chapter nine
Willa
Willa woke up warm, rested, and slightly disoriented.
It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only hotels could get away with—muffled footfalls down the hall, the low drone of a heater, distant clinking of dishes downstairs.
She blinked at the soft coral ceiling and let herself sink into the pillow for a moment longer, replaying dinner like a scene from a movie she wasn’t sure she was supposed to enjoy.
When she realized it was just going to be her and Frankie for dinner, she expected it to be awkward. Tense. Maybe tolerable, at best. But instead, she’d found herself relaxing. Laughing. Wanting to stay. And that was the part she didn’t know what to do with.
God help her.
Her phone buzzed from the nightstand.
Kara (Band Group Chat): Brunch at 10 downstairs. Don’t make me come knock. Ember says she’s wearing sweatpants and demands solidarity.
Willa stared at it.
Then… turned her phone face down and rolled out of bed.
She pulled on black jeans, a soft charcoal sweater layered under her long wool coat and wrapped a dark scarf around her neck.
Her boots were practical, leather, scuffed just enough to look lived-in.
She twisted her hair into a messy bun—controlled chaos, like everything else about her—and didn’t bother with makeup beyond a swipe of mascara.
There was no way she could sit through brunch with a bunch of people pretending not to notice the “thing” between her and Frankie.
Not today. Not when it felt a little too raw. A little too real.
Instead, she wandered to a small coffee shop she’d passed the day before. It was quiet, warm, and smelled like cardamom and baked sugar. The kind of place with tiny wooden tables, stacks of free zines, and a barista with a septum ring and an undercut who smiled at her like they shared a secret.
She ordered a lavender latte, snagged a corner table, and opened her laptop.
Or tried to.
Because instead of her article, she opened her notebook first.
And instead of writing about music, she wrote about Frankie.
Not directly. She wasn’t that far gone.
But the lines were there anyway. Slantwise. Obvious, if you knew what to look for.
There’s something about watching someone become who they are in real time.
She stared at it, pen balanced between her fingers. Tapped the tip twice against the paper. Took a sip of her latte. Closed her eyes for just a second.
God, she was excited for the show tomorrow. She wouldn’t admit it out loud—certainly not to Frankie—but it buzzed in her chest like anticipation with teeth.
And she hated that she kind of liked it.
Once she’d gotten the worst of her feelings onto the page, she opened her laptop and pulled up the working draft. No overthinking. No second-guessing. Just write.
Then came full sentences. Paragraphs. And suddenly, she was in it—completely.
She didn’t notice time passing. The coffee shop faded. Her coffee went cold.
It was just her and the page.
She wrote for over an hour, chasing that rare, elusive rhythm where the words stopped resisting her.
For the first time in weeks, the sentences didn’t feel hollow.
The shape of the piece started to form—sharp and honest and almost human.
She wrote about contradiction. Presence. Performance as protection.
She wrote around Frankie. But not through her.
Because she couldn’t. Not yet.
Eventually, she hit the edge. The words slowed. Then stopped.
She sat back, eyes scanning what she’d filled. A lot of it was good. Some of it was even great.
But it was still missing something. Not metaphor. Not structure. Voice. Frankie’s.
She rubbed her temple with the back of her hand and exhaled slowly. She needed quotes. Needed backstory. Needed that thread only Frankie could give her—the messy, complicated truth behind the art.
Which meant she had to have the conversation.
A work conversation. Not an interview. She couldn’t call it that. Frankie would shut down before the first question left her mouth. But something quieter. Casual. A conversation that let Frankie talk without feeling like she was being dissected.
Willa closed the notebook and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
She’d have to tread carefully. Frankie didn’t like being studied. But Willa couldn’t finish the piece without stepping into the very thing she’d been avoiding since Providence.
Real access. Real vulnerability.
She’d have to ask Frankie to open a door—and hope she didn’t slam it shut in her face.
* * *
Frankie
Frankie stabbed at her scrambled eggs like they had personally offended her. The hotel buffet was decent enough—basic carbs, weak coffee, over-cheerful music playing faintly in the background—but the chair next to hers was still empty.
“So… Willa’s not coming?” she asked, trying to sound casual. It came out… not.
Kara looked up from her fruit cup and smirked. “Oh my god. You miss her presence.”
“I do not,” Frankie muttered.
“You so do. You’re pouting into your croissant.” Juno laughed, leaning back in her chair with a dramatic stretch that nearly knocked over a water glass.
“I’m not—” Frankie looked down. She was, in fact, aggressively hunched over a croissant. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“She probably just wanted space,” Kara said, tossing her empty yogurt cup into the trash with irritating ease. “Or she’s writing. You kind of fried her brain last night.”
Frankie flushed. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” Kara said. “That’s the problem.”
Malik snorted from behind their massive sunglasses, which they were still wearing indoors like the diva they were. “This is why I keep telling you to just make out already and get it over with.”
“Jesus,” Frankie groaned, dropping her head into her arms. “I hate all of you.”
“You say that,” Kara said, patting her shoulder, “but deep down, you know I’m the only thing standing between you and sending her a ‘u up?’ text in broad daylight.”
“I’d block your number,” Frankie mumbled into the tablecloth.
“You’d be lost without me, Frank” Kara said breezily, stealing the last piece of bacon off Frankie’s plate.
Ember leaned forward. “So, is anyone going to talk about the show tomorrow night, or are we just going to emotionally spiral about our writer crush all day?”
Frankie glared at her. “This is breakfast. Spiraling is allowed.”
“I support the spiral,” Juno added, sipping her coffee like she wasn’t the literal queen of chaos.
Kara raised her orange juice like a toast. “To spiraling and self-sabotage.”
“To queer heartbreak and buffet carbs,” Malik added.
Frankie lifted her head just enough to groan. “You are all demons.”
“Sure,” Kara said. “But we’re your demons. Now eat your eggs.”
“I am,” Frankie said, “Then I’m going to go run.”
“Run away,” Malik laughed.
* * *
Willa
The gym was empty when Willa arrived.
She liked that. The quiet hum of machines. The rubber-scented air. The clink of weights in the distance. She was halfway through a slow jog on the treadmill, she was wearing a sports bra and leggings, earbuds in, when the door opened.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was. She could feel it. Like a shift in gravity. Frankie stepped in wearing a cutoff tank, old sweatpants rolled at the waist, and a high ponytail that should not have been that attractive. She scanned the room. Saw her and grinned.
“Really?” Frankie said, heading straight for the treadmill next to her. “You skipped breakfast with us just to avoid me?”
“I didn’t skip. I relocated,” Willa said, breath even, eyes forward.
Frankie stepped up onto the machine beside her. “Mmhmm. Relocated like a fugitive.”
Willa pressed a button on her screen. “You’re very loud for someone who just got here.”
“I bring energy,” Frankie said, tapping her speed up until her stride matched Willa’s. “And chaos. Sometimes insight.”
“Occasionally humility?” Willa offered.
Frankie snorted. “That one’s still loading.”
They ran in silence for a few beats. The kind of silence that thudded between footfalls. The sound of breath and machines and the occasional groan from a too-loud playlist someone had left running on the gym speakers.
Frankie side-eyed her. “You’re fast.”
“You’re surprised?”
“I’m impressed.”
Willa didn’t look over, but she smirked. “Careful. That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”
Frankie’s voice dropped. Low. Easy. “Maybe I’ve got a few of those.”
Willa’s stomach flipped.
She focused harder on the treadmill screen. On the numbers ticking up. But her peripheral vision betrayed her—caught glimpses of toned shoulders, strong legs, sweat starting to bead at Frankie’s collarbone. She hated how hot it was.
Frankie adjusted her ponytail and caught Willa glancing.
“What?” Frankie grinned.
“Nothing.”
Frankie grinned wider. “You’re thinking about writing about this, aren’t you?”
Willa arched a brow. “What exactly do you think I’d write?”
“I don’t know. ‘Frankie Monroe: Surprisingly Graceful on a Treadmill.’ Or maybe, ‘How to Look Hot While Sweating, a Study in Contradictions.’”
Willa rolled her eyes. “More like, ‘How to Be the Most Distracting Person Alive in Five Easy Steps.’”
Frankie’s laugh came out low and smug. “So, you admit I’m distracting.”
Willa pushed her speed up half a notch. “I admit nothing.”
Frankie matched her. Of course she did.
They ran like that—side by side, sweat-slicked and competitive, grinning and flushed—for another ten minutes. And when they finally slowed to a walk, Frankie glanced sideways, heart hammering, grin soft.
“This was fun.”
Willa nodded. “Unexpectedly.”
“Still avoiding me after this?”
Willa met her gaze, chest still rising and falling. “I wasn’t avoiding you I was working.” She said.
Frankie laughed. “We’re going to go to dinner tonight, you coming?”
“Yeah, I can do that, I guess. I’m going to have to eat,” Willa said, stepping off the treadmill.
Frankie watched her walk toward the towels, that perfect calm-coiled posture. She rubbed the back of her neck and muttered to herself, “Yeah. I’m so fucked.”
* * *
The restaurant buzzed with low conversation and clinking silverware, warm light spilling across mismatched wood tables.
Willa spotted them at once—Frankie’s purple hair unmistakable even from the door, Malik’s long frame folded into the booth like they were born for it, Ember mid-laugh, head thrown back.
Willa exhaled once, slow and steady, then walked over.
“Look who decided to show,” Juno said, grinning as she scooted over to make room.
Malik looked up from their phone. “We were about three minutes away from staging a dramatic group exit.”
“And leaving Frankie to foot the bill,” Ember added, sipping her drink with a wink.
Frankie didn’t look up. “Cute.”
Willa slid into the booth beside Juno and across from Frankie, shrugging out of her coat. “Sorry. Got caught up working.”
“Oh no,” Malik said, dry. “The tragedy of someone actually doing their job.”
“You know,” Juno said, “if you keep disappearing during meals, we’re gonna assume you’re writing secret poetry about us.”
Willa smirked. “You’d be lucky.”
Frankie finally looked up. Her gaze met Willa’s for half a second—sharp, unreadable—before she glanced away like the eye contact had physically pained her.
“Yeah” Ember said, “This one was grumpy at breakfast cause you weren’t there, and I couldn’t sit through another meal like that.”
“Yeah, she missed you,” Juno sing-songed, then ducked as Frankie whipped a sugar packet at her.
Malik grinned. “It was very angsty popstar misses her muse. Honestly, kind of hot.”
Frankie scowled. “Remind me to fire all of you.”
Willa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
“So,” Ember said, sliding the drink menu toward Willa, “what’s your poison? And do you want to order food or just stare moodily at Frankie all night?”
Willa arched a brow. “Do I have to choose?”
Frankie exhaled through her nose. “This is a nightmare.”
Ember smirked. “You like it.”
They ordered dinner—Malik got a mountain of fries and a side of hummus they insisted was “for balance,” Juno went with the same pasta she always did, she ate like a five year old. Ember got something spicy, and Willa picked at a flatbread while sipping her glass of red.
Conversation hummed around the table, bright and familiar. Juno was telling a story about a fan who’d asked for a selfie mid-panic attack, and Malik was miming how they’d tried to redirect her using only eyebrow movements.
Willa caught Frankie watching her once. Then again.
Frankie didn’t smile, didn’t speak—but her fingers were tracing the edge of her glass like she needed somewhere for the nervous energy to go.
They were pretending. Still pretending. But the edges had softened. Just a little.
Under the table, Willa’s foot brushed Frankie’s.
Neither of them moved.
“You two need a chaperone,” Malik said suddenly.
Frankie frowned. “What?”
“Your energy,” Malik said, gesturing vaguely. “It’s very ‘we’re enemies but also I’d die if she touched someone else.’”
Willa gave them a slow blink. “Do you write fanfiction on the side?”
“Not yet,” Malik replied, smug.
Frankie shoved her fork into her potatoes. “Can we not.”
“Seconded,” Willa muttered.
But Frankie glanced at her then—just for a second—and the flicker of something in her eyes made Willa’s stomach turn over.
Yeah. They were both still pretending. But they were doing a terrible job of it.
* * *