chapter seven
Frankie
Frankie slept in the morning after the show—really slept.
The kind of sleep that leaves you tangled in blankets and disoriented when you wake.
Her limbs ached in the best way. Her throat felt wrecked.
She stretched like a cat under the covers, a quiet little groan escaping as she rolled to her side and squinted at the light peeking through the curtains.
Late. But she didn’t care.
There was a low hum in her chest, leftover adrenaline threaded with something warmer.
Satisfaction. Gratitude. Joy, maybe. Last night had been good.
No—great. The kind of night she knew would stick.
The crowd had matched her breath for breath.
The songs had landed. The setlist changes she’d made on a whim had felt right, and the fans had known every word like they’d been waiting for them.
The meet-and-greet was chaos, but the kind of chaos that filled her up instead of draining her. She’d felt connected. Rooted.
Seen.
And then there was Willa.
Frankie sighed and grabbed her phone, flipping it over in her hand, thumb hovering. She wasn’t ready to check mentions or reviews. Not yet. But her mind was too full to scroll mindlessly.
She opened her contacts and tapped Grace instead.
“Hey, rockstar,” Grace said, voice warm with teasing. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” Frankie rasped. “I slept like the dead.”
“I don’t blame you. How was it? I saw recaps all over Instagram. You looked and sounded—” Grace let out a low whistle—“incredible.”
Frankie released a long, content breath. “It was kind of… perfect?”
“Tell me everything,” Grace gasped.
So, she did. Not all the details—she skipped the part where Willa Archer had been haunting her brain like a beautiful, judgmental ghost—but she gave her sister the SparkNotes. The fans. The crowd singing back. The energy. The music.
Grace laughed at all the right parts. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” she said. “Seriously. You’re doing it. You’re really doing it, Frank.”
Frankie smiled, eyes closed, letting that land. “Thanks. I… needed to hear that.”
There was a pause. Comfortable, as always, with Grace.
“How was Mimi yesterday?” Frankie asked softly.
“It wasn’t her best day,” Grace admitted. She always kept it real. “She had some good moments—kept humming that Patsy Cline song. But she called me Suzie nearly the whole time. Thought I was Mom.”
Frankie’s throat tightened.
“She smiled when I showed her a fan video of you,” Grace added gently. “I don’t know if she knew it was you, but she smiled like she did.”
Frankie blinked up at the ceiling, her chest pulling with that familiar, quiet ache. “I want to try and see her before the Boston show. There’s a small gap in the schedule—I think I can sneak off.”
“That’s a good idea, if you can. You two need each other. You always bring her back a little when you’re there. And she calms your anxieties.”
Frankie swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to lose her, G.”
“I know.” Grace’s voice went rough, thick with sadness. “Me either.”
They sat in silence for a beat.
“I love you,” Frankie said finally.
“Love you more,” Grace replied. “Now go eat carbs and pretend you’re not secretly spiraling over Willa Archer.”
“I hate you,” Frankie muttered.
Grace laughed. “You’re welcome.”
Frankie hung up with a smile still tugging at her lips, the ache in her chest just a little softer.
She lay there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, her phone resting on her chest. She hadn’t expected to care this much about Willa’s opinion.
She told herself it was about the press exposure—the print issue, the coverage—but she knew it was more than that.
She kept replaying the moment—Willa snapping her photo during the pre-show chant. The look on her face during the set. Focused, but not just observing. She wasn’t just watching her. She was seeing her.
Frankie whispered the thought aloud, voice hoarse. “She was seeing me.”
It felt too intimate to say out loud, even in an empty hotel room. She reached for her phone again, hesitated, then opened her messages and typed:
Frankie: Do you think she liked it?
She hit send and stared at the screen, immediately regretting it. Too vulnerable. Too obvious. Too much.
Kara replied almost at once.
Kara: well, she didn’t leave early. And she didn’t roll her eyes like you said she would. She seemed like she was actually enjoying herself. Definitely in work mode, but I caught a few smiles. Looked like she was pleasantly surprised.
Frankie: That’s basically a rave review coming from her.
Her thumb hovered. She exhaled and hit send.
Then, dropping her phone beside her and staring at the ceiling, one arm flung across her forehead.
Dragging herself into the bathroom, she let the water run hot in the shower and stood under it longer than necessary, steam curling around her like armor.
After she got out, her skin flushed, she dried her hair enough to pile it on top of her head in a topknot. She threw on her favorite oversized sweatshirt and leggings, swiped on a little mascara, and slipped into her sneakers.
Downstairs, the band was already waiting in the hotel’s tiny brunch café, Ember waving her over with a mimosa in hand. Frankie smiled—small, tired, but real.
Whatever mess her head was in, she’d earned this moment. She’d made it here. And Willa Archer’s camera wasn’t going to scare her off. At least, that’s what she told herself as she pulled open the café door and walked into brunch.
* * *
Willa
A few blocks from the hotel, Willa sat curled in the corner of a tiny queer café—half bookstore, half espresso bar, and full of plants, indie merch, and women in cuffed jeans discussing astrology like it was science.
Her laptop was open in front of her, cursor blinking at her like it was about to start mocking her out loud.
Her glasses were on. Her hoodie sleeves pushed up. Her notes from the night before were spread out across the table in a mess of scrawled phrases, bullet points, and post its that read like someone having a professional crisis in real time.
Which, to be fair, she was.
The show had been better than she expected. Like, a lot better. Which annoyed her. Deeply.
Because she hadn’t come home to be charmed. Or captivated. Or whatever the hell Frankie Monroe had managed to do just by standing under a spotlight like she was bleeding out in melody.
She sipped her coffee like it had personally disappointed her and started typing:
Frankie Monroe’s debut wasn’t about polish. It was about presence. She commands space without demanding it. There’s a softness in her performance that doesn’t weaken the impact—it sharpens it. She invites you to listen, then dares you to feel something.
She scowled at the screen. Backspaced half the paragraph.
Too much.
It sounded like she wanted to date her. Or write her a poem. It sounded like admiration, and Willa didn’t admire people who wore crop tops made of mesh and still managed to hit high notes like that.
She scrolled back through her notebook, looking for a colder, smarter line. But all she saw were words like vulnerable, raw, devastating, and one deeply humiliating sentence in the corner of a post it:
She’s what I thought I wasn’t allowed to be.
Willa shut the notebook like it had insulted her family. Then, against her better judgment, she opened her camera roll.
Frankie’s face filled the screen.
Sweaty. Wild-eyed. Mid-chorus. Lit from behind like a painting and looking way too good for someone who’d just stomped around in leather pants for an hour. One shot caught her mid-laugh, head thrown back, lips parted. Honest. Unfiltered.
Willa’s stomach flipped.
No.
She pulled out her phone and opened her texts.
Willa: I might be into her music. Against my will.
The reply came instantly.
Lena: Oh sweetheart, I think you meant to say, that you might be into her. Period.
Willa stared at her screen, then locked her phone and dropped it face-down on the table like it was cursed.
“Absolutely not,” she muttered.
Her chest was tight. Her thoughts were annoying. Her fingers itched to type, to keep going, to describe Frankie with even more stupid, accurate words like mesmerizing and undeniable.
She hated this. She hated that she couldn’t write this piece without sounding like she had a crush. She reopened the document, jaw clenched.
Typed slowly:
There’s nothing forgettable about Frankie Monroe.
Which is exactly the problem.
She didn’t smile. Except maybe just a little. But she also wanted to strangle someone—preferably herself.
* * *
The venue was quiet now. Long past the chaos of last night. The crowd was gone, the stage stripped of magic, the lights off. Just the bones of the space remained—old wood floors, dusty curtains, the faintest trace of lavender incense still hanging in the air.
Willa stepped through the front, camera in hand but no real intention of using it.
She told herself she just wanted to retrace the steps. To feel out the space. To stay in the moment just a little longer.
But really, she wasn’t done thinking about Frankie.
She walked backstage, her boots soft against the floor. Past the greenroom. Down the narrow hall. The dressing room was still a mess. Makeup scattered, hoodies draped over chairs, a La Croix can abandoned on the vanity.
She hadn’t come looking for anything.
But then—there it was. A small black notebook, tucked just under the edge of a chair.
She hesitated.
Then picked it up.
The first few pages were practical—setlists, rearranged with arrows and quick notes. But further in?
Lyrics.
Rough. Honest. Scribbled in the margins with phrases like “do it angry” and “soft, not sweet.” Messy, sure—but poetic. And intentional. Like someone who felt too much and didn’t know where to put it.
She flipped one more page and stopped cold.
I wrote you like wildfire
because I didn’t know how to keep you.
Her throat tightened.
She closed the notebook.
Didn’t take a photo. Didn’t even consider it.
That line wasn’t for her article. That line was… personal.
Sacred.
She put the notebook back exactly where she found it. Then pulled out her own journal and scribbled a single line across the page:
The artist I dismissed might be one of the most honest performers I’ve ever met.
She stared at the words.
Then shut the book too.
Harder than she meant to.
* * *
The restaurant Kara had rented out for the band was small, private, and lowkey—the kind of place with exposed brick, soft jazz, and a wine list longer than the menu. It was nice. Comfortable. Not too flashy.
Frankie showed up late, her hair piled in a messy bun with wild purple curls spilling out in every direction.
She wore jeans, a tank top, and an open flannel covered in hand-sewn patches.
Her sunglasses were still on, even though the sky was clouded over.
She looked like someone famous trying not to look famous—which, knowing Frankie, was probably the point.
She pushed open the door, blinked into the soft lighting.
And stopped.
Willa was already there.
She was seated at the far end of the table, casually chatting with Kara and Ember. Wine glass in hand, her lips curled in an almost-smile. One leg crossed over the other. Effortlessly poised like she belonged anywhere. Like this was just another day.
Frankie’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t expected her to be here. She’d spent the whole damn day trying her best to forget about her—and now she was here, at dinner, with her people.
She slid into the seat directly across from her, letting her bag drop onto the floor with a little too much force. Willa didn’t flinch. Just looked up with that maddening calm, her brow raised like she was waiting for something.
Frankie peeled off her sunglasses and tossed them on the table.
“Good day, journalist?” she asked.
It wasn’t smug. Just light. Playful. Tentative, in a way that made her ears burn the second she heard herself say it.
Willa blinked, gave a faint, unreadable smile. “Well enough, pop star.”
The band felt it. The shift. The air between them tightened like a pulled string. Juno raised an eyebrow at Ember, who looked at Malik like, this is going to be a thing, isn’t it?
Even Kara, cool and collected as always, paused with her fork mid-bite like she was cataloging the moment.
Malik cleared their throat and casually jumped in to redirect.
“So, Willa,” they asked, “what made you want to write for Side B?”
Willa blinked, caught off guard—but not thrown.
“I’ve always loved music and storytelling.
It started with zines in college. Basement shows.
Bad fonts and duct-taped covers. Then music blogs.
Eventually Side B. I like figuring out what makes people tick—what they’re really saying between the lyrics. ”
Frankie hadn’t meant to listen.
But she was. Really listening. And worse—liking what she heard.
There was something real in Willa’s voice when she talked about it. Something sharp and certain. She wasn’t just here for the gig. She cared. And that surprised Frankie.
Annoyed her, too. Because caring made people dangerous.
She watched the way Willa’s fingers danced along the rim of her cup. The way her voice dipped when she said the word lyrics. The way she was still—infuriatingly—so composed.
“You’re not what I expected,” Frankie said, softer than she meant.
Willa’s eyes flickered to hers. “Neither are you.”
It should’ve felt like a compliment.
It felt like a challenge.
* * *
Frankie
It was late—Frankie couldn’t sleep. She was in bed, tossing and turning, when she finally got up, grabbed her guitar, and climbed back under the covers. She brushed her fingers over the strings, letting the vibrations hum against her skin like something alive.
The day was behind her. The show the night before. The high. The crash.
But Willa?
Still in her head.
She hated it. Hated that she was still thinking about the way Willa had said “neither are you.” The way her expression had flickered during the set, like she was trying not to feel something. Like she was losing the fight.
It annoyed the hell out of her.
And it kind of turned her on.
She flipped to a blank page in her notebook and started writing—just a melody at first. Something slow. Suspicious. Curious. Then came the words:
You cornered me in questions.
Didn’t know I had answers.
You called me a show,
But you came for the encore.
She scratched out the last line immediately.
Too much.
Still, the song was there. In her throat. In her hands. Something half between a growl and a confession. She didn’t finish it. Just shut the notebook and let it rest on her chest.
Then muttered to herself, “God, I hope she never reads that.”
And hated herself for wondering what she’d think if she did.
* * *