Chapter twenty-six
Willa
That night, Willa sat on her bed with Lena, the suitcase open beside her like it might swallow her whole if she looked at it too long.
Clothes were folded in soft, indecisive piles around her—half packed, half unraveled—the cotton and denim looking more like memories than belongings.
Her coffee sat untouched, cooling rapidly on the nightstand next to her phone, which blinked silently every few minutes like it was daring her to pick it up again.
She hadn’t texted Kara back. Hadn’t moved since she sat down.
Lena sat beside her, a blanket slung over her shoulders, hair piled into a messy bun. She wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t asking. Just being there—sturdy and patient and real, like an anchor Willa could hold onto if she decided not to drown.
Willa stared at the open suitcase until the edges of it blurred, her hands fisted in the fabric of her jeans.
“I don’t know if this is the right thing,” she said finally, her voice thin and papery, barely cutting through the thick hush of the room. “It feels huge. Like… maybe I’m showing up for something I have no right to walk into.”
Lena’s gaze softened. She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t rush to fill the silence. She just pulled the blanket tighter around herself and said, calm and certain, “Kara knows her better than anyone else. If she asked you to come, Frankie’s going to want you there.
” Her voice was gentle. “You’re not showing up for the spectacle.
You’re showing up for her. She needs you. And you want to be there for her.”
“I just hope she wants me,” Willa whispered, her voice cracking around the edges. “What if I make it worse? What if she sees me and it just… hurts her more?”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Willa said quietly.
Lena leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her expression fierce in the way only true loyalty could be.
“No, I don’t. But I know you. You’re not flying out there to fix your reputation or make yourself feel better.
You’re doing it because you love her. Because you’re the only person who might be able to make her feel a little less alone right now. ”
Tears burned at the back of Willa’s eyes, but she blinked them away, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.
“I do love her,” she said, almost inaudible. “I love her so much it makes me stupid. I’m scared of hurting her. But I’m even more scared of not trying.”
Lena gave a small smile. “There’s your answer.”
Willa stared at her phone again, opening the unanswered thread from Kara.
Slowly, she pulled it toward her, thumbs hesitating over the keys.
Willa: Do you think she really wants me there?
It felt like a lifetime passed before Kara replied, even though it was probably only seconds.
Kara: Yes. Even if she won’t say it out loud, she needs you. That’s what matters.
Willa exhaled shakily, the message sinking into her bones like something sacred.
No overthinking. No spiraling.
Just the truth.
Willa: Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.
Kara: Thank you.
Willa let the phone fall onto the bed and leaned against Lena’s shoulder, grounding herself. She didn’t cry. Didn’t move for a long moment.
“I’m going,” she said.
“I know,” Lena said softly, her smile tinged with pride. “I knew the second she texted you.”
Willa zipped up the suitcase with a deep sigh. “I love you.”
“I know,” Lena laughed. “I love you too.”
* * *
Frankie
Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against her knees, staring down at the space between her boots like it might offer her some kind of answer.
They had just gotten in.
The carpet was patterned with a generic hotel design—swirly blue and grey loops curling endlessly around each other, like question marks with no punctuation. The ride from the venue to the hotel hadn’t been long, but it had felt endless.
They’d driven from Asheville to Atlanta today. Everyone danced around her like they all knew. Like they all understood that anything they said would just echo too loudly against the raw, bleeding silence.
At the front desk, Frankie had gone through the motions, taken her room key when it was pressed into her hand. Smiled when she absolutely had to—a muscle memory so practiced it barely touched her eyes.
Now the door clicked shut behind her with a heavy, definitive sound. And she was alone. Really alone. She stood there for a second—just stood there—like maybe if she stayed perfectly still, the sadness wouldn’t see her. Wouldn’t stick.
Then she moved stiffly toward the bed and sat down hard, her whole body curling in on itself. She yanked the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands until only her fingertips peeked out, clutching the hem like a lifeline.
It was Willa’s hoodie.
She smelled it—it smelled like detergent and Willa. Like memory. She pressed the sleeves to her face without thinking, inhaled like it could fill the hole in her chest if she just breathed deep enough.
It didn’t. Her chest still ached—dull, heavy, constant.
Not the sharp kind of grief. Not the kind that came all at once.
The slow kind. The rotting kind. The kind that gnawed at your ribs from the inside out. The kind that lived there now. Mimi was slipping away. Her mom’s voice kept playing in her head, soft but steady.
She’s forgetting how to swallow now.
She doesn’t recognize us most days.
It would be for you, not for her.
Frankie closed her eyes against the burn rising up behind them. She knew her mom was just trying to be real—being honest in a way Frankie wasn’t sure she could survive.
How did you say goodbye to someone who didn’t remember you anymore? How did you make peace with the fact that you might be more stranger than granddaughter by now?
Frankie didn’t know.
She only knew it hurt in a way she didn’t have the words for. And words—lyrics, poetry, writing—had always been the only thing she was good at.
She leaned forward again, her forehead brushing the edge of her knees, breathing through her mouth like maybe that would make the lump in her throat go down.
It didn’t. Nothing helped.
Especially not the memories that kept crashing against her—Willa smiling at her from the front row. Dancing with her at that tiny bar in Nashville. Willa humming her song under her breath when she thought she wasn’t listening.
The ache in her chest twisted hard. She hadn’t listened to the voicemail. The one Willa left late at night.
Frankie had kept it. Had stared at it more times than she could count. But pressing play had felt like a door she wasn’t strong enough to open.
Because if Willa said she was sorry?
If Willa had begged to come back?
If she’d told her she loved her?
Frankie wasn’t sure she could survive it. And if she didn’t?
If it was just goodbye, final and sharp?
She wasn’t sure she could survive that either.
The grief had already hollowed her out. The fear would finish the job.
She reached out blindly and grabbed the hoodie tighter around her body. The sleeves brushed her cheeks. She tried to imagine Willa’s hands instead.
Warm. Steady. Sure.
She missed her so much it made her teeth ache. The thought of seeing her tomorrow made Frankie’s stomach flip so violently she almost doubled over.
She didn’t know what she would say. Didn’t know how to fix what she’d broken. Didn’t know if it was even possible to fix it at all.
All she knew—really knew—was that she couldn’t do this without her.
Frankie squeezed her eyes shut, letting the weight of that truth settle deep into her bones. For so long, she’d thought she had to be strong on her own. That needing someone—really needing them—made her weak. But Willa had never asked her to be anything but herself.
And somehow, Frankie had still found a way to lose her.
Tears burned hot against her closed lids. She let one slip free. Just one. It carved a slow, steady path down her cheek, soaking into the sleeve of Willa’s hoodie. She didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. She just sat there, breathing through the ache.
Because if Willa was really coming—if she really got on a plane and came all this way—maybe it wasn’t too late.
Maybe there was still something left to save.
Maybe for the first time in weeks, Frankie could finally breathe for real again.
Maybe.
* * *
Willa
The car pulled up outside the hotel just before 3 p.m., and Willa stepped out, her heart pounding so loud in her chest she was surprised the driver couldn’t hear it.
She wasn’t dressed fancy—just a soft dark sweater, her favorite worn jeans, and her black boots that made her feel a little taller, a little stronger.
But she’d spent twenty minutes choosing that sweater this morning.
Stared at herself in the mirror way too long.
Brushed her hair twice, even though she’d ended up pulling it back into a low, loose bun anyway.
Redid her eyeliner three times, trying to sharpen the exhaustion from her eyes—but the dark smudges still told the truth.
Still, it was the best armor she had.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and stepped through the automatic doors.
The lobby was sleek. Upscale without being gaudy.
All golds and creams and espresso-brown furniture that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
There was a grand chandelier overhead, a giant arrangement of lilies near the elevator, and the faint smell of lemon polish and expensive coffee drifting in the air.
Somewhere near the back, soft jazz played, floating above the muted conversations of business travelers and vacationers checking in.
It felt wrong.
Too calm.
Too clean.
Like the building had no idea the reason she was here was to try and stitch back together something she might have already ripped apart for good.