chapter five
Frankie
Brooklyn was still shaking off sleep when Frankie and her crew finished loading the last of the gear.
The streets shimmered from last night’s rain, puddles reflecting a grey sky like scattered fragments of a dream.
The air smelled clean and metallic, and the city moved in slow, groggy rhythms—cabs, bikes, and buses weaving through the quiet.
Frankie jogged back toward the bus, hoodie pulled up, sleeves bunched around her wrists. Her purple curls had already slipped loose from their topknot, damp strands clinging to her cheeks. The duffel on her shoulder thudded with every step.
Then she climbed aboard—and froze. It was massive. A real tour bus. She just stood there, letting the door hiss shut behind her, blinking like the whole thing might vanish if she looked too long.
The air inside smelled like leather, carpet glue, and a whisper of industrial cleaner.
Too fresh. Too untouched. Like the universe had saved this moment just for her.
Throw pillows were already scattered across the built-in couch—one covered in rainbow embroidery, another clearly stolen from someone’s apartment.
Stickers and magnets clung to the mini fridge like souvenirs from past lives.
An open bag of Sour Patch Kids sat beside a crumpled hoodie, and a napkin on the counter read: Don’t touch Malik’s iced coffee or die.
Her chest swelled. Her heart raced. This was real. This was hers.
She was going to live on this thing. Break down on it. Create, sleep, cry, laugh—maybe fall apart a little. That was the point. Tour wasn’t just the stage. It was everything in between.
Inside, Ember was already settled in, her bunk organized like a semester abroad: Polaroids on the wall, labeled pouches for socks, battery pack mounted and ready.
Juno stood tangled in the aux cord, muttering like she was at war. “Why do these things unravel like snakes on cocaine?”
Malik was in the back lounge, deep in a debate. “Clue is cinema. If you want teens screaming in the woods, go ahead. I want camp and chaos.”
Outside, Kara stood on the curb like a battlefield commander—clipboard in hand, sharp red lipstick, three conversations happening at once.
Frankie’s whole body buzzed—nerves, adrenaline, too much coffee.
She ducked into her bunk—second row, passenger side—and pulled the curtain closed.
Narrow, but cozy. A cocoon. From her bag, she pulled a little tin etched with stars.
Inside: a smooth piece of citrine, a wrinkled fortune slip, a single incense stick—rose and cedarwood.
She stuck it into a tiny ceramic holder taped to the window frame, lit the end, and watched the smoke spiral up, slow and sure.
Eyes closed, she murmured her usual prayer. Not to anyone specific—just the universe, her grandmother, the version of herself who’d first dreamed of this.
“Let this be Love. Let this be Real. Let this be Mine.”
She sat in the quiet. And then the ache hit.
Small, sharp. She missed Luna. Grace would spoil her—filtered water, too many blankets, ceramic dish—but Frankie missed the tiny claws tapping across the floor.
Missed the chirps. The dramatic flops across her chest like you exist to serve me.
Luna had always been her grounding. Soft. Certain.
Frankie opened her eyes. Outside, Brooklyn was already awake—people hurrying by with umbrellas and bagels, voices rising, car horns echoing through the mist. The bus rumbled to life.
She wiped her palms on her jeans, heart thrumming.
Kara stepped on board, still on the phone.
Already planning for soundcheck in Provincetown.
The doors hissed shut. The driver shifted into gear.
This was happening. And Frankie—purple curls, cracked voice, glitter in her bones—was finally on her way.
* * *
Willa
By the time Willa stepped out of the Uber, it was just past three in the afternoon, and the February air carried that familiar coastal chill—brisk, not biting.
She zipped her coat higher, pulled her scarf tighter.
The sidewalk was still damp from earlier rain, the scent of saltwater and wet pavement filling her lungs with a wave of nostalgia she hadn’t invited.
Even in the off-season, Provincetown thrummed with stubborn, offbeat energy—rainbow flags in windows, string lights clinging to balconies, something queer and alive pulsing beneath her boots. She’d spent too many college weekends here chasing euphoria with strangers and cheap tequila.
But this wasn’t summer. She wasn’t twenty-one.
And she wasn’t here to disappear. She was thirty-eight and here on assignment—to shadow Frankie Monroe.
To stay professional. To write the truth.
And maybe, if she was lucky, not get pulled under by the girl she once called forgettable and hadn’t stopped remembering since.
P-Town was exactly how she remembered it. Boutique hotels, charming, artfully queer. Hand-painted signage, rainbow flags everywhere.
She checked in—the process was smooth. Polished. The concierge handed over her room key and showed her where the coffee bar was, and then she was in the elevator on her way up to her room.
Which wasn’t just a room. It was a suite. She hadn’t been expecting that.
It was luxurious. Not overdone—just nice. A king-sized bed with crisp linens, a little office area, a seating room with a couch and a television. It even had a view of the water just beyond the fogged-up window.
The welcome note on the desk was handwritten in loopy cursive, signed by the hotel and “the Side B team.” Julian’s fingerprints were all over it. It was a bribe. Willa knew that. A velvet-covered nudge from her editor-in-chief that said please don’t murder the vibe before the article gets written.
She’d expected standard accommodations. But this? A suite? A fireplace in the room? It was like being seduced into caring.
She pulled her phone out of her back pocket, snapped a few photos of the room, and sent a text to Lena.
Willa: Not a bad setup for a work trip, right?
The reply came mere seconds later.
Lena: Ugh, I miss P-Town. We need a weekend there. No work. Just lesbians and drinks with too much sugar.
Willa: Yeah, bc we’re almost 40 and a P-Town weekend is exactly what we need.
(No notes. I’m in.)
She smiled faintly—the first real smile since she’d gotten off the ferry.
What she didn’t text? The massive Frankie Monroe promotional poster she’d passed on the drive in. Not hanging at her hotel—but across the street.
It didn’t matter where it was. Frankie’s presence was already seeping into the little town like a stream under a closed door.
Her debut album hadn’t even released yet, but she’d blown up months ago when her first single hit the radio early—and she’d turned heads with a fall festival performance that went viral. Since then, the buzz hadn’t stopped.
There were smaller posters in windows. Local bars with chalkboard signs advertising Frankie-themed cocktails. One was literally called a Glitter Bitch.
The radio in her Uber had played a snippet of her latest single between traffic updates, and the driver—a middle-aged lesbian named Jeanette—had casually mentioned, “That girl’s voice makes me want to quit my job and move to a lighthouse.”
Willa hadn’t responded.
It was happening. Frankie Monroe had arrived.
And Willa? Willa had to walk into the lightning storm and pretend she wasn’t still holding onto the shadow of her own words. Words she couldn’t take back. Words she’d meant at the time.
She tossed her phone on the bed and unzipped her suitcase, pulling out her camera bag first. She ran her hand over the zipper, then hesitated—stood there a moment, staring out the window at the cold, grey water in the distance.
Five weeks.
That’s how long she’d be following her. Tour stops, soundchecks, interviews, green rooms, hotel lobbies. Intimate proximity with a girl who wore glitter like war paint and sang like her heart was always on the edge of breaking.
* * *
At 5:00, Willa’s phone buzzed.
Kara: Hey, come to dinner with us tonight? Little place around the corner. Chill vibes. The band’s coming too. You in?
Willa stared at the screen for a second, then sighed.
Willa: Sure. What time?
Kara: 6. I’ll send the address. Casual-ish.
Willa tossed the phone onto the bed and exhaled. Casual-ish. Great. As if she hadn’t already used half her wardrobe to overthink what she might wear around Frankie Monroe.
At 5:45, she pulled on her leather jacket and checked her reflection—twice. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her lips had just enough color to look like she hadn’t tried too hard. She looked competent. Cool. Totally not spiraling.
She walked the few blocks through damp, foggy streets until she found the spot—a cozy, low-lit restaurant with mismatched chairs, flickering candles, and indie records hanging on the walls. The kind of place that probably had its own zine and a drink special named after someone’s worst breakup.
Inside, Kara waved her over from a table in the back already littered with appetizer plates and half-full drinks. Frankie sat at the far end, half-turned away, idly peeling the label off a beer bottle.
“Hey!” Kara greeted, standing to offer a quick hug. “Glad you made it.”
“Of course,” Willa said, smiling with only half her face. “Thanks for the invite.”
“You remember Frankie,” Kara said with a touch of irony, sliding back into her seat beside Juno.
Frankie glanced up. “Willa.”
Willa nodded once. “Frankie.”
Kara gestured across the table. “That’s Juno—lead guitar, she/her. Ember—keys and synth, also she/her. And Malik on drums, they/them.”
Juno grinned. “Hey! Glad you’re here. Always fun getting a new face in the mix.”
Ember gave her a warm wave. “We were promised no PR people. You seem chill so far.”
Malik lifted their glass lazily. “We have a very strict ‘don’t-be-weird’ policy. You’re passing.”
Willa chuckled, slipping into the empty seat between Kara and Ember. “Good to know. I’ll try not to ruin it.”
“You want a drink?” Kara asked. “Malik’s been making enemies with the waiter.”
“It’s a gift,” Malik deadpanned.
“I’m good, thanks,” Willa said, unclasping her hands under the table.
The conversation picked up fast. The group had that easy, lived-in rhythm—half inside jokes, half open invite.
Juno started ranking worst van snacks by texture.
Ember told a story about accidentally flashing a dive bar crowd in Cleveland.
Willa found herself smiling more than she expected.
She even laughed out loud once, which earned her an approving thumbs-up from Malik.
Every so often, her eyes flicked toward Frankie, still parked at the end of the table.
She wasn’t participating—just watching, quiet, contained.
She nodded along, maybe smirked once when Ember made a joke about using glitter as a personality trait, but otherwise, she kept her focus on her fries and her beer.
Willa hated that she noticed. Hated more that she felt it—like Frankie’s silence was aimed directly at her.
At one point, they locked eyes.
Neither of them smiled.
Eventually, Kara checked her phone and let out a groan. “Okay, early load-in tomorrow. We should wrap.”
The group stood, slowly gathering bags and jackets. There were hugs, casual goodnights, soft laughter. Malik promised to Venmo someone for their two martinis and then immediately forgot. Juno wrapped Willa into a side hug like they’d known each other longer than an hour.
Outside, the fog had thickened, the air damp and cool. The group lingered under the yellow glow of the streetlights, talking about the route for tomorrow and whether the coffee at the next venue would be drinkable.
Willa turned to go, but Kara touched her elbow.
“Hey—thanks for coming tonight.”
Willa glanced over. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“You good?” Kara asked. Her tone was casual, but there was a look behind it.
Willa shrugged. “She’s a lot.”
Kara gave her a half-smile. “You’re both a lot.”
Willa exhaled a laugh that didn’t quite land. “That obvious?”
Kara just raised her brows and squeezed her arm lightly. “See you tomorrow.”
Willa nodded and turned back toward the hotel, the fog swallowing the sound of her boots on the pavement. She wasn’t sure if tonight had made things easier or worse.
But it had made one thing clear.
This tour was going to be something.
And Frankie Monroe was going to be impossible to ignore.
* * *
As she walked back to her hotel room, she couldn’t shake dinner.
Couldn’t shake her. That hadn’t gone how she’d expected.
She’d prepared for chaos—a glitter-covered hurricane with a chip on her shoulder and no sense of volume control.
An ego with a microphone. She’d been ready for theatrics, for snide remarks, for flirtation disguised as deflection.
She hadn’t expected… restraint.
Frankie hadn’t exploded. She hadn’t postured. She hadn’t even flirted—not really. She’d sat quiet at the end of the table, calm, unreadable. Maybe a little smug. But mostly? Measured. Controlled. Like she didn’t need to be loud to command the room. Like she knew she already did.
It was infuriating. And worse?
It was impressive.
Willa didn’t know whether to be annoyed or respect the hell out of it. Maybe both. Probably both.
When she got back to her room, she didn’t bother turning on the lights. She kicked off her boots, peeled out of her jeans and shirt, and crawled into bed in her underwear and undershirt. The room still held a trace of warmth from earlier, a sweetness in the air that clung to the edges of her skin.
She pulled the comforter up and reached for her notebook. It rested on the nightstand, spine worn and familiar. She opened to a blank page and just stared for a moment, her pen unmoving in her hand.
Then, finally, she wrote the only sentence that felt true:
Frankie Monroe, too soft to hate, too sharp to ignore. Unapologetically complicated.
Willa stared at it. It wasn’t what she wanted to write. It wasn’t biting. It wasn’t detached.
It was honest. And it felt dangerous.
She tapped her pen against the margin, heart ticking faster, and added a second line beneath it:
This will be harder than I thought.
She didn’t mean the assignment.
She meant her.
And that, more than anything, pissed her off.
* * *