chapter sixteen #2
Once Kara was gone, she stared at the ceiling fan for another long, spinning minute. Then, without overthinking too hard, she pulled out her phone and sent Willa a text.
Frankie: Want to hit the Fine Arts Museum with me?
* * *
Willa
Willa was halfway through a watery hotel coffee that tasted suspiciously like regret when her phone buzzed.
She read the text and shook her head, smiling despite herself.
Willa: You trying to impress me with culture?
Frankie: I’m trying to see paintings and pretend they’re secretly sapphic.
Willa laughed out loud. It startled her—how easily Frankie could crack her open.
An hour later, they stepped through the cool, echoing entrance of the museum side by side. Willa’s camera was slung over her shoulder, their hands brushing as they walked.
“This place is beautiful,” Willa said, looking around.
Frankie smiled. “I had a feeling you’d like it.”
Willa’s stomach flipped at that.
They moved slowly through the museum—long marble corridors, towering sculptures, oil paintings thick with emotion and history. The air was heavy with stories, every corner buzzing with things left unsaid.
Neither of them talked much as they wandered. They didn’t need to. Standing close together, their shoulders touched, and they leaned in the same way people do when they’ve forgotten they’re still pretending to be casual.
Somewhere between a sprawling abstract piece and a soft-toned portrait gallery, Frankie reached out—fingers brushing Willa’s wrist first, tentative—then lacing their hands together.
No asking. No warning. Just warmth slipping between them like it belonged there.
Frankie glanced sideways. “Is this, okay?” she murmured.
Willa’s voice was barely there. “Yeah. It’s great.”
They didn’t let go.
They stood side by side, letting the art pull them deeper into some silent, suspended world—until a bright, excited voice cracked it open.
“Oh my god—Frankie Monroe!”
A girl, barely twenty, rainbow clips sparkling in her hair, bounded over like a firework.
Frankie smiled—genuine, easy—and let go of Willa’s hand just long enough to greet her.
Willa stepped back instinctively, camera sliding into her palm. She caught it without thinking. She watched as Frankie hugged the fan, signed a canvas tote, complimented her earrings.
It should’ve felt weird—standing on the edge of Frankie’s little world like that—but it didn’t. It felt right.
She snapped a photo when Frankie wasn’t looking—soft, radiant, alive in a way Willa hadn’t seen on stage or in any other version of her.
After the fan skipped away, Willa approached.
“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I’m writing a feature for Side B. Mind if I use one of those shots for the mag?”
The fan beamed. “Hell yeah. You’re with Side B? That’s so sick!”
Willa chuckled. “Yeah… it’s been interesting.”
Frankie leaned closer, voice a stage whisper. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s writing my tragic villain arc.”
The fan giggled, starry-eyed.
They left the museum and wandered into Carytown—Richmond’s colorful, patchwork neighborhood full of ice cream parlors and dive bars with crooked neon signs.
They shared a double scoop of ice cream, two spoons, pretending it wasn’t basically a date.
They paused in front of a bar—a queer bar, its old rainbow flag faded to pastel hues.
Frankie bumped her shoulder lightly against Willa’s. “Post-show drinks?”
Willa smiled. “Obviously. You buying?”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “You’re Side B. You can expense it.”
Willa barked out a laugh she didn’t even try to hide.
Their fingertips brushed again as they turned down the street. This time, neither of them pulled away—linking their hands again.
And somewhere between the murals and the ice cream, the laughter and the small, stolen touches, Willa realized—
She wasn’t falling for the version of Frankie she thought she’d find.
She was falling for the real one.
The one who didn’t ask for anything—except for Willa to stay close enough to see her.
* * *
Frankie
Frankie got to the Canal Club early. It was cold and just starting to rain, a soft drizzle that misted her curls and dampened the shoulders of her jacket. Her guitar was slung over her back, and she tried not to show how weird she felt underneath it all.
This one felt different.
Bigger. Louder. Sharper around the edges.
Not in a bad way—just enough to make her heartbeat land a little too hard in her chest.
She wandered toward the back wall near the green room, dragging her fingers over the chipped black paint.
It was layered with Sharpie signatures—maybe hundreds—scrawled in every direction.
Names big and small. Musicians, DJs, drag queens.
Artists who had probably stood right where she was now, trying to catch their breath before their own shot.
She tilted her head, squinting up toward the top corner—and there it was.
Alaska Thunderfuck.
Big red letters. Lipstick kiss mark underneath.
Frankie gasped, whipping around to where Kara and Juno stood by the catering table. “Alaska was here!! I fucking love her.”
Kara laughed, clipboard in hand. “You’re next. We’ve got a silver Sharpie ready.”
Juno grinned, peeling the wrapper off a granola bar. “Better make it count, rockstar.”
Frankie rolled her eyes but didn’t fight the smile tugging at her mouth.
Back in her dressing room, she shut the door and hit play on her pre-show ritual playlist. The room filled with the low thrum of a song she’d never released—just piano and a voice memo, raw and half-formed.
She lit a stick of rose and cedarwood incense, propping it carefully on the battered windowsill.
The scent curled through the room like a ghost, grounding and familiar.
Frankie closed her eyes, her voice soft.
“Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be mine.”
* * *
Willa
The venue was packed. Bodies shoulder-to-shoulder, a warm current of excitement humming through the room.
Willa stood near the barricade, camera strap slung across her chest.
But she didn’t lift it.
Not when Frankie walked on stage—wild hair, fierce softness.
Not when the first notes floated out, the lights dimming into a slow, moody glow.
Not for the first song. Or the second. Or the third.
And then—barely halfway through her set—Frankie stepped up to the mic, eyes closed like she needed the words to hit her chest before they hit the air.
Willa didn’t want to capture it.
She wanted to feel it.
She watched Frankie breathe in—once, twice—then sing, low and rough at the edges:
“I wrote you a song I was scared to sing.
You sat in silence, wore it like a ring.
You’re the line between chaos and calm—
The reason the quiet in me sounds like a psalm.”
Willa’s throat tightened.
Frankie wasn’t singing to the crowd.
She was singing like it was a secret meant for just one person in the room.
Willa’s hands shook. Not enough to be visible. Just enough that she had to drop her gaze to the floor—steadying herself. Grounding herself.
Kara was standing beside her. She moved a little closer, easily, like she didn’t want to draw attention.
She leaned in and said quietly, “She’s different tonight.”
Willa nodded, not trusting her voice.
Kara tilted her head, watching her for a long moment. Then she smiled—small, knowing—and didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t have to.
Because Willa knew too.
She pulled out her phone, typing fast before she could overthink it.
If she kisses me tonight, I’ll let her.
She slipped it away just as Frankie hit the final note—and let it tremble into silence.
The room roared around them. But Willa stayed perfectly still.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Ready.
* * *