chapter six
Frankie
She was exhausted.
Not the sexy, artistic kind of exhausted either—the ragged, barely-slept, brain-spinning-like-a-toddler-on-sugar kind.
She hadn’t slept a damn minute the night before.
Not from nerves, not exactly. It was more like—static mental noise that never stopped humming.
She had way too many things on her mind. Her Mimi, the show tonight, and Willa.
Willa was getting under her skin. Which was insane.
Frankie didn’t even like her. Willa was rigid, judgy, and had already taken about twelve notes on her like she was being observed in a zoo.
What if Willa hated the first performance?
What if her writing was brutal again? What if she made her look like a glitter-drenched try-hard with nothing real to say? Again.
Her Uber pulled up in front of the venue—a mid-sized spot nestled into the heart of Provincetown’s coastal charm.
The sign out front had her name on it. In lights.
Like it mattered. Inside, it was warm. The wood floors creaked, art lined the walls.
A rainbow flag fluttered outside. It felt like everything she loved about queer spaces—grit and softness in equal measure.
The band was already there. Ember was hammering out snare lines, Malik fiddled with their bass, and Juno looked like she hadn’t slept in three days.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Malik called out, grinning behind her kit.
“Good morning to you too,” Frankie muttered, her voice already hoarse.
“I still don’t understand why we’re rehearsing at ten in the goddamn morning,” Juno added, voice muffled by the bagel in their mouth. “Are you punishing us?”
“Yes,” Frankie laughed. “And also, I didn’t want the journalist to see me sound like shit while I warmed up.”
Malik raised an eyebrow. “She’s not that bad, Frank.”
“She’s… very watchy,” Frankie muttered. “Like, aggressively observant. Like she’s trying to solve me.”
“She is a journalist,” Ember pointed out. “I liked her,”
“Me too,” Juno said.
Frankie scowled. “Yeah, well, she’s also smug as hell.”
“I think she’s funny,” Malik said.
She strummed her guitar angrily, the note flat. She winced. Tried again.
Tevin adjusted something at the board. “You okay, Monroe?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Totally fine. Love singing while sleep-deprived and overthinking.”
But she found it, eventually. Midway through the second run of Bad at Being Quiet, her voice settled. Her hands remembered what her brain was too busy catastrophizing to recall. She let it ride.
By the time they wrapped, she was sweaty, slightly more awake, and only mildly haunted. She went back to the hotel, napped, meditated. She rubbed rose quartz on her wrists and told herself she was fine.
She wasn’t fine.
At 3 p.m., she walked back into the venue for the official soundcheck and immediately wished she could turn around and walk right back out.
Because Willa was already there.
* * *
Willa
She was prepared. She’d done this hundreds of times. Black skinny jeans, dark blue top, her favorite boots. Her hair was up, her camera was ready. Pen tucked behind her ear like a dagger. She arrived early, scoped the angles, and began collecting context.
And then Frankie walked in like she owned the place. Hoodie long gone. Joggers replaced with something cooler—sleek black pants, a half-buttoned top that revealed just enough collarbone to be irritating. She looked loose, focused, unbothered—and Willa hated that she noticed.
Frankie barely looked her way. She just adjusted her mic, exchanged a few easy jokes with her band, and started warming up like Willa wasn’t even there. And somehow? That irritated her more.
Like, you’re just going to ignore me now? After all that tension yesterday? Fine.
Willa jotted down notes. Snapped candid photos. Tried very hard not to think about how Frankie’s voice had improved—how there was more grit to it now, more control. How her lyrics cut deeper than they had two years ago. It pissed her off that she cared.
And then Frankie laughed—really laughed—at something Malik said. That open-throated, head-back kind of laugh that made people fall in love in indie movies.
Willa caught it on camera.
Then immediately wanted to throw her camera in the nearest trash can.
Later, when Frankie disappeared backstage, Willa followed. Just for photos. Just to document.
Frankie’s dressing room was chaotic. Half-packed makeup bags, a messy tangle of jewelry. Boots scattered.
Willa stayed in the corner, quiet, like a professional. Camera at the ready.
Frankie glanced at her once in the mirror. “You stalking me or what?”
“I’m documenting,” Willa replied coolly. “Big difference.”
Frankie snorted. “Sure. You just happen to document me every time I look halfway decent.”
“I’m trying to catch the rare moments,” Willa said, without missing a beat.
Frankie whipped around, a spark in her eye. “You are kind of mean for someone who writes about feelings for a living.”
“And you are kind of cocky for someone who once forgot the second verse onstage.”
Frankie blinked. “Oh, my goddess—did you just bring up that set?”
Willa smirked. “I was in the crowd. Painful.”
Frankie pointed her mascara wand at her. “You’re lucky I like revenge.”
Willa raised her camera slightly. “You’re lucky you photograph well.”
Another beat of silence. Frankie turned back to the mirror, cheeks pinker than they’d been a moment ago.
Willa lowered her lens. “I’ll give you space.”
But she didn’t leave right away.
And neither did Frankie say thank you.
They just hovered. For a second too long.
And when Willa finally turned to go, she knew damn well Frankie was still watching her leave.
* * *
The meet-and-greet was chaos—in the best, loudest, gayest way imaginable.
The venue’s lobby had been completely transformed.
String lights hung overhead, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow.
A makeshift photo booth was tucked in one corner with feather boas and cardboard cutout microphones.
Pop music pulsed through portable speakers.
The air was thick with perfume, excitement, and glitter.
Fans packed the space wall to wall, some already crying before they even reached the front of the line.
A few wore homemade shirts with Frankie’s lyrics scrawled across them in marker.
Some held tiny pride flags. Others brought handmade gifts—drawings, bracelets, a tiny crocheted version of her cat, Luna—that made Frankie gasp.
And Frankie?
Frankie hugged every single person like they were old friends. She remembered names from comment sections. Complimented outfits. Noticed nail art. Asked for pronouns. She took photos on people’s phones and made jokes and hyped up shy fans until they were laughing through tears.
She didn’t just sign autographs.
She didn’t just pose.
She saw people.
She knelt down to eye level with nervous teens. She cried when someone handed her a letter about how her music helped them survive. She screamed when a couple announced they had gotten engaged to her song playing in the background.
It wasn’t performative.
It wasn’t polished.
It was real.
Willa hovered just outside the chaos, camera in hand. She wasn’t the official photographer for the meet-and-greets, but Kara had waved her in with a nod, and Frankie hadn’t told her to leave—so she stayed.
And she captured it.
The glitter. The messy joy. The vulnerability.
A young fan pressing a trembling hand to their chest after hugging Frankie. Snap.
Frankie crouched beside someone in a wheelchair, both of them mid-laugh. Snap.
A little girl holding her dad’s hand while shyly giving Frankie a flower. Snap.
The grin Frankie made when someone handed her a drawing of Luna as a wizard. Snap.
Willa passed out photo release forms between shots, mumbling soft instructions, never taking her eyes off the energy that swirled through the room like magic. There were hundreds of people here.
For Frankie.
On her first night.
Willa watched her lean in close to a fan, murmuring something only the two of them could hear, before gently wiping a tear off the person’s cheek.
Willa blinked. Then swallowed. And jotted a note in the margin of her open notebook:
Frankie doesn’t just perform—she makes people feel like they matter.
She looked at that sentence for a long time.
Then underlined it.
* * *
Willa slipped out to the pit, crouching low behind the barricade, camera pressed to her chest. The lights above the crowd pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm, casting soft pinks and purples over the sea of bodies packed in the room.
The energy was thick—thrumming with expectation, all hearts held in suspension.
The room was packed.
And it wasn’t just bodies—it was signs, glitter, flags, people pressed together in a collective buzz of queer joy and anticipation.
She heard someone whisper behind her, “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing her live.”
And another voice reply, “I drove five hours for this.”
Five hours.
The house lights dimmed. The room exhaled as one.
And then—Frankie stepped on stage, and the crowd lost its mind.
A roar of cheers and screams swelled around Willa like a wave crashing against the barricade. Frankie didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there, soaking it in. The lights hit her just right—purple hair catching gold, cheekbones lit up like armor. A goddess made from thunder and moonlight.
And then she leaned into the mic, voice breathless and grinning.
“Hey guys,” she said. “How the hell are you?”
She took a moment to look at the crowd, and Willa could see the happiness on her face.
“Thanks so much for being here. I’m really happy to be doing this with you all—for the first night.”
And then the first chord hit.
Willa felt it in her ribs.
“This is She Said / I Said,” Frankie said into the mic, and the band started—and the crowd roared.
Suddenly she wasn’t the tired, hoodie-clad girl from soundcheck or the smug nightmare from the meeting yesterday.
She was something else entirely.
Willa was floored.
Frankie was electric. From the first note, she commanded the stage—not with bravado, but with something quieter. Something magnetic. Something earned.
She didn’t perform like she needed to prove anything.
She performed like she had nothing to lose.
She was sensual and soft. Wild and precise. Her voice dipped low, then soared, wrapping around each lyric like it meant everything. She twirled, bent to her knees for a riff, and then let out this half-laugh, half-growl that made the entire front row scream like it was a blessing.
Every movement was deliberate but uncalculated. Honest. Exposed.
And then—halfway through the third song—she sang a ballad Willa hadn’t heard before. Just her and a guitar.
The crowd quieted on instinct, like animals sensing a storm.
Her voice cracked on the second verse. Just barely.
But she didn’t flinch.
She didn’t recover with polish.
She leaned into it—let it tremble.
The entire room went still. Willa didn’t breathe. She didn’t blink.
She forgot to raise her camera.
It was the kind of moment she would have mocked in print three years ago.
Would’ve called it unprofessional. Sloppy. Maybe even try-hard.
But watching Frankie now?
It was devastatingly human.
Brave. Unapologetic.
Her chest ached, suddenly. For reasons she didn’t want to unpack.
Finally, she managed to lift her camera again—snapping one, two, three quick shots—but her hand was trembling, just slightly.
She crouched back down and pressed her notebook to her knee, scribbling in sharp, slanted print:
She’s a fucking star.
Then another line, smaller:
Her voice holds secrets. And she’s not afraid of being messy.
She’s what I thought I wasn’t allowed to be.
Willa stared at it for a long time.
Then she closed her notebook and lowered her camera again.
And for the rest of the set, just watched.
Because what else could she do?
Frankie Monroe wasn’t forgettable.
She was unforgettable.
And Willa was completely, stupidly, already in trouble.
* * *
After the show, backstage was buzzing—staff weaving around each other with headsets and crates, voices echoing in overlapping bursts. The band was already halfway into post-show chaos, someone yelling about tequila and someone else trying to find a lost setlist.
Willa lingered near the edge of it all, camera hanging loose at her side.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t left yet.
She told herself it was to get one last shot—something candid.
But really?
She was still rattled.
Still catching her breath from whatever the hell Frankie had just done on stage.
She heard her before she saw her—boots on concrete, the low hum of her voice as she laughed at something Kara said.
And then—Frankie passed her.
Towel slung around her neck. Damp hair. Cheeks flushed with leftover adrenaline.
She looked wrecked in the kind of way you only earned—like someone who had given everything and still had more to burn.
Then—because the universe hated Willa—Frankie glanced her way.
Their eyes met.
And then Frankie smiled.
Not smug. Not sharp. Not the usual fuck you energy she carried like perfume.
Just soft. Brief. Barely there.
Like she couldn’t help it.
Like maybe—for half a second—she forgot she was supposed to hate her too.
Willa’s stomach did something unhelpful.
“You get what you needed, Archer?” Frankie asked, voice rough from the set.
It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. More like… bait.
Willa raised her chin, ignoring the part of her that wanted to go absolutely feral about the fact that even post-show, sweaty and smug, Frankie still looked like a goddamn movie star.
She nodded. “Some of it.”
Frankie cocked her head. “Just some?”
Willa’s lips curved into something dry, something that might’ve been a smile if it didn’t come with claws.
“Don’t worry,” Willa said coolly. “I’ll make you look good.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t need your help for that.”
“Clearly.”
A pause. A beat of something sharp and tight and generously close to flirtation and then—
Frankie let out a low, amused breath and walked off.
Willa didn’t move.
She just stood there, heart pounding, teeth gritted, furious that she’d have to admit it in the article.
Frankie Monroe was more than she’d expected.
And that?
Was a real fucking problem.
* * *