chapter four #2
“You’re absolutely spiraling.” Lena propped herself on her elbow, watching her. “So. How was the big meeting yesterday?”
Willa rolled her eyes and collapsed backward onto the bed. “She’s a lot.”
“That bad?”
Willa let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “She wanted to set all these rules and made it her mission to remind me I once called her forgettable.”
Lena raised her eyebrows. “Yikes.”
“And then she continued to be—annoying. Defensive. Hot.”
Lena grinned. “Wait. Back up. What was that last one?”
Willa threw an arm over her eyes. “I hate you.”
“No, no, no, continue,” Lena teased. “You were saying?”
“She’s ridiculous,” Willa muttered. “She had on this half-mesh shirt and combat boots, and I swear she smirked like she could see every unflattering thought I was having about her in real time.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“It’s not like that,” Willa said too quickly, the same way she always did. The last time she’d fallen for someone who didn’t take her seriously, it had left her gutted—and she wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
“It was infuriating,” Willa snapped. “And kind of… ugh. I don’t know. She’s just—so much.”
Lena didn’t answer, letting her talk it out.
“But what if she’s not?” Willa continued, words tumbling faster. “What if she’s actually evolved and thoughtful and creative, and I end up feeling like a complete dick for judging her two years ago based on one festival set and a phone call where I was, admittedly, kind of a bitch?”
Lena raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That was… a lot.”
“I know.” Willa scrubbed her hands down her face. “God, I know.”
She thought briefly of the look Frankie had given her in the studio—equal parts smirk and challenge. Like she’d already decided Willa couldn’t handle what she was about to see.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She grabbed it and opened the message. Brody had sent her a meme and a text.
Brody:You got this, tiger. Take notes, try not to make out with her.
Willa snorted, then full-on laughed, the kind that came up from deep in her stomach—unexpected and absolutely necessary.
“He’s such an idiot,” Lena said, smiling and leaning over to read it.
Willa stood again, hands steadier now. She zipped the suitcase with a loud, determined pull. “Okay, I’m packed. Let’s go order dinner and drink. Because I leave tomorrow morning and, God help me,” she laughed, “Frankie Monroe is going to be the death of me.”
* * *
Frankie
Later that night, the apartment was a mess of open duffel bags and scattered outfits.
Her travel guitar leaned against her nightstand, and her journal sat open with half-scribbled lyrics on the page.
A few empty hangers hung from the closet doorknob, and one boot had somehow ended up in the kitchen.
The excitement had morphed into stillness—pre-tour insomnia curling in Frankie’s chest like static. The kind that buzzed just under the skin. Her thoughts bounced between anticipation and self-doubt, lyrics and logistics, glitter jackets and gas station breakdowns.
Her phone buzzed beside her pillow.
Mom.
She picked up immediately, her voice soft. “Hey, Momma.”
“Hi, Mae, baby,” her mother said gently, using the name only family still called her. “How are you?”
Frankie swallowed. “Nervous.”
“You’re still obsessing over that journalist, I bet?” She had told her mom all about Willa coming, and how she felt about it all. Her mom was a great listener.
“Maybe,” Frankie sighed.
“Mae Frances Donnelie. You’ve always been too tender for your own good.”
Frankie smiled faintly. “And yet you’re the one who gave me poetry books at nine and told me I felt things deeply like it was a gift.”
“It is a gift,” her mom said. “Even when it hurts.”
There was a beat of quiet.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart. Let them see you. Don’t hide the parts you think are too much. Those are the parts that shine the brightest.” She paused. “Just pray, if you’re nervous, Mae.”
Frankie blinked back the sting behind her eyes and looked across the room, where her jacket—her real stage jacket—hung like a promise on the back of her door. Ready to go.
“I’m not the praying type,” she said softly. “But maybe I’ll light a candle.”
“Whatever works,” her mother replied. “It’s about the intention. You’ve always known how to set that better than anyone.”
“I didn’t get to see Mimi today, but I had a great visit with her the other day,” Frankie said quietly.
Her mom’s voice warmed. “Yeah, the nurses mentioned you stopped by. How was she?”
Frankie leaned back against the headboard, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “It was… mixed. She knew me, called me Mae. But she said she was waiting for Poppa to come home.” Her throat tightened at the memory, though her voice stayed even.
There was a pause, her mother’s breath audible. “Yeah. It wasn’t a good day today. I’m glad you had a better one. She was agitated all afternoon and then she sundowned early, but I stayed until she fell asleep.”
Frankie let the silence stretch, her chest aching. “I’m glad you were with her.” She sighed. “I feel so guilty leaving.”
“Don’t, Mae. You’re doing exactly what she always wanted for you. She’s proud of you, baby.”
Frankie’s eyes stung. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—just full.
“I love you, Momma,” she whispered.
“I love you too, starlight. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you, but I promise I’ll be at the last one—when you’re back in the city.”
“I know,” Frankie said. “I’m glad you’re staying with Mimi. She needs you.”
Her mother’s voice softened to a hush. “Get some sleep, Mae. Send me photos. Call me every day.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you more, baby.”
Frankie hung up, wiped her tears, and snuggled deeper into bed.
Luna, her orange cat, jumped up and circled once before curling against her side.
“I’m going to miss the shit out of you,” Frankie whispered, rubbing behind her ears. “You’re my best friend. Even if you are bitchy.”
Luna purred in reply.
“You’re going to stay with Auntie Grace for a while, then go to Grandma’s. You’ll be spoiled.” Frankie yawned. “Momma’s gotta go make money so I can buy you fancy tuna and crinkly toys.”
The cat stretched, gave a noncommittal flick of her tail, and nuzzled into the blanket. Frankie smiled, curling around her.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “You’ll never have to call me a celebrity.”
* * *