Chapter Thirty-Two
Willa
“Okay,” Lena said, holding up a photo of Frankie mid-guitar solo, her head thrown back, hair wild, spotlight pouring over her like magic. Her fingers gripped the strings like she was conjuring the sound straight out of the air. “This one is rude. Like, how is this woman real?”
“She’s not,” Willa murmured, the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth slow and helpless. “I’ve checked.”
Lena swiped again, then stopped on a blurry backstage photo—Frankie in Willa’s arms, both of them laughing, Willa’s camera strap still slung around her neck. Frankie’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth open mid-laugh, her whole body leaned into Willa like there was no safer place in the world.
Lena tapped the screen.
“This one,” she said, voice dipping a little, softer, almost reverent. “This is the one that’s gonna live in my head rent-free.”
Willa groaned and reached blindly for her wine, nearly knocking it over in the process. “Please stop.”
Lena ignored her entirely, grinning like she had all the proof she needed in her hand as she kept scrolling. “Love looks stupidly good on you, by the way.”
“Don’t start,” Willa grumbled, dragging the sleeve of Frankie’s hoodie over her face in mock despair.
“No, no, I mean it.” Lena nudged her with her foot under the blanket, a warm, grounding touch. “You didn’t come home like this last time. This is the real post-tour glow. Like, you’re practically glowing in the dark.”
Willa peeked out from behind the fabric, trying for a scowl but failing. “Pretty sure that’s just my moisturizer.”
Lena tilted her head, considering her like an art critic appraising a masterpiece. “Nope. It’s joy. And serotonin. And definitely orgasms.”
“Jesus Christ,” Willa muttered, laughing despite herself as she buried her face again.
“I’m serious!” Lena said, waving the phone like it was irrefutable evidence. “This is different. You are different.”
Willa’s laughter softened and faded into something quieter, something almost fragile. She pulled the hoodie sleeve down slowly and took the phone from Lena, her fingers curling around it carefully, like it was something precious.
She sobered, smile turning inward, smaller. “It was different this time,” she said quietly.
Lena’s face gentled instantly, her teasing giving way to something deeper, more real.
She handed her the phone fully. “It shows. You’re lighter. Softer. Glowier.”
“That’s not a word,” Willa said automatically, but her voice was thick, affectionate.
“It is when you’re radiating like a goddamn romance novel,” Lena said, tapping her glass against Willa’s in a lazy toast before taking another sip of wine. “Frankie did that?”
Willa looked down at the screen.
At Frankie.
At the way she was caught mid-laughter, head thrown back, hair falling messily over her shoulders, eyes shining with something wild and bright and uncontainable.
She looked free. She looked happy.
Willa’s thumb brushed over the photo, slow and deliberate. Her chest ached—not with fear. Not with loss.
With something deeper.
She missed her already. Of course she did. She missed the weight of her beside her, the scratch of her voice in her ear, the way she made even a shitty hotel coffee taste sweeter because she smiled when she handed it over.
But it wasn’t the kind of missing that gutted her.
It wasn’t absence.
It was presence and knowing.
She had been loved. She was loved.
Fully. Fiercely. Without question.
And somehow, that had changed everything.
Even the quiet felt different now. Safer.
“Yeah,” Willa said softly, voice almost a whisper. “Frankie did that.”
She pulled the blanket higher over her legs, the edge brushing her chin, the hoodie swallowing her whole again. She smiled to herself—small, secret, luminous—and sank deeper into the couch, into the warmth, into the knowing.
Into the kind of peace that only came when you finally, finally stopped doubting you deserved to be loved exactly as you were.
And stayed loved anyway.
* * *
Willa
The soft vibration barely made a sound, but it pulled Willa back like a thread tugging from somewhere beneath her ribs.
She glanced down out of habit, that familiar flutter already stirring in her chest. That tiny, reckless hope.
But the screen was still quiet.
No new text. Just the time. A few app notifications—email, a DoorDash promo, an Instagram update. Nothing from Frankie.
Willa’s smile faltered a little, even though she knew better.
It had only been about half an hour since she’d heard from her.
Which made sense.
She knew Frankie’s rhythm now—how she always disappeared for a while before a show. Not out of nerves, exactly, but because she needed that space. That breath. That stillness only solitude could give her.
Frankie’s green room ritual had become its own kind of legend—not just to her crew, but now in Willa’s memory too.
She could picture it perfectly: Frankie curled up on whatever half-busted couch the venue provided, legs crossed, hair a mess, headphones on, eyes closed.
Lips moving silently, repeating her mantra like it was a secret between her and the music.
Willa always gave her that space. Always waited for her to appear from that cocoon—sharper and softer all at once.
But still—still, she picked up her phone. She thumbed the screen open, stared at the blank message field, and let her heart pour out just a little.
Willa: Kill it tonight. Make it real. Make it yours. I miss you.
She read it twice before hitting send, thumb hovering just a second longer than necessary, like she could push a piece of herself through the screen if she tried hard enough.
It wasn’t the first time she’d reflected Frankie’s mantra back to her. Willa had whispered it against her skin once, half-asleep in a hotel bed, and watched Frankie exhale like someone had opened a window inside her.
It still felt powerful. Like a tether between them, running invisibly through venues and skylines.
A heartbeat passed. Then two.
She could almost see it: Frankie’s face lighting up, eyes softening, fingers flying over her phone like she couldn’t reply fast enough. That secret smile when she thought no one was looking. The way she tilted her head when she was trying not to cry.
Sure enough—it didn’t take long.
Frankie: You’re fucking amazing. I’ll call you as soon as I come offstage—as long as you’re awake?
Willa didn’t hesitate.
Willa: I will be.
No question. No maybe. Just certainty.
She locked her phone, the glow fading to black, and let it fall into her lap. Her thumb brushed over it once like a promise.
Then she leaned back into the couch, loose and warm from the wine, head resting on Lena’s shoulder.
The blanket shifted with her movement, settling heavy and soft over their legs. The muted TV flickered shadows across the far wall. Somewhere outside, a siren cut through the city’s nighttime hush.
Lena turned slightly, catching the look on Willa’s face—the quiet smile, the way her whole body had exhaled without her even realizing.
She bumped her shoulder gently. “Good?”
Willa didn’t open her eyes.
She didn’t need to.
A slow smile tugged at her lips—lazy, real, and full of something deeper than happiness. Something like peace.
“So good,” she murmured.
And it was.
Because even with hundreds of miles between them, somehow, impossibly, Frankie still made her feel like she wasn’t missing a single thing.
Like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Home.
* * *
Frankie
Frankie didn’t want to do another show without Willa.
It was easier now that they were talking again—more than talking. They were texting constantly. FaceTiming every night. Whispering I love you like they hadn’t spent weeks in silence. They were theirs again.
Whole. Tangled. Still a little fragile—but holding on tight.
Still, the missing hurt just the same.
It lived under her skin now. A steady ache. A phantom limb.
She felt it in the quiet moments—between soundcheck and curtain—when the world hadn’t started screaming yet and the silence made room for everything she didn’t want to feel.
She felt it tonight.
No Willa in the front row. No flash of red hair. No lens tracking her movements. No green eyes watching like she was the only thing that mattered.
No soft smile that said I see you. I love you. I’m here.
That was what gutted her most. That look. Like Willa couldn’t believe she got to be there. Watching her.
Frankie stood in the green room, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, shoulders tense. The air held the faint, familiar scent of lavender and smoke—her incense burning low in the ceramic holder she carried from city to city like armor.
She exhaled slowly. Tried to find her center.
Eyes closed. Breath steady. Her voice barely a whisper.
“Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be mine.”
She didn’t always say it out loud. But tonight, she needed to.
Her eyes opened.
And then—her phone buzzed.
She didn’t have to look. Her body already knew.
Still, she checked.
And when she saw Willa’s name, Frankie smiled—small but sharp. The kind of smile that tugged at her ribs.
She needed that. She needed her.
Frankie: You’re fucking amazing.
I’ll call you the second I’m offstage. If you’re still up?
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just pressed the phone to her chest for one beat, then slipped it into her bag.
One last inhale of lavender and smoke.
Then she squared her shoulders and stepped through the door.
The hallway buzzed with pre-show adrenaline. A stagehand gave her a thumbs-up. She nodded back.
The moment her boot hit the stairs, the crowd erupted.
Lights. Pulse. Roar.
Frankie stepped into it like she was born there.
“Hello, Asheville!” she shouted, voice bright and clear. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
The crowd screamed back. Lights flared. Music surged.
Her eyes flicked to the front row—out of habit.
Willa’s spot was empty.
And it hit her.
But she didn’t flinch.
She lifted her guitar. Adjusted her mic. Pressed her fingers to the strings.
And told herself, make it count anyway.
* * *