Chapter thirty-one
Willa
Willa dropped her bag just inside the apartment and kicked the door shut with her heel. The familiar click echoed into the stillness.
It was quiet—Lena was still at work—but this time, the silence didn’t press against her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift. It welcomed her.
It wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t hollow.
It was full. Full of what had happened. Full of the things she carried with her now, stitched into every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of her skin.
Frankie.
She slipped out of her shoes, toes curling briefly against the worn wood floor, grounding herself. Her body moved without thinking—muscle memory born from months of coming and going—keys in the bowl, phone on the counter, fingertips grazing the edge of the wall as she padded into the kitchen.
The fridge light blinked on. That low hum of home filled the air. She grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap with a soft crack of plastic, and took a long drink. The first sip hit deep. Deeper than she realized. Her throat had been tight for hours without her even noticing.
She was tired. But not the crushing, ache-in-your-bones kind of tired she’d felt after bad flights or long assignments.
This was the good kind. The soul-just-had-a-revelation kind of tired. The I’ve-been-loved-well kind of tired.
She wandered into her room and stopped just inside the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
Everything looked the same—the air still held the faint, crisp scent of laundry detergent, the bed was neatly made, the camera bag exactly where she had left it. But nothing inside her was the same.
She stepped forward, hoodie still wrapped around her like armor she didn’t need anymore and perched lightly on the edge of the bed.
She missed Frankie like a missing limb. But it didn’t feel like absence.
It felt like presence. Like the parts she used to think she had to hide had been seen—and loved—and now they hummed quietly beneath her skin, stitched together into something stronger. Something softer.
She unlocked her phone with a swipe of her thumb and opened Apple Music.
Created a new playlist entitled it: Girlfriends music
Her fingers moved without hesitation, adding tracks one by one—Colors in the Crowd, She Said / I Said, Pretty Girls, a few of Frankie’s older singles she used to listen to late at night when she was supposed to be sleeping, and the unreleased acoustic demo Frankie had once whispered against her ear while they lay tangled in hotel sheets.
But the one she really wanted?
Still wasn’t on streaming.
Stay Right Here.
She sighed quietly and switched apps, thumbing open her texts.
Nothing new.
But the last message from Frankie was still there, glowing at the top of the thread like a pulse:
Frankie: Can’t stop thinking about last night. You wrecked me in the best way. Come back already?
A breath punched out of her. Not a flutter. Not a tremor. A roar.
She opened her Notes app next—the one where she stored all the things she never said out loud—and typed:
Being back feels weird.
Not bad. Not sad. Just… off.
Like I forgot something.
Like I left my lungs in Atlanta.
Maybe someday she’d show Frankie these too. Maybe not.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
Frankie: Did you leave your sweatshirt or am I just hoping you did so I have an excuse to see you again?
The smile broke across Willa’s face so fast and so bright it almost hurt.
She swiped a thumb across the keyboard.
Willa: Chair by the window.
There was a pause—just long enough to imagine Frankie laughing, maybe rolling her eyes fondly before typing back.
Frankie: You did that on purpose.
Willa: Maybe. Maybe I just wanted something to come back for.
Another heartbeat.
Frankie: You don’t need an excuse. But I’m still keeping it hostage.
Willa laughed out loud—a sound so full it startled even her.
Willa: You gonna write me into another song?
Frankie: You’re already in three. The next one’s about what forgiveness tastes like.
Willa stared at the screen, her vision going blurry. She didn’t cry, exactly—but her body felt too full. Like if she didn’t laugh or breathe or curl up in her bed soon, she might just burst wide open.
She pressed her face to the inside of Frankie’s hoodie sleeve, breathing in the scent still clinging there.
She whispered into the soft fabric. “I love you.”
Because somehow—across highways and flight paths and the stretch of two cities—she knew Frankie would feel it.
Her phone buzzed again.
Incoming FaceTime: Frankie
Willa didn’t hesitate.
She answered immediately.
Frankie’s face filled the screen—soft and glowing, hoodie on, hair twisted into a messy bun, no makeup, just freckles and tenderness and that bone-deep exhaustion that only came from joy.
She looked like everything.
“Hey,” Willa said, her voice low and a little hoarse from all the whispering, laughing, and crying they had done.
“Hey,” Frankie said back, her smile slow and so devastatingly sweet it made Willa’s chest ache. “Still in my sweatshirt, huh?”
Willa glanced down, the hem bunched in her lap. “Might never take it off.”
Frankie’s grin sharpened into something playful. “Please do. Eventually. Preferably in front of me.”
Willa rolled her eyes, blushing and smiling all at once. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” Frankie deadpanned. “It’s terminal. Let me live.”
Willa laughed, curling onto the bed, hoodie drowning her, heart wide open.
“I miss you,” she said simply.
Frankie’s face softened into something that looked a lot like awe.
“I miss you too,” she said. “So much it’s stupid.”
“You doing okay?” Willa asked, brushing her hair out of her face.
Frankie nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I’m still floating. My body’s, like, sore and buzzing in all the best ways. I think my knees gave out at one point.”
Willa smirked. “You’re welcome.”
“Rude,” Frankie said.
“True,” Willa shot back.
They both laughed—big, messy, beautiful laughter that cracked the rest of the heavy goodbyes wide open.
After a moment, Willa tucked her chin onto her hand, smiling into the camera.
“I’ve been listening to your music since I walked in the door. Made a whole playlist.”
Frankie sat up straighter, her grin wide and boyish. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I called it Girlfriends music.”
Frankie tilted her head, eyes shining. “God, you’re hot.”
“But I’m gonna need one song,” Willa said, cocking an eyebrow.
Frankie’s grin turned smug. “Stay Right Here?”
Willa nodded, biting her lip.
Frankie bit hers too, considering. “I’ll record it in a voice note and send it. But only if you promise to come to the last show in New York and let me play it for you live.”
“I was already coming for the last show here, baby. But deal.”
“Also…” Willa teased, a glint in her eyes. “Might’ve left you something.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes, suspicious and delighted. “What?”
“Check your backpack.”
Willa watched Frankie disappear off-camera, heard the shuffle of zippers and fabric, and then she was back—holding a folded piece of notebook paper.
Frankie opened it slowly.
Her whole face changed as she read it—softened, cracked open a little.
When she looked up, her voice was barely there, shaking with everything she couldn’t put into words. “I love you.”
Willa’s eyes shimmered.
“I love you too. So much.”
Frankie leaned closer to the camera, like she could reach through it. “You’re mine, okay? Just so we’re clear.”
Willa nodded, chest tight, voice thick. “I’ve always been.”
They stayed like that for another hour.
Talking.
Teasing.
Whispering things that felt like forever.
Neither of them noticing when the sky outside the window shifted from sunrise gold to the deep blue of a brand-new day.
Because here, between them?
The day had already begun.
And it was theirs.
* * *