chapter eight
Frankie
The bus rumbled along the rain-slicked highway toward Portland, Maine—Trees blurring past in streaks of wet green and grey. Inside everything was a warm, dim, and humming with a lazy sort of energy that came after the high of a show.
Frankie was stretched out in the back lounge, one draped over the side of the cushioned bench, her own merch hoodie on, headphones in.
She was pretending to sleep. She wasn’t.
Her eyes were closed, but her mind was loud. Her chest still buzzing—not just with leftover adrenaline, but something sharper. Something tangled. Something annoying.
Willa.
Frankie tried to ignore it. She closed her eyes tighter. Focused on the music. Then unplugged the headphone with a sigh and flipped open the notebook in her lap. She thumbed past setlist and loose lyrics until she found the page she’d scribbled on last night.
It wasn’t finished, but the words were raw. Too raw. the kind of raw that made embarrassed even in her own handwriting.
She stared at the lines.
You called me a show,
But you stayed for the encore.
It made her eyes roll. But it was correct.
She scratched at the corner of the page with her thumbnail, resisting the urge to rip it out.
From the front of the bus came the familiar chaos of a snack debate.
“Peanut M&M’s are superior!” Ember insisted, voice echoing off the wood paneling.
Malik groaned, “You’re so loud and so wrong.”
Frankie didn’t go join in. Barely registered it.
Her thoughts kept circling. Willa sitting across from her at dinner.
Legs crossed, calm and unreadable. Willa leaning into the dressing room doorway, snapping that photo before the show.
Willa, eyes wide in the crowd trying not to look like she was unmoved. And failing.
Frankie leaned back, dragging a hand down her face.
Kara appeared at the door to the lounge, holding a coffee in one hand and what looked like a granola bar in the other. She kicked the door closed behind her and dropped onto the seat across from Frankie.
“You okay?” she asked.
Frankie rolled her head to the side to look at her. “Define ‘okay.’”
Kara passed her the coffee anyway. “That bad?”
Frankie took it, curled her fingers around the cup. “I don’t know what her deal is.”
Kara raised a brow. “Or maybe… you just want her to have a deal with you.”
Frankie groaned and collapsed back against the bench, flinging her arm over her face. “Please stop being wise before noon.”
“I’m just saying,” Kara said, unwrapping her granola bar, “you’re giving ‘slow-burn romantic lead spiraling about the mean girl.’ Not judging. Just observing.”
Frankie peeked at her from under her arm. “I’m starting to think she’s not the mean girl.”
Kara smirked. “No. She’s just the girl who got under your skin.”
Frankie groaned louder and rolled to her side like she could physically shake the thought off.
* * *
Willa
The train station was grim, all grey skies and icy wind, the kind of cold that crawled up your sleeves and made your bones ache.
Willa tugged her scarf tighter and adjusted her grip on the handle of her suitcase, its wheels catching on patches of frozen slush as she made her way toward the waiting rideshare.
The driver gave her a polite nod, barely looked up from his phone.
She didn’t blame him. It was the kind of day that made you want to hibernate.
But when she got to the hotel, it was like stepping into another universe.
The lobby was small but bursting with color—sunny yellow walls, mismatched velvet chairs in jewel tones, and a rainbow-striped runner leading to the check-in desk.
A framed vintage Lesbian Herstory Month poster hung proudly between two hanging plants, and someone had written You are exactly where you’re supposed to be in pink chalk across the welcome board.
It smelled faintly of coffee and lavender.
Willa exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.
The person behind the desk had a septum ring and a lavender beanie and greeted her with a warm, “We’re so happy you’re here,” like they meant it. They handed her a key card with a little pride sticker on the back.
Room 203. Second floor. Corner view of the bay.
She stepped inside and melted.
The room was cozy and bright—painted a soft coral with navy trim, a retro loveseat in the corner covered in knit throw pillows, and a quilted bedspread that looked handmade. There were books on the nightstand, real ones. The kind someone had actually read.
Willa dropped her bag, kicked off her boots, and fell backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.
She pulled out her phone and texted Lena.
Willa: Okay, maybe she’s not the worst. But she’s still annoying.
The response came back at once, because of course it did.
Lena: Annoying is just enemies-to-lovers foreplay. Congrats, you’re halfway to soft-launching your enemies-to-girlfriends arc.
Willa groaned. Out loud. Alone. In her hotel room.
The ceiling didn’t care. Neither did the crooked painting of a lobster boat above the bed. She glared at it anyway, as if it had answers.
She picked up her phone and typed:
Willa: I hate you.
Lena: You hate how much you like her. And that I’m right.
Willa didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Mostly because Lena wasn’t wrong—and that was intolerable.
She tossed her phone aside and dropped back onto the bed, arm flung over her eyes like that might block out the memory. But her brain, traitorous as ever, started feeding her fragments from last night:
Frankie grinning across the table like she’d cracked some code.
The deliberate brush of shoulders as they slid into the booth.
That low, real laugh Frankie let out when Willa insulted her—on purpose—just to see what would happen.
It had felt… easy. Which was suspicious. And also, a little dangerous.
Willa hated that she was starting to look forward to their weird little run-ins. That she’d noticed the way Frankie sometimes looked at her—like she was waiting to be challenged. Like she wanted to dig deeper. Like Willa was a problem she wanted to solve.
It made Willa want to test her. Just to see how far she’d go.
She sat up and glanced out the hotel window.
From this angle, she could just make out the side of a nearby building—faded brick and a mural half-obscured by fire escapes.
A woman with wild hair and a guitar slung over her back stared out defiantly, like she’d been burning through decades and still hadn’t cooled.
It reminded Willa of Frankie.
Not in looks. In energy.
She grabbed her phone again and snapped a picture without thinking.
She didn’t pause to wonder why.
Then she flopped back onto the bed and told herself it didn’t mean anything.
Even though it kind of did.
* * *
The text from Kara had said early dinner downstairs, hotel restaurant—casual, 6 p.m. Willa had arrived at 6:03.
She stood just inside the restaurant, letting her eyes adjust to the low lighting.
It was small, with moss green walls, dim sconces, and mismatched vintage prints hung too close together.
Cozy in a trying-too-hard way. A couple of tables were full, the clink of cutlery underscored by the soft murmur of conversation.
But the long booth in the back? Empty—except for one person.
Frankie Monroe.
Willa stopped.
Frankie sat slouched against the leather banquette like she’d been born there, one arm draped across the top, her curls pulled back in a haphazard bun.
She wore a worn-in Bowie tee and a thin gold chain, her rings catching the light as she flipped a coaster over and over between her fingers.
She looked up, met Willa’s gaze, and tilted her head.
“No band?” Willa asked as she walked over. “Kara?”
Frankie smirked. “Bailed. Apparently, exhaustion is contagious.”
Willa slipped into the seat across from her, setting her phone down beside the menu. “So, it’s just us.”
“Guess so.”
A pause. Not tense, exactly. But not not-tense either.
Willa opened the menu. “If I’d known, I might’ve ordered room service instead.”
Frankie arched a brow. “Charming.”
Willa didn’t look up. “Just setting expectations.”
Another beat passed. Then Frankie signaled the waiter with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Let’s at least get a drink before you regret it too much.”
Willa exhaled through her nose, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m not regretting it.”
Frankie’s grin twitched wider. “Not yet.”
They ordered—bourbon neat for Frankie, a dirty gin martini for Willa—and when the drinks arrived, the first sip loosened something between them. Just a notch. Not quite warmth, but something adjacent.
Willa rolled the olive between her teeth and finally asked, “So… how often do you write songs that sound like personal confessions disguised as soundcheck?”
Frankie blinked. Then laughed—low and amused. “Jesus. Starting strong, huh?”
Willa shrugged. “You don’t exactly make it easy to ignore.”
Frankie leaned forward slightly, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. “What if I told you the songs weren’t disguises?”
Willa tilted her head. “Then I’d probably ask who they’re about.”
Another pause. Deeper this time. Something unspoken flickering between them.
Frankie didn’t answer. Not really. Just took a sip of her drink and said, “Maybe I just write what I want to say, but don’t know how to.”
Willa’s chest tightened. She hated that it made her feel something. Hated it even more that she understood.
Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “That’s inconvenient.”
Frankie smiled without showing teeth. “Yeah. You’re telling me.”
Willa looked down at her drink, then back up again. “I didn’t expect to like the show,” she said, words carefully chosen.
Frankie’s brows lifted. “And?”
“And I did.”
Frankie blinked. Just once. But it looked like it landed.
“Shit,” she said lightly. “Willa Archer admits she liked something? Is this where the sky opens up and rains frogs?”
Willa huffed a laugh. “Don’t push it.”
Frankie was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “Thanks.”