chapter ten
Willa
Willa stood outside the venue with her second coffee of the day, steam curling into the overcast Portland air.
Her fingers curled around the paper cup like it might steady her.
The street smelled faintly of salt and damp stone, mixed with the grease from a lobster roll cart parked down the block.
Seagulls cried somewhere above, and the low murmur of tour crews echoed from the loading docks nearby.
She hadn’t meant to show up early. But something about today felt… charged. Maybe it was the city—gray and briny, with its old brick buildings and working harbor just a few streets away. Or maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t stopped thinking about Frankie since last night.
Not in a hearts-and-flowers way.
In a god, she’s infuriating and beautiful and why do I want her to sing directly into my mouth way.
She finished her coffee and slipped through the side entrance, flashing her badge.
The venue was already alive with movement—cables being laid, drum kits being checked, mic stands adjusted and readjusted.
The band wasn’t onstage yet, but the crew was everywhere.
Willa found her usual spot along the edge of the stage and sat cross-legged on a flight case, notebook balanced on her knee.
A familiar voice rang out.
“Do not look at me until I’ve had a soundcheck bagel,” Juno declared, stalking past in red plaid pants and sunglasses the size of her attitude.
“You had two,” Malik called from behind a speaker, crouched over a tangle of cords. “And half of mine.”
“Those were emotional support bagels,” Juno shot back without missing a beat.
Willa smiled, camera already in hand.
The venue was still half-lit, stage lights low, rows of empty seats ghosted in the dark beyond.
She moved slowly down the center aisle, snapping test shots: the sheen of the drum kit under soft white bulbs, Ember’s fingers adjusting a pedal, Malik fiddling with a snarl of wires and muttering under their breath.
The band’s equipment cases lined the far wall, worn and stickered like well-traveled suitcases.
Willa crouched, angled, adjusted—her eye trained through the lens, catching the tiny details no one else would care about: the curve of a cable, the torn corner of a lyric sheet taped to the floor, the burn of dust caught in the spotlight beam.
Her rhythm kicked in before she realized it. Focus. Frame. Capture. Move.
Then—Frankie appeared.
A beat behind the chaos, like she was born to show up after the lights were already buzzing and the tension already alive.
She strode in all long limbs and messy hair shoved beneath a backwards snapback.
Black band tee clung to her frame beneath a vintage flannel, half-buttoned and slouchy, and she’d slung a leather jacket over one shoulder like it was more accessory than outerwear.
Her jeans were ripped at the knee, her boots scuffed and unlaced.
She looked like the opening riff of a song Willa didn’t want stuck in her head.
“Let’s go,” Frankie said, voice hoarse and warm, still touched with morning. “Run the bridge of Pretty Girls first. I wanna hit the layering again.”
Malik nodded, already adjusting sliders on their board.
Ember was tuning her guitar. Juno tossed her sunglasses toward a stool and cracked her knuckles like a pre-fight ritual.
Willa raised her camera again, tried to concentrate on the light bounce off Frankie’s cheekbone, the way her fingers flexed at her sides like she was holding something invisible. She snapped a shot. Then another. And another.
Then the sound hit. The first few notes poured out low and throaty, vibrating through the floorboards.
Frankie stepped to the mic, head down, shoulders loose.
She didn’t posture, didn’t pose—she just sang.
And the sound that came out of her felt raw and magnetic and unpolished in a way that left Willa rooted to the spot.
Even stripped-down, it landed like something wild. Willa didn’t move. Didn’t write. Just watched.
Frankie’s eyes lifted mid-verse. They locked.
Only for a second.
But it was enough to steal the breath from Willa’s throat.
Frankie’s mouth curled—half a smile, half a dare. And Willa, despite herself, returned it. Small. Quiet. Immediate.
Then she blinked, lowered her camera, and looked away—like the moment hadn’t just knocked her slightly off center.
She busied herself adjusting her lens, checking exposure, focusing on the task like it mattered more than the way Frankie’s voice still tangled in her pulse.
But her eyes kept drifting back. She couldn’t help it.
No matter how much she tried to work—Frankie kept pulling focus.
* * *
Frankie
Frankie sat cross-legged on the floor of her dressing room, back pressed against the wall, trying to steady the buzz under her skin. Not nerves—just that old familiar pressure. Static heat, like her body didn’t quite know how to hold all the energy building inside it.
Her meet and greet had been everything. She loved fans, crying, laughing, spilling stories into her arms like confessions at an altar.
She’d posed for photos, signed everything from guitar straps to someone’s thigh, and left the room feeling like a bottle of champagne, someone had shaken but hadn’t popped yet.
Now she was here. Alone. Centered. Almost. A knock sounded, and then Kara pokes her head in. “You good?”
Frankie nodded. “Yeah. Getting there.”
Kara stepped all the way inside, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed like she was preparing to emotionally bench press something. “You need anything?”
“A joint and a shot of tequila?” Frankie said without missing a beat.
“You’re so predictable,” Kara huffed out a laugh.
“I’m nothing if not consistent,” Frankie grinned, cracking her knuckles.
Kara looked her over once, “The crowd out there is insane. Willa’s in the pit, in front of the barricade, and it doesn’t look like she’s going to do a lot of photo taking. My guess is she is going to watch.”
“She is?” Frankie asked.
“Mmhmm.” Kara smiled, “Looked like she was holding her breath. Like you were about to ruin her life or fix it. One of those.”
“She’s working,” Frankie said.
“Sure,” Kara turned to go, “Get your ritual in, it’s almost time.”
Frankie didn’t argue. She waited until the door clicked shut behind her, then turned to her little altar she had on the counter.
Incense. Crystals. Familiar anchors.
She lit the stick—sandalwood and rose—and let it smoke slowly through the room. She held her stones in both hands—amethyst, citrine, rose quartz—and whispered, “Let this be love. Let this be real, Let this be mine.”
And when the knock came again—stage call—she felt ready.
Not calm. But charged. And steady.
The second her boots hit the stage it was like striking a match.
Sound, heat, adrenaline—every sense overloaded.
The crowd screamed like they’d been holding it in for hours, waiting for that first flash of light.
She’d played festivals, opened for bigger names, dropped EPs that caught fire online—but this was different.
Her debut album. Her first solo tour. The first time it was all hers.
Frankie didn’t hesitate. She walked straight to center stage, one hand curled around the mic stand, the other lifted in a lazy wave that made the entire club roar louder.
There was about 1,100 people in the audience tonight, and it was everything.
She grinned. God, she loved this. “Hey Portland,” she said, voice low and raspy, still warm from soundcheck, and on a high from meet and greet. “Damn y’all look amazing tonight.”
The crowd surged in response, bodies pulsing like waves against the barricade. Frankie let the silence stretch just a beat too long, soaking it in. Then—
“I’m Frankie Monroe” she said like they didn’t already know. “And this—this is your show too.”
Cheers. Screams. Someone yelled I love you and she winked in that general direction.
But then she saw her.
Willa.
In front of the barricade, slightly off-center. Close enough that Frankie could see the faint smudge of highlighter on her cheekbone, the little crease between her brows. Close enough that the sound of the crowd dropped out, just for a second, replaced by the thrum of blood in her ears.
They locked eyes.
Frankie didn’t smile. Not fully. Just the corner of her mouth twitching upward, like a secret.
Willa didn’t look away. Neither did she.
Then the lights shifted. And the music started.
The first notes of Colors in the Crowd rolled out slow and deliberate—Ember’s synth pulsing like a heartbeat beneath Ember’s low, moody riff. Frankie stepped up to the mic, nodding to the rhythm, letting it take her. Strumming the guitar.
“Okay guys, you know this one, sing it with me.”
Colors in the crowd was a loud unapologetic queer anthem. When she sang, her voice cracked in the best way—intentional—raw, she didn’t need perfect tonight. She needed real.
And fuck, it was. every note, every step across the stage. Ember grooving behind the board, Juno on the bass, and Malik playing the drums like they owned them.
And Frankie? She sang like she meant every word. Because she did. And she was living her dream.
Every time she looked out at the sea of hands and signs and swaying bodies…her eyes still found Willa. Anchoring her. Undoing her. And yeah, maybe that’s why she didn’t look away this time.
* * *
Willa
By the time Frankie hit the final chorus of Body Electric, Willa was all in. She didn’t realize how wrong she’d been about Frankie a couple years ago, and now, here—watching this—she realized she had fucked up—Frankie was anything but forgettable, she was electric, and damn talented.
She should have been taking photos, she was supposed to be documenting.
Blend into the background like a good journalist should.
But something about this show—about Frankie—All she could do was watch.
Her camera was around her neck, long forgotten, she hadn’t lifted it once.
Willa had been front and center the whole time, not a single note taken.
Her phone sat forgotten in her coat pocket.
Because how could she, when Frankie sang like that?
When she moved like the stage was an extension of her body—fluid, reckless, grounded and weightless all at once. When her voice cracked and caught in all the right places, sending something sharp and molten straight through Willa’s ribs.
When every song felt like a confession. Willa didn’t know how to look away. Especially when Frankie looked at her like that.
It only happened a few times—quick glances, never long enough to mean anything. But Willa felt each one like a static charge across her skin. She told herself she was imagining it. That Frankie was playing to the crowd, not to her.
But the burn in her chest said otherwise.
The show was nearing it’s end now. But you would never know based off the energy in the crowd.
Frankie was buzzing. She had just finished their second-to-last song, and the entire club was vibrating with anticipation for the closer.
Frankie stepped forward, damp hair clinging to her temples, her chest rising and falling with every breath.
She held the mic like it was a lifeline.
“Portland,” she said, voice a little hoarse but no less powerful, “you’ve been fucking incredible tonight.”
The crowd exploded.
Willa couldn’t stop smiling.
Frankie’s gaze swept the front row one last time. And for a second, they met again. Frankie didn’t grin. Didn’t wink. Just gave her a look—quiet, unreadable, maybe even a little tired. Real.
And then she stepped back, the first notes of She said/I said began.
Willa felt the breath catch in her throat.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It was stripped down, raw, heartbreak on a loop. She knew it was the last song, and she didn’t want it to end.
“What the actual fuck is happening.” She whispered to herself.
* * *