Chapter twenty-six #2
She crossed the marble floor, her boots tapping soft, apologetic sounds against the tile. When the receptionist smiled at her and asked for her name, Willa gave it with a tight, polite curve of her lips. A performance. Barely held together.
The woman behind the desk had no idea she was handing that keycard to a storm wrapped in human skin. Willa took it with steady fingers, even as everything inside her trembled.
She stepped away from the counter and pulled out her phone with shaking hands.
Willa: Just got here. Checked in.
She shoved the phone into her pocket immediately after, as if just looking at it made everything worse.
The response came before the elevator even dinged open:
Kara: Can you meet me in the café in 10?
Willa’s thumb hovered for half a second before she replied:
Willa: Yeah. I’ll head up and drop my stuff.
The elevator doors slid open. She stepped inside, catching a flash of her reflection in the polished chrome walls.
She looked like someone trying really hard to seem okay—and failing.
Like a person whose grief kept leaking out no matter how tightly she held it in.
Her mouth was set in a line. Her shoulders hunched in.
Her eyes—God, her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
Like she’d been carrying heartbreak like a backpack she couldn’t put down.
The elevator chimed again, snapping her out of it.
Her room was on the sixth floor. She moved on autopilot—keycard, beep, soft click of the lock releasing. The door swung open into a neat, clinical room. King bed made up with stiff white sheets. A little table by the window. One lonely armchair in the corner.
It was freezing.
Willa rubbed her arms as she stepped inside, flipping on a lamp just to chase away some of the hollow.
She set her suitcase beside the bed. Paused.
For a second, she thought about just sitting down. Letting herself fall back against the mattress. Closing her eyes and pretending none of this was happening.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she moved automatically through the motions: unzip, unpack, hang up a shirt, line her boots near the closet.
Plug in her phone. Touch the necklace tucked under her sweater without meaning to—the one Frankie had once fingered lightly and called delicate and deadly with a grin that made Willa want to write entire novels about her.
Every small, stupid thing felt like a question.
Was she staying too long?
Was she assuming too much?
Was she about to make everything even worse?
She didn’t know.
God, she didn’t know.
But she was here.
Because despite the voice in her head screaming at her to run—to protect what little dignity she had left—there was a quieter one underneath it. Steady. Unshakable.
Show up.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it didn’t fix anything.
Even if it shattered her all over again.
Willa sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, the low hum of the AC filling the room.
She didn’t know if she’d be flying home tomorrow with nothing, but regret packed into her suitcase.
Or if she’d still be here four days from now, buried under hard conversations, broken pieces, and maybe—maybe—the first fragile beginnings of something new.
Either way, she knew one thing for sure:
She had to see her.
She had to try.
Willa stood up, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the elevator.
Because sometimes love wasn’t about timing.
It was about courage.
About showing up, even when everything in you whispered you were already too late.
* * *
Kara was already sitting at a small corner table in the café when Willa walked in, a half-empty cup of coffee in her hands and a fresh one sitting across from her, waiting.
“Hi,” Willa said softly.
Kara stood up with a quiet smile and wrapped her in a hug. “Hey. How are you?”
Willa shrugged. “I have no idea,” she admitted honestly.
Kara nodded, eyes tired but kind. “Yeah. I get it. Frankie’s been walking around like a ghost for the last two weeks. And when she got the call about Mimi—”
Willa’s breath caught. “What’s going on with her?”
Kara sighed, then explained, her voice low and steady.
“The dementia’s getting worse. And now it’s affecting her physically.
Her body’s forgetting how to swallow. She’s aspirating when she eats, which is really dangerous.
They put in a feeding tube yesterday. And most days now… she doesn’t remember them. At all.”
Willa closed her eyes for a second, absorbing it like a blow.
“She wanted to go home,” Kara added. “She begged. But her mom told her Mimi would want her to finish the tour. Said if things took a turn for the worse, she’d let her know so she could come.”
Silence settled between them. Thick. Heavy.
“I told her you were coming,” Kara said finally. “And the look on her face, Willa… It was like—for the first time in days—she could breathe.”
They talked for another twenty minutes, finishing their coffee and circling around what came next. Kara gave her Frankie’s room number—2021. Said she didn’t know if Frankie was napping or zoning out to bad reality TV. But she’d be there.
Willa didn’t know if she was going to text first. Or wait. Or panic and bolt.
But in the end, she just… went.
Because the need to see her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay—it was too strong to ignore.
Her legs felt shaky as she made her way to the elevator. Like they didn’t quite belong to her. But she kept moving. Floor two. Room 2021. She stood in front of the door for a second, her heart hammering, and then knocked before she could talk herself out of it.
A pause.
Then the door opened.
Frankie stood there.
And the moment their eyes met, Willa saw it—surprise, yes. But also, something else. Something that cracked her open.
Relief.
She was wearing Willa’s old sweater—the soft grey one with the worn cuffs—and her curls were pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, and underneath it, something deeper. Tender. Wrecked. Raw.
Willa’s breath caught.
It was like the world around them quieted—the muffled voices in the hallway, the hum of the heater, the sound of Willa’s own heartbeat—all of it dimmed.
Frankie looked fragile in a way Willa had never seen.
Like if she breathed too hard, she might shatter.
“Hi,” Willa whispered, breaking the silence.
Frankie swallowed hard. “Hey.”
Her voice cracked on the word. Her eyes filled instantly.
“Baby,” Willa said softly, taking a step forward, “Can I hug you?”
Frankie didn’t answer—just reached for her. Pulled her in.
The door shut behind them as Frankie collapsed into Willa’s arms and sobbed.
Willa held her close, wrapping her up tight, tucking her face into Frankie’s hair, breathing her in. Coconut shampoo. Skin. Home.
Tears prickled in her own eyes, but she held them back. Frankie needed her steady right now. Needed her strong. So, she stayed right there, heart full and breaking, and held her while she cried.
She didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t have to.
She was there.
And that was everything.
* * *