chapter twenty-three #2
The ones where she’d loved Frankie Monroe so much, she would’ve done anything to stay—and lost her anyway.
Every time she tried to write about that part, her fingers froze.
Her chest tightened.
It was easier to write about the shows.
The crowds.
The music.
Easier to stick to facts.
To pretend.
It was easier to forget that somewhere in the middle of it all, she’d stopped being a journalist and started being hers.
And now—she was just someone who got left behind.
She closed her laptop on Thursday night around eleven, her brain fried, her body bone-tired, and let her forehead rest against the desk.
The cursor blinked behind her closed eyes.
The world kept turning.
And Willa just kept holding on.
* * *
And then Friday night came.
The city was grey and wet, everything slick with leftover rain—the kind of weather that pressed in on you without mercy.
Lena found her standing in front of the open fridge, staring like she’d forgotten what she was looking for—or why she was even there at all.
The fridge buzzed softly. Her phone vibrated again on the counter with a Slack notification she didn’t bother to check.
“You’re coming out with us,” Lena said from the doorway, arms crossed, voice brooking no argument. “No arguing.”
Willa blinked. Her brain struggled to catch up. “Lena—”
“Willa.”
It wasn’t harsh. It was gentle. Firm in the way someone could only be when they loved you enough not to let you destroy yourself slowly.
Willa sighed, pressing her palm against the fridge door like it might hold her up. “Fine. One drink.”
Four drinks later, she was curled into the corner booth of a dimly lit queer bar in the East Village, boots kicked off under the table, cheeks flushed, cocktail glass slick with condensation.
Lena sat beside her, a steady presence at her side, practically holding her upright with the lean of her shoulder. Jordan and Brody were across from them, halfway through another round of drinks and already roaring with laughter.
The bar was low-lit, golden around the edges, like everything was happening inside a memory. The music pulsed soft and steady beneath the hum of conversation, bass thudding low enough to be felt but not heard.
For the first time in what felt like days, Willa felt something close to safe.
“So,” Jordan said, swirling her gin and tonic with a theatrical flick of her wrist, “can I tell you the most ridiculous date story ever?”
Willa managed a scratchy laugh. “Please.”
Jordan grinned, leaning in conspiratorially.
“So, this woman tells me she’s poly, and I’m like, love that for you, healthy communication, all the things, right?
Then she explains she’s not just dating multiple people—she’s also running a D&D campaign for all of them.
Same campaign. All the partners. One quest.”
Brody choked on his drink. “That’s horrifying. And weirdly efficient?”
“She had a color-coded spreadsheet,” Jordan deadpanned. “With emotional triggers and safe words worked into the game mechanics.”
Even Willa laughed—a real sound, unsteady but bubbling up out of her without permission. It cracked something open inside her that had felt locked away since the hotel.
Brody leaned in, smirking. “Okay, my turn. Guess who finally hooked up with that barista from the wine shop.”
“No.” Lena’s eyes widened. “Tattooed hands guy?”
“Yes.” Brody preened a little. “And let me tell you—talks slow, moves fast.”
Jordan practically howled.
Willa pressed a hand to her mouth, laughing harder than she had all week.
She sank back into the booth, the leather cool against her flushed skin, and let the low buzz of alcohol and friendship wrap around her like a blanket.
They kept going—telling stories, trading the kind of jokes that only made sense between people who’d seen each other’s worst days and loved each other anyway.
Someone told a story about a freelance writer trying to expense a $300 spa day. Someone else about a roommate with a pet snake named Donna who once escaped and was found curled up in the sink.
When Willa cracked a dry “that feels like a metaphor,” they groaned and clinked glasses in her honor.
And for a little while—just a little—she forgot.
Or tried to.
But the ache under her ribs didn’t go away.
Her fingers kept brushing the rim of her glass, restless. Her phone burned a hole in her pocket, heavy with words she couldn’t say. And every time someone leaned too far or laughed too loud, she flinched, like being yanked back into her body too fast.
Lena noticed.
She didn’t push. Just let her hand drift under the table and find Willa’s, giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.
Willa didn’t squeeze back. But she didn’t let go, either.
When the night finally started to wind down—people debating nightcaps or calling it—Willa stood quietly.
No one stopped her.
She slipped outside into the cold, the door thudding shut behind her. The sidewalk glistened beneath her boots. Streetlights cast soft halos in the mist. Somewhere a few blocks away, a siren wailed.
The city didn’t stop for anyone.
Not even people whose hearts felt like they’d been split clean down the middle.
She leaned back against the brick wall, tipped her head up to the sky, and breathed.
Reached for her phone without thinking.
Frankie’s name was still pinned at the top. Still starred.
Still there like a wound that hadn’t closed.
She stared at it, thumb hovering.
And then she pressed call.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Her heart squeezed hard enough to hurt.
Three times.
Please, please, please—
Four.
Voicemail.
The beep sounded.
Willa closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat.
And then, softly—so softly it might have been a secret—she said,
“Hey. It’s me.
I know I probably shouldn’t be calling.
I’ve had a few drinks, and maybe that’s the only reason I’m brave enough to do it.”
She exhaled, shakier this time.
“I miss you. So much it’s stupid.
You stopped singing my song. I know. I saw it. I felt it.
I don’t blame you. But it hurts like hell.”
Her voice cracked.
“I just… I just need you to know—
you weren’t a story to me.
You were everything.
You are everything.
I didn’t mean to fall for you, but I did.”
A long pause.
The city moved around her.
Someone whistled down the block. A car honked.
But in the space between all of it, Willa’s heart beat loud and raw and real.
She hung up before she could fall apart completely.
Slid her phone back into her pocket.
And stood there for a second longer, letting the cold air sting her cheeks, her lungs.
Trying to breathe.
Then—finally—she pushed the door open and stepped back inside.
Back into the warmth.
Back into the noise.
Back into the blur of life still moving forward—
even if her heart felt like it was standing still.
Still hurting.
Still hoping.
Still hers.
* * *