chapter nineteen
Willa
They slept in. Hard. Wrapped around each other tangled limbs and slow breaths, warm under the heavy hotel duvet. When Frankie finally stirred, it was nearly noon, sunlight slicing through the blackout curtains, casting gold across Willa’s bare shoulder.
They ordered room service—blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon, endless coffee—and ate half of it tangled up in bed, laughing between bites, stealing lazy kisses that tasted like syrup.
Around one, Frankie had to hop on a few press calls—sprawled on the bed in a hoodie and shorts, earbuds in, hair still damp from the shower.
Willa stayed in her own room, the adjoining door cracked open so they could still hear each other.
Willa caught Frankie glimpsing at her—while she was on the bed, legs curled up, headphones on, typing intensely into her laptop.
At one point, Willa yelled, “Tell Rolling Stone you’re emotionally unavailable due to extreme hotness,” and Frankie nearly choked mid-sentence.
By the time her interviews wrapped, and Willa closed her laptop with a satisfied sigh, they were both relieved that the rest of the day belonged to them.
By the time the sun dipped low enough to slant gold across the Nashville skyline, they were showered and changed—but still a little flushed, like the day had pressed warm fingerprints into their skin.
Frankie was wearing a cropped black sweater with silver threading that shimmered subtly in the light, paired with her favorite high-waisted jeans and heeled boots worn just enough to be comfortable.
Her rings were back on, eyeliner sharp again, but her curls were soft and loose from earlier, tucked behind one ear.
Willa wore a silky green button-down tucked into a pair of faded black jeans, a leather jacket slung over her arm—because it was February in Nashville.
Her boots were scuffed at the toe. She’d added gold hoops, a swipe of deep berry lipstick that made Frankie’s eyes go wide, and just a little mascara.
Dinner was at a cozy Southern bistro tucked between a vintage vinyl shop and a neon-lit dive bar. The walls were lined with old records, the lights dim and gold, the smell of bourbon and cornbread warm in the air.
They sat at a tiny table tucked in the back, shoulders brushing occasionally, smiles coming too easy.
They shared a bourbon-glazed salmon, fried catfish, a skillet of sweet cornbread, and a bowl of greens cooked down to velvet. Willa kept stealing bites off Frankie’s plate with no shame; Frankie kept letting her, pretending to sigh but secretly grinning.
At one point, Frankie leaned forward on her elbows, wine glass dangling from her fingers. “Let’s play a game.”
Willa raised an eyebrow. “A game?”
“Favorites,” Frankie said. “We take turns asking. Real answers only.”
Willa laughed under her breath, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. “Okay. You first.”
Frankie grinned. “Favorite color?”
“Earthy greens,” Willa said at once.
Frankie nodded approvingly. “Very on brand. Mine’s purple.”
“Not shocked,” Willa said, dead serious.
“Favorite animal?” Willa asked.
“Goats. They scream for no reason and it’s awesome.”
Willa laughed. “I really love that answer. Mine is Otters. They hold hands in their sleep—and they partner for life.”
“I like that answer,” Frankie said. “Comfort food?”
“Sushi,” Willa said.
“Mac and cheese,” Frankie grinned, taking a bite of hers.
More questions followed, and they lingered over drinks as they talked—falling into a rhythm that felt easy and natural.
Then, quieter, Willa asked, “Tell me something no one knows.”
Frankie toyed with her fork, hesitating. “That’s a big ask.”
“Exactly why I asked it,” Willa said, sipping her bourbon with a small, steady nod.
Frankie shrugged lightly, but there was something soft in her eyes when she said, almost offhand, “My name’s Mae Francis Donnelie.” She glanced up. “Frankie is my stage name.”
Willa blinked. “Wait—how did I not know that? I’ve read every profile ever written on you.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow, “You’ve read everything on me? The girl who called me forgettable? Does that mean you didn’t forget me?” She teased.
“I had to do my research for this article.” Willa said as if it was nothing, “And nowhere in anything I’ve read had I seen that.”
Frankie gave a small smile, looking almost shy for the first time since Willa had met her. “I’ve kept it private. Only the people close to me know. And very few use it. Just family.”
Willa was quiet for a moment, then reached across the table, covering Frankie’s hand with her own. “I like it,” she said gently. “It suits you.”
Frankie smiled too, almost shyly, and took a sip of her wine.
They didn’t say anything more about it. They didn’t have to.
Frankie tilted her head. “Your turn. Something no one knows.”
Willa exhaled slowly, her thumb dragging along the rim of her glass.
“Well,” she started quietly, “I told you my dad left after my brother came out.”
Frankie nodded, listening.
“But… there’s more to it than that,” Willa continued, voice barely above the hum of the room.
“My sister came out a few years later. And then me, not long after that.” She looked down, pressing her lips together for a beat.
“My mom chose us. She stayed. She backed us through everything. And that means the world to me.”
Frankie didn’t say anything, just let her keep going.
“But when my dad left—for good—it wasn’t just about him walking out.
It was what that taught me about love. About loyalty.
I think…” she paused, steadying her breath.
“I think a part of me started believing that no matter how much someone says they love you, they might still leave. And that kind of belief—it gets into your bones. Makes you build walls before people can even get close.”
She looked up, eyes glassy but clear. “So, I keep people at arm’s length. Or I pull away when things feel good, because I’m scared they won’t last. That I won’t be enough to make someone stay.”
Frankie’s expression shifted—soft, steady, heartbreakingly tender. She lifted Willa’s hand to her lips and kissed her knuckles slowly, deliberately.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered.
Willa’s breath caught. The word baby cracked something open in her chest.
Frankie kept holding her hand. “And I mean that. I know how much it takes to let someone in when you’ve been hurt like that. I see it. I get it. And I’m thankful you told me.”
Willa nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. She took a slow sip of her bourbon, willing her hands to stop shaking.
It wasn’t everything—just a piece. But it was more than she’d had before. And for now, it was enough.
The night stretched on around them—warm, slow, golden. And for the first time, Willa stopped thinking about endings. She just wanted to stay right there in the moment with Frankie.
After dinner, Frankie laced their fingers together and tugged Willa down a narrow side street, away from the tourist chaos and into a quieter corner of Nashville.
The bar they found was tucked between a pawn shop and a bookstore, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. Inside, it smelled like whiskey and old wood, neon signs buzzing low from the walls, a jukebox crooning something slow and twangy.
Frankie paused at the threshold, smiling to herself.
“Mimi would love this place,” she said, voice soft with a memory.
Willa squeezed her hand, not saying anything—just listening.
They made their way to the bar, ordered two whiskey sours that came in cloudy glasses, then leaned against the scarred wood rail for a while, sipping and talking about nothing. The floorboards creaked under every step. A few couples slow-danced near the jukebox—older, younger, some in boots.
And when a new song spun up—something slow and soul-worn—Frankie set her drink down and crooked a finger at Willa.
“Come here.”
Willa laughed quietly. “I don’t know how to two-step.”
Frankie just grinned, slipping her free hand around Willa’s waist. “Good. I’ll teach you.”
She spun Willa out, laughing when she stumbled slightly, then reeled her back in, their bodies pressing together with a soft thud that made them both stop breathing for a beat.
Frankie’s hand settled low on Willa’s hip. Her other hand found Willa’s, weaving their fingers together easily, naturally—like they’d been doing this forever.
“Just follow me, city girl,” Frankie murmured, playful but low.
So, Willa did. She let Frankie guide her—slow, swaying steps across the scratched-up floor, the two of them moving like the tide.. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t need to be.
Frankie pressed her lips close to Willa’s ear, the brush of her breath sending goosebumps down Willa’s spine. And then she began to sing along softly to the jukebox.
Maybe I didn’t love you… quite as often as I could have…
Willa closed her eyes, just for a second, letting it flood her—the whiskey warmth, the roughness of Frankie’s calloused fingers laced through hers.
The way it all felt like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from.
Frankie twirled her again, slow and lazy, her thumb brushing the inside of Willa’s wrist as she pulled her back.
Willa looked up, her breath catching at the raw vulnerability in Frankie’s eyes—no pretense, just her.
She let herself be there—pressed against a girl who sang Patsy Cline like a prayer, in a bar that smelled like home. Willa rested her forehead lightly against Frankie’s, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse, the warmth of her breath.
* * *
They barely made it down the hallway before Frankie was pressing Willa into the wall just inside her hotel room, the door clicking shut behind them like a secret sealing itself tight.
It wasn’t rushed or careless—it was the slow unraveling of weeks of tension, pulled taut and finally snapping the second they were alone.