chapter eleven
Frankie
Frankie woke up smiling. It wasn’t a conscious thing, it was just there tugging at her mouth before her eyes had fully opened. Her body ached in that way she craved, legs sore from dancing, shoulders loose, voice worn down into a rasp.
The second show had gone better than the first. The crowd was wild, the kind of audience that felt like an extension of the band.
The set flowed effortlessly, with seamless transitions, improv riffs, spontaneous crowd moments that landed perfectly.
It felt like magic. Like she’d been invited to bring all of herself to the stage.
And she had. But that wasn’t why she was smiling.
It was Willa.
Willa had watched from the barricade, camera at her side but untouched.
She didn’t lift it once. Didn’t jot down notes.
Didn’t even glance at her phone. She just watched—and sang along and smiled.
Eyes locked on Frankie. And when Frankie hit that impossible high note in Body Electric—the one she always hoped would land—she saw it. The smile.
Frankie groaned and rolled over, dragging her comforter over her face. She couldn’t shake it. The weight of that gaze. The way Willa had seen her.
She reached for her phone and stared at the screen. Debating texting her. Her fingers hovered, hesitant. What would she even say? Thanks for watching me like you wanted to devour me alive.
Cool. Casual. Unhinged.
She set the phone down like it had personally offended her and reached for her journal instead. Cross-legged in the center of the bed, still in her sleep shirt, she popped the cap of her pen between her teeth and began to write.
Not thinking. Just letting it come.
You looked at me
like you wanted to set me on fire.
Or fuck me, or both.
I’m not sure which would hurt less.
She stared at the page. Underlined hurt less once.
The kind of line that could be a bridge. Or breakdown.
She didn’t know which.
A sound came from the doorway—quiet, but not enough. Frankie jumped.
Kara stood there holding a coffee and a half eaten-croissant, eyebrows arched like she’d walked in on a confession.
“Okay,” Kara said, voice deceptively casual, “so who’s the muse?”
Frankie yelped, slamming the journal closed so fast it bounced off her thigh. “Jesus Christ, knock much?”
“The door was open,” Kara said with a shrug. “You were giving tortured-poet realness. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow.”
Frankie flushed, flopping onto her back. “It’s nothing. Just…song stuff.”
“Oh yeah,” Kara said, walking farther into the room and plopping into the armchair by the window. “Totally. No inspiration here. No sharp-jawed, camera wielding tension machine lurking stage all night.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “She’s not a machine. She’s… a lot.”
Kara sipped her coffee with zero shame. “Uh huh, and she wasn’t watching you like a woman watching her favorite scene in a movie she’s already seen but still wants to memorize.”
Frankie groaned into her pillow. “You are unbearable.”
“I am not.” Frankie sat up, clutching her journal to her chest like a lifeline. “She’s…annoying. And rude. And she watches me like she’s trying to dissect me.”
Kara raised an eyebrow. “You mean she watches you like she sees you?”
Frankie didn’t respond. Because yeah it was exactly that. That was the problem.
Kara stood, already heading back out. “You’ve got two hours before load-in. Drink some water. Don’t write any more sex poetry about the girl you ‘don’t like.’”
“Don’t you have people to manage?” Frankie shouted after her.
Kara just waved. “You are my people. And I’m managing the hell out of this.”
The door clicked shut. Frankie let out a long, slow breath. Then opened her journal again and kept writing. Even though she really shouldn’t.
* * *
Willa
Willa stared at the blinking cursor like it owed her rent money and kept ghosting her. Her laptop screen glared in the hotel’s muted morning light, a half-empty coffee cup steaming beside it like it was judging her too.
Her fingers hovered. Then, finally, she started typing:
Frankie Monroe’s second stop in Portland was anything but predictable. The energy was chaotic, charged, and unexpectedly intimate. Her ballad midway through the set left the room so quiet you could hear the breath between chords…
She reread it. Too earnest. Too close. She almost highlighted the entire paragraph to delete it—but didn’t—she needed to stop hiding from this article.
She picked up her phone and took a photo of her screen and sent it to Lena.
Willa: Is this too—emotional? Or does it work? I feel like I’m feeling and not observing and don’t know if it’s okay.
She groaned, what the hell was wrong with her? She normally didn’t have such a hard time writing an article.
Lena: It’s good, Wills.
Lena: Maybe you need to feel—also maybe if you just admit you have a crush on her and move on—it will be easier to write?
Willa glared at the screen.
Willa: It’s my job though.
The reply came so fast she hadn’t even put her phone down yet.
Lena: and I think if you stop secretly pining and admit it to yourself—the article will come out better. You’re over thinking every word, instead of just writing…
Lena: You need to let the wall down…even just a little. She’s not your past babe, she’s a different person.
Willa groaned. Lena wasn’t wrong. She was over thinking every word. And every look. And she needed to get her head in the game. But letting her guard down was easier said than done.
* * *
Frankie
Lunch was at one of those places that felt aggressively Portland—tiny tables mismatched silverware, menus printed on recycled paper and clipped to vintage hardcovers. The lighting was soft, the walls were covered in local art, and the playlist featured obscure indie pop with a cello for no reason.
Frankie loved it.
Everyone was there—Ember, Juno, Malik, Kara, and Willa.
Frankie slid into a seat, curls still damp from a shower, wearing high-waisted black pants and a cropped band tee so worn the graphic had half-faded into mystery.
Over it, she’d shrugged on an oversized denim jacket lined with corduroy at the collar—one of her oldest thrift finds, frayed at the cuffs and heavy with charm.
A few layered necklaces peeked out from under the collar of her shirt, one of them her usual onyx crystal, the other just a tiny silver safety pin.
Her nails were painted chipped black, her boots were lace-up and scuffed like they’d lived three lives, and she’d lined her eyes just enough to look a little dangerous.
There was something softer about her tonight, though. Not girly—she didn’t do girly—but her lips were tinted rose, her rings all stacked in a way that felt deliberate, her energy just a touch slower. Thoughtful, maybe.
Still queer. Still cool. But maybe—maybe—trying, in that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way only Willa ever seemed to notice.
“So,” Kara said casually, “There’s an open mic tonight at that queer bar we passed yesterday. You know, the one with the chalkboard signs out front?”
Juno looked up. “We going?”
Kara shrugged. “Could be fun. I’m in. Frankie?”
“Yeah, I’m down,” Frankie said, and then—without thinking, without planning—turned to Willa.
“You coming?”
Willa looked up from her salad, fork frozen mid-stab, clearly not expecting to be included. Her eyes narrowed—suspicious, calculating—before she offered a cool nod.
“Sure,” she said. “Sounds interesting.”
Frankie blinked, “really?”
Willa’s mouth curved into a smile, “Would you rather I didn’t?”
“No,” Frankie said quickly, too quickly, “I mean—cool. Great. See you there.”
She turned back to her fries, suddenly very invested in ketchup logistics.
Kara didn’t even glance up from her phone. “You two are exhausting,” she muttered.
Frankie kicked her lightly under the table and tried not to smile like an idiot. Because yeah—she was exhausted too. But maybe a little thrilled.
* * *
The queer bar was dimly lit, string lights tangled like constellations overhead and cheap wine flowing like water.
The air was thick with sincerity—scented candles at every table, clinking glasses, the soft hum of anticipation that filled the room between performers.
A tiny stage sat in the corner, barely raised above the floor, a rainbow flag hanging behind it like it had always been there.
The mic was slightly crooked. The vibes were immaculate. Frankie loved it instantly.
There was no ego here, no performance polish. Just people—young, old, nervous, loud, full of heartbreak and crushes and complicated messy queer joy.
She and Willa ended up side-by-side in a booth at the back. This time intentionally.
No one said anything about it. Kara had shot Frankie a look but didn’t comment. Ember grinned. Malik snorted softly when Frankie “casually” slid into the booth a second before Willa did.
The moment they sat, Frankie let her knee brush against Willa’s under the table. Just a light touch. A test. Willa didn’t move, didn’t pull away. She didn’t look over, but she felt it. And Frankie felt her feel it.
Frankie smirked, eyes catching the way Willa’s hand curled around her glass.
Later, halfway through the night, a girl in a faded band tee stepped up to the mic, adjusted it nervously, and cleared her throat.
“This is a cover of an early Frankie Monroe track,” she said. “It changed the way I saw myself. This is for her.”
Frankie froze, she blinked. Willa turned to her—slow, deliberate—eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Frankie didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“You’re kind of a big deal,” Willa whispered not teasing for once. Frankie managed a smirk, even if her stomach was flipping like a gymnast.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” Frankie grinned.
They laughed, quiet and close. Too close.
Willa’s smile lingered. So did the brush of their knees. It felt…intimate. And it was driving her slightly insane.
* * *
Willa
The city had quieted. The crowd at the bar had thinned out, and Kara and the others had ducked out earlier, citing exhaustion and early call times.
Now, it was just her and Frankie. The two of them walking back toward the hotel in silence.
But not the awkward kind. The kind that vibrated with unsaid things. The kind that had weight.
Their shoulder brushed once. Neither of them commented.
“Tonight was fun,” Willa said, voice low but clear.
Frankie looked over at her, eyes soft in the glow of the streetlamp. “You’re not as uptight as I thought you’d be.”
Willa glanced sideways, lips quirking. “You’re not as self-absorbed as I thought you’d be.”
Frankie laughed. Really laughed. The kind that made Willa’s stomach twist in the most irritating way.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Frankie said.
They reached the hotel entrance, steps slowing. Neither of them reached for the door. Neither of them moved. Willa tucked a piece of hair behind her ear just to do something with her hands. “Goodnight, Frankie.”
Frankie looked at her for a long moment, “Night, Archer.”
And even though they both turned away like it was nothing—Willa felt it, something had shifted. And she was pretty sure Frankie did too. And Willa didn’t know if she could pretend otherwise anymore.
* * *
* * *