chapter sixteen
Willa
Willa was on Frankie’s bus. She’d protested, but Frankie had insisted.
Frankie had just played the D.C. show, and it was pretty fucking perfect.
Grace had stayed until the very end, helping Frankie pack up her guitar, teasing her over missed chords, hugging her too tightly, and whispering something into her ear that made Frankie’s face crumple for half a second before smoothing back into a smile.
Willa had hung back, giving them space. She wasn’t sure why she felt the weird tug of sadness when Grace said her goodbyes, or why she caught herself wishing she had more time to talk to her.
Grace was heading home but would be coming back after Nashville—real life calling her back.
There was something about her being there that made Frankie seem… softer? Braver? All of it.
Before she got into her Uber, Grace had caught Willa’s eye and said, almost too casually, “Take good care of her, okay?”
Willa had nodded, too startled to do anything else.
Now the bus rattled and hummed along the empty highway, pulling them toward Richmond, headlights slicing through the misty dark.
Frankie had all but insisted Willa ride with them instead of taking the train.
“It’s stupid for you to take the train,” Frankie had said earlier, tossing Willa’s bag into the storage bay with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “This is faster, you’ll be more comfortable, and you won’t sleep in those seats anyway. Come on.”
Willa crossed her arms. “You say that like I don’t value my independence. I had a plan, Monroe.”
“A bad one.” Frankie smirked. “Trains suck.”
“Yeah, well, so does sharing a shoebox on wheels with a bunch of strangers.”
Frankie leaned against the bus, grin widening. “Depends. Do you want snacks and a bed?”
Willa narrowed her eyes. “There’s an extra bed?”
Frankie chuckled. “No. But you can share mine. Don’t tell me you’ve never shared a bunk with a hot girl before?”
Willa scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous. This feels like some kind of scam.”
“Only the fun kind.” Frankie held the door open, smug and patient all at once.
Willa hesitated a beat longer—then sighed, muttering, “Fine. But if I regret this, I’m blaming you.”
“Cool,” Frankie said. “Stop making it weird.”
Except now, tucked into Frankie’s bunk—a glorified twin stuffed into a velvet-draped coffin—it was impossible not to notice exactly how not weird it was.
Dangerous, how not weird it felt.
They were curled up in the tiny space, Willa half on her back, half turned toward the curtain. Frankie lay beside her, their legs bumping every time the bus swayed a little too hard into a curve.
The mattress was soft, but the closeness was sharper—buzzing underneath everything. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The only sounds were the low grumble of the road, the occasional rattle of something loose in the storage bay below, and the quiet, easy breathing between them.
Willa stared at the low ceiling above them, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. She could feel Frankie next to her—solid and present—like a gravitational pull she was trying very hard not to fall into headfirst.
Finally, needing to break the tension before it choked her, she whispered into the dark, “Hey.”
Frankie shifted, just enough that Willa could feel the movement ripple through the mattress. “Hmm?”
Willa swallowed, forcing herself to keep her voice light, casual. “That song… the one you sang in Philly and last night. It’s about me, right?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Frankie exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “God, you’re annoying.”
Willa smiled, satisfied, and rolled slightly so she was more on her side, back toward Frankie, letting herself settle.
For a moment, she thought that was it—that they’d let it hang between them, unnamed and unsaid.
But then, just barely above a whisper, Frankie added—words real enough to steal the air from Willa’s lungs—
“Of course it’s about you.”
The bus kept rumbling down the highway, the world narrowing down to a tiny, shared rectangle of space and breath and tension.
Willa didn’t turn back around. She didn’t trust herself to. But she felt it—the way Frankie’s foot brushed against hers under the blanket, tentative at first, then not pulling away.
Not an accident. Not this time.
Willa squeezed her eyes shut, a sharp, unsteady smile pulling at her lips in the dark.
God help her, but she was so far gone.
* * *
Frankie
They got to Richmond just after 7 a.m., the kind of golden-pink morning that made the whole city feel cinematic—like they were stepping into someone else’s indie movie.
The streets were waking slow. It was cold, but warmer than the coastal cities. A few joggers passed with earbuds in. Espresso bars blinked open with people slipping in and out. A kid flew down a too-narrow sidewalk on a squeaky bike.
Their hotel stood tall near Monument Street—historic and slick all at once, with marble floors and brass fixtures that gleamed in the early sun.
Frankie rubbed her eyes as they dragged their bags into the lobby, the last threads of sleep still clinging to her.
Kara handed out key cards with the quiet efficiency of someone keeping a crew of half-asleep musicians from wandering into traffic. Willa had gone to check in separately, and when she came back to stand with the group, Kara said, “Frankie, Willa—you’re on the same floor this time, I believe.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows. “Are you putting us next door on purpose now?”
Kara raised her hands in surrender. “Happy accident. Though I do like order. And proximity.”
Frankie rolled her eyes, and Willa just laughed behind her—low and scratchy from sleep.
Frankie didn’t say anything, but that smile tugging at her mouth said enough.
They rode the elevator all together, but everyone else got off on the fourth floor. Willa and Frankie rode up to the eighth. It was quiet—except for the low ding of each passing floor and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
Frankie leaned against the mirrored wall, hands shoved into her back pockets, the worn denim bunching at her hips. Willa stood just far enough away to make the air between them ache.
Frankie could feel her watching. Could feel the weight of all the words they hadn’t said yet pressing against the elevator walls.
When it dinged and the doors opened, they didn’t move right away. Frankie turned her head, catching Willa’s eyes.
“Guess I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Willa nodded but didn’t reach for her key card just yet. “Yeah.”
They stopped in front of their doors, side by side. Frankie shifted her key card in her hand at the same time Willa raised hers, the movement so in sync it felt choreographed. For a split second their shoulders nearly brushed. Still nothing—no kiss, no real touch.
Maybe it was better that way. The last time she’d given in so easily, she’d been left with nothing but doubt and a hollow ache where her trust used to be.
But everything in the air screamed that it almost happened. That it wanted to happen. That it was getting harder to pretend they were still only circling each other.
Frankie’s breath caught in her chest, but she forced herself to step back. She didn’t trust herself to stay there one second longer.
* * *
Willa
She dropped her bag onto the hotel room floor and flopped face-first onto the bed, groaning into the overpriced duvet.
The room spun gently around her, not from motion sickness or exhaustion—but from the fact that her hands were still tingling. Still buzzing from the almost-touch at the door.
She hadn’t even opened her journal. She didn’t need to. The words were already etched into her brain.
Two more shows. If you’re going to do something—do it now.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
It was almost over. Soon she’d be heading back to real life—the one with deadlines and reviews and a piece she was supposed to finish that didn’t once mention how Frankie had undone her without even trying.
And Frankie would still be Frankie. Still singing to sold-out rooms. Still turning her heart inside out on stage. Still dangerous in all the ways Willa hadn’t been ready for.
She scrubbed a hand over her face.
Do something.
But she didn’t know if she had it in her. Not yet. Not until she saw her again tonight—back under the lights, back in her element, making it impossible to pretend.
* * *
Frankie
Frankie fell backward onto her hotel bed with a groan, arms spread wide across the comforter.
“She’s gonna ruin me,” she muttered.
The slow, lazy spin of the ceiling fan blurred in her vision, matching the dizzy way her heart was racing—for no logical reason at all. She threw one arm over her eyes, breathing out hard.
“Let this be real. Let it be mine,” she said aloud.
There was a soft knock on her door.
Frankie got up and opened it, hoping it was Willa.
It was Kara.
“You good?” Kara asked, eyeing her like she already knew the answer.
“Define good?” Frankie said.
Kara snorted and dropped into the armchair by the window. “Something told me you were spiraling.”
Frankie flopped back on the bed. “You know I like Willa,” she said after a moment—casual but pointed. “She’s smart. Funny. Hot in a way that says she’s probably broken, but in a charming way.”
She peeked through her fingers.
“Please, go on,” Kara said with a grin.
“Please, go away.”
Kara sat up straighter. “No, I’m here. Talk to me.”
Frankie sighed. “She goes home soon.”
Kara nodded. “I know.”
“And it matters to me. And it’s not supposed to matter, Kar.”
“Maybe it is supposed to matter, Frank.”
Frankie threw a pillow at her.
Kara shook her head, caught the pillow, and sighed. “You act like you’re snarky and don’t care, Frankie. But I know you. And I know you do.” She paused. “I’ve got some things to do—but maybe you should see if Willa wants to do something? Go see the city. Enjoy yourself.”
Frankie didn’t say anything, but she took it all in.