chapter fifteen
Frankie
Grace showed up the morning of the Philly show—jacket damp from drizzle, hair in a ponytail, strawberry-blonde curls wild, just like Frankie’s.
“Oh my god,” Frankie groaned as she melted into her sister. “I missed your face.”
Grace squeezed her tight. “I missed your drama.”
They held each other for a long minute before Frankie finally pulled back, leading her toward the venue.
“How’s Luna?”
“A princess,” Grace said. “Mom and her were curled up watching Grey’s Anatomy when I left her there last night. She’s getting the spoiled-rotten treatment from Grandma now. And of course, Auntie made sure she was thoroughly spoiled as well.”
“Ugh, I miss her. And her little toe beans,” Frankie sighed.
“Jesus, Frank—this place is legit,” Grace said, glancing around as they entered. “Biggest crowd yet?”
“Yep,” Frankie said, nerves tightening in her chest. “Label people. Press. Maybe a streaming exec or two.” She paused, “First few stops were about seven hundred-ish people. This venue holds around one thousand, and looks like we may sell out.”
“That’s amazing, and Willa will be here, right?” Grace shot her a look.
Frankie tried to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t even pretend to. “Also, Willa.”
She tried her best not to blush.
“That face!” Grace said as they walked to the dressing room. “Something’s up.”
“Nothing is up,” Frankie shook her head. But she was a terrible liar.
They ended up curled up on a love seat in her dressing room, legs tangled together the only way sisters who had spent their lives together naturally ended up, and sipped coffee from paper cups.
“So…” Grace nudged her gently with her elbow. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with you two?”
“There’s nothing going on,” Frankie said—too quickly.
“Okay, that’s a lie,” Grace laughed. “You’re a horrible liar—always have been—and you’re humming. You only hum when you’re spiraling or falling.”
Frankie glared. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Grace kissed the top of her head and said, “You can like someone and still be scared, you know. That doesn’t make it fake. It just makes it real.”
Frankie didn’t say anything.
“You trust her?” Grace asked softly.
Frankie hesitated. Then:
“I think I do. I want to.”
They stayed like that for a few more minutes, just quiet, Frankie’s head still on Grace’s shoulder. Until Kara stuck her head in to wrangle Frankie for rehearsal.
Grace grinned. “Go make ’em cry.”
Frankie groaned. “No pressure.”
* * *
Willa
Willa hadn’t expected to meet Grace. Certainly not like that.
It happened backstage, after soundcheck. She was adjusting her lens when she heard a voice behind her say, “So you’re the journalist my sisters pretending not to be obsessed with.”
Willa turned. Grace stood there—confident, warm, clearly someone who didn’t pull punches.
“Oh,” Willa blinked. “I—hi. Willa.”
“Grace.” She extended a hand, but her eyes were studying Willa. Not suspicious—just… curious. Protective.
“She talks about me?” Willa asked, unable to stop herself.
Grace tilted her head, “Not with words so much but, yes.”
And then she smiled, and Willa suddenly understood a little more about Frankie. How she’d grown up loved. How that love didn’t always have to be loud to be fierce.
“She’s better when she doesn’t overthink things,” Grace added, more softly. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving Willa standing there with her pulse in her ears.
* * *
Frankie
The venue was buzzing by the time Frankie stepped on stage.
The crowd was massive, the lights hot, and the energy intense.
But all she could think about—when the first chord struck—was how badly she wanted Willa to see her like this.
To understand that all the chaos, all the noise, was the truest version of her.
And then the show took over. “Alright,” she said into the mic, breathless. “This one’s not on the record.”
The crowd hushed.
“It’s kind of… a hot mess. Still figuring it out.”
She played the opening chords, quiet, vulnerable, honest. Her voice followed suit.
I talk in circles to avoid your name
I light incense, but it smells like blame.
You sit across from me and don’t ask why
And I let it be. Pretend I’m fine.
The room was still.
You say nothing but your silence stings
I want a fire, but I fear the flame.
you’re the lyric I’m too scared to sing—
but I keep writing you anyway.
She didn’t look where Willa stood in front of the barricade, she just kept her eyes forward. But she didn’t have to look to know.
* * *
Willa
She wasn’t prepared.
She’d been composed the whole show—shooting the crowd, the band, Frankie. Doing her job.
But then that song—it cracked her open, and she wasn’t fucking ready.
The lyrics didn’t hide. They didn’t pretend. And the way Frankie sang them—like she was ripping them out of her chest—it was impossible not to feel it. Every line was a little too close. A little too true.
And Willa hated that she knew exactly who it was about.
After the set, the venue blurred around her. The bar buzzed with the band and the crew mixed with regular patrons. Someone handed her a drink, but it felt too loud, too bright. She slipped out through the side door without saying anything.
The alley smelled like rain and cigarettes. She let the night settle around her, breathing in the quiet.
Then the door creaked open.
She turned and saw Frankie.
Her purple curls were piled perfect on top of her head in the most annoying way—because it looked perfect, even though Willa knew she’d just thrown it up.
She was so fucking beautiful. Her makeup was smeared faintly at the corners of her eyes.
Frankie came to stand beside her, pulling a crumpled cigarette from her pocket.
Willa raised a brow. “You smoke now?”
“Nope,” Frankie said. “Just helps to hold something.”
Willa took it when offered, balanced it between her fingers.
It never got lit. Even though Willa wanted to, at one point. She didn’t smoke—not really. Sometimes when she was really drunk, she’d have one. But she needed something in this moment.
They were both leaning against the hand railing, so close their shoulders touched.
“You write like someone who’s afraid of what comes out when you stop editing,” Willa said softly.
Frankie tilted her head. “And you photograph like someone who wishes they didn’t feel what they’re seeing.”
It landed between them like a dare. A truth neither wanted to own.
“We keep ending up alone together,” Frankie added, almost a whisper.
Willa handed her the cigarette back, their fingers brushing. “Maybe we should stop pretending we hate it.”
Before Frankie could answer, the door swung open again. Music and laughter burst out with it.
Grace stood in the doorway, holding her phone like she was mid-text.
She paused, spotted them, and grinned.
“Oh,” she said. “Am I interrupting your emotionally fraught indie movie scene?”
Willa laughed before she could stop herself. “A little.”
Grace looked between them. “Cool. Carry on.”
And before she disappeared inside, she looked back.
“Don’t let her smoke that—she’s not supposed to inhale anything on tour.”
Then she was gone, leaving them standing there in the silence she’d left behind.
Frankie looked down at the unlit cigarette.
Willa looked at her.
Then, softly, Willa said, “Night, Monroe. You were fire tonight. I really liked the new song.” She winked.
Then she was gone. Walking away from Frankie.
She had to take a deep breath and tell herself to absolutely not turn around and kiss the purple-haired rockstar, standing there, probably watching her walk away.
* * *