chapter twenty-four
Frankie
The stage was the only place she could breathe. Under the burning lights, guitar strapped tight across her body, mic in her hand, she could forget for a while. The heaviness in her chest eased, the hollow ache in her ribs dulled.
But somewhere out there, in the space between her heartbeats, Willa’s voice still echoed.
Here, she wasn’t broken or the girl who had let love slip through her fingers because fear had clawed its way up her throat faster than she could stop it.
She wasn’t the granddaughter sitting helpless while time chipped away at Mimi, piece by precious piece.
Here—on stage—she was just Frankie Monroe.
The artist and the performer. The version of herself the world wanted. The version she knew how to be right now.
She moved by instinct now. Muscle memory.
Heart memory. Her body swayed and spun with the music, her fingers sliding over frets without thought.
Her voice polished, sharp, effortless. Her feet found the marks taped to the stage.
Her hand reached for the crowd, and they reached back, screaming her name like it wasn’t salvation.
She fed off their energy like it was oxygen.
And for a while maybe It worked. Maybe the love they threw at her was enough to patch the parts she couldn’t bear to look at too closely. Because here, she didn’t have to think.
But she always looked to that spot—that spot where Willa stood for the last seven shows. Right of center in front of the barricade.
And then she remembered again.
And every night—every single night—when the final note faded into the rafters, when the spotlights dimmed and the house lights bled back in, she cracked.
The illusion split at the seams.
And she was raw again.
Standing on an empty stage, guitar heavy on her shoulder, lungs burning from trying too hard to outrun a grief that moved faster than she did.
Still hearing the ghost of Willa’s laugh in her ears. Still feeling the ache of every I love you that never got answered. Still holding the weight of everything she was too afraid to listen to, including that voicemail.
Still pretending she wasn’t wrecked. Still pretending she could survive it.
The crowd always left. The crew packed up. The venue emptied out. And she was always the last one standing.
The loneliest girl in a room built to hold crowds. Every time she stepped offstage, the crash came fast and hard.
Her breath got shallow. Her skin prickled, hot and itchy, like her own body didn’t quite fit anymore.
There was no crowd now. No lights. No music loud enough to drown out the way her chest hurt.
Only the cold, stale air of a dressing room that smelled like dry shampoo and nerves.
Only hotel rooms that didn’t smell like her anymore. No incense, no coffee, no soft skin and laughter tucked into the sheets.
Just Frankie. And the echo of everything she didn’t want to feel.
No matter how many standing ovations she got, no matter how many smiling fans threw flowers or notes onto the stage, no matter how many people told her she’d changed their lives—Something inside her felt fractured beyond repair.
Something that no screaming crowd could stitch back together.
She hadn’t sung the song. Her song. The one she wrote for Willa, that lived in the marrow of her bones now. She’d only sung it once, and fans were already online asking when it would return.
She kept repeating the words in her head—Just a story. They hurt worse than forgettable.
That song lived in her throat like a bruise now—dark and tender and aching. Every time she even thought about starting the first note, her chest tightened until the sound strangled itself before it could ever reach her mouth.
The guilt lived there too. Next to the grief and the love she didn’t know how to stop carrying.
She had the next day off. No soundcheck or press.
Just time. Time she didn’t know what to do with. She didn’t leave her hotel room.
She lay curled on top of the sheets, fully dressed in a hoodie and leggings, curtains drawn tight against the world.
Her phone sat face-down beside her, vibrating every so often with calls she ignored, texts she couldn’t bring herself to read.
Around noon, there was a soft knock—Kara dropping off room service. A sandwich and some fruit she knew Frankie wouldn’t touch.
Frankie didn’t move to answer. Didn’t move at all. The weight inside her was too much.
It was sometime in the early afternoon when her phone buzzed again—long and insistent.
Mom.
Frankie stared at the name until her eyes blurred. Then she answered.
“Hey, Momma.”
“Hi, baby,” her mom’s, voice soft and warm, like it could reach through the line and wrap her up.
Frankie rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm.
“I don’t want you to worry while you’re on tour, but… I need to talk to you about Mimi, Starlight.”
Frankie sat up, adrenaline spiking cold through her veins. Her body locked. “What happened?” she rasped, her voice hoarse with panic.
“She’s been aspirating more regularly,” her mom said carefully. “Three times yesterday. She’s forgetting how to swallow, honey. It’s not good, Mae.”
Frankie was already throwing on her sweatshirt, grabbing her boots without thinking.
“Okay—I’ll come. I’ll cancel the next few dates. I’ll get the next flight—”
“Mae.”
Her mom’s voice was firmer this time. A command and a comfort all at once.
Frankie froze mid-step, heart racing.
“You know Mimi wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want you to stop now. Honey, most days, she doesn’t know what’s happening anymore, baby. And if you came, it would be more for you than for her.”
She paused, her voice warm and steady even through the crackle of the line.
“And that’s okay, my love. But I think you need to finish what you started. I promise—I would never let it get to the point where you couldn’t see her, couldn’t say goodbye. We’re not there yet, sweetheart. I just wanted you to know what’s going on.”
Frankie pressed her hand to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut.
“I need her, Momma.” Her breath hitched. “I don’t think I can do this without her. I need her—I need my Mimi.” She paused, voice splintering. “And I need—I want—”
Suzanne’s reply was quiet, but steady. “Mimi… or Willa?”
A wrecked laugh broke out of Frankie, jagged and hollow.
“I don’t even know, Mom. Both?” She swallowed hard. “Willa. I loved her. I think…”
Her voice gave out.
Suzanne didn’t rush to fill the space. She let her daughter sit in it, breathe in it. And then, finally—still kind, still unflinching—she asked,
“Then why did you leave her?”
Frankie shook her head, though she knew her mother couldn’t see it.
“Because I was scared. Because she wrote about me. About Mimi. About things that felt too private. And I thought—fuck, I thought it was all a lie. That I was just another article. Another story.”
“But maybe it wasn’t a lie,” Suzanne said gently. “Maybe it was her way of holding on to you.”
The words sank deep, sharp and unrelenting. Frankie’s chest tightened. It hurt worse than anything else.
“Sometimes,” her mom went on, voice steady as a hand on her back, “when someone writes it down… it’s because it mattered. Because it was too big to trust to memory alone.”
Frankie blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. “Then why did she write She’s just a story, Momma?”
Suzanne’s voice softened even more. “I think you need to ask her that, Starlight. But I believe there’s an explanation. I really do.”
Frankie didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and full.
“She loved you, Mae. She still does. And you—you know what you felt. You know what was real.”
Frankie whispered, “I trusted her.”
“And you still can,” Suzanne said. “If you’re willing to listen.”
Frankie couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force anything past the knot in her throat.
So, her mom just said, “I love you, Mae.”
Leaving Frankie sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to her chest, the city outside her window blurring into streaks of color.
She stayed like that for a long time, listening to the silence.
Letting herself wonder, for the first time in days, if maybe not everything was lost.
If maybe—she still had a choice.
* * *
The next night, Frankie was back on stage.
The crowd screamed like she was their savior. The lights were dazzling. The bass thudded under her feet like a second heartbeat. She smiled. She danced. She hit every goddamn note.
But she wasn’t in it.
Not really.
Every lyric felt a little thinner, a little hollower. Like someone had scooped the marrow from her bones and left her singing with a body that wasn’t entirely hers.
She moved the way she was supposed to. Made the jokes between songs. Gave the crowd everything they paid for—and more.
But she wasn’t there.
And Kara saw it. Kara always saw it.
From her spot at side stage, arms crossed over her chest, eyes sharp even in the shadows—she watched Frankie fall apart in slow motion.
She saw the way her smiles faltered just a second too soon. The way her hands gripped the mic stand too tight between songs. The way she blinked up at the rafters like maybe, if she stared long enough, she’d figure out how to breathe again.
And when the lights dimmed and the encore ended and the crowd roared into darkness, Kara was already pulling out her phone.
Backstage, Frankie tossed her guitar into the rack with a little too much force. She bent over, hands on her knees, sweat dripping down her face, chest heaving—not from exertion, but from something heavier. Sharper.
She looked small. So fucking lost.
Kara’s heart cracked open.
This wasn’t just tour fatigue.
It wasn’t just Mimi, even though that was gutting her too.
It was Willa.
Kara stepped into the hallway, thumb flying over her screen, not even hesitating this time.
Typing fast, she sent it before she could talk herself out of it.
Kara: I shouldn’t be doing this. But Frankie’s not okay. She’s on stage right now, but it’s like she’s somewhere else. Her grandma’s getting a feeding tube. Things are bad. I think she needs you. Can you get to Atlanta the day after tomorrow?
She stared at the message for half a second after it sent.
Then slid her phone into her back pocket, exhaled a long breath, and went back inside.
She didn’t know if Willa would answer.
Didn’t know if she could come.
But if she could?
Maybe it wasn’t too late to save her. Maybe—just maybe—some things were worth breaking the rules for.
And if anyone could reach Frankie now?
It was her.
It was always her.
* * *