of heels, four pairs of black jeans that were technically different, depending on the lighting.
Brody would’ve called it a tragedy and then offered to repack for her while making it worse.
He was the third to her and Lena’s chaos—a Side B colleague turned ride-or-die who had become one of her best friends.
Loud, dramatic, impossible to ignore, but also the one who gave advice she trusted most. Willa couldn’t picture her life without him.
“I swear to god,” Lena said, voice sharp but amused from the doorway, “if you try and fit one more pair of shoes into that bag, I will hide your laptop charger and never tell you where I put it.”
Willa didn’t even look up. “I have to pack my Converse still,” she said, completely serious, as she crammed her second leather jacket into the side pocket like it held the key to her survival. “I need options.”
She sighed in defeat and yanked the jacket back out. She shoved it into her weekender instead, muttering to herself about how no one ever regretted bringing an extra layer.
“You’re going on tour on the East Coast—where you live—not going to Berlin.”
Willa ignored her. She grabbed her laptop bag, unzipped it, and double-checked for the third time that everything was inside: work laptop, personal laptop, two chargers, her film camera, her noise-canceling headphones, and—most importantly—her black Moleskine notebook.
The real one.
The one with the messy, half-formed novel she never showed anyone. Scribbled phrases, random dialogue, entire pages she’d crossed out and rewritten six different ways.
If nothing else, she had to work on the book. Being trapped on tour for five weeks might be the only thing to finally force the words out of her. Or it might break her entirely. She hadn’t decided.
Lena walked over and flopped on her bed. “What do you want to eat for dinner? You need food. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
It was easier to fuss over shoes than admit the truth—she hadn’t trusted herself with anyone since the last time she let her guard down and got left feeling like she was too much and never enough all at once.