Chapter thirty-six
Frankie
This was it.
New York.
Her city. Her people. Her final fucking show.
Everything she’d built, everything she’d become over the past ten weeks, it all led to this.
The alley buzzed with movement—techs unloading cases, faint thuds of basslines from inside, voices already shouting greetings as she and Willa approached the door. Frankie glanced sideways, and her breath caught for a second.
Willa walked beside her, hands tucked into her pockets, scarf draped loosely over her chest. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, curls pulled back into a low bun that looked effortlessly sexy. She looked soft from the bath. Bright from the morning. Grounded from Mimi.
Frankie didn’t realize she was staring until Willa looked over and smiled like she already knew.
“You staying with me all day?” Frankie asked, pushing open the stage door.
Willa gave her a mock-scandalized look, eyebrow arched. “Are you serious?”
Frankie blinked, caught off guard by the playfulness in her tone.
“I have no other plans but you,” Willa added, stepping inside beside her, voice warm and sure.
Frankie’s chest clenched in that full, breathless way it always did around her now. She leaned in, kissed Willa’s temple, and whispered, “Good.”
Inside, the venue felt alive even in its emptiness—like the walls themselves remembered every note, every scream, every sweaty crowd pressed tight against the barricade.
The green room smelled like coffee and lemon water. Frankie dropped her bag, grabbed her guitar, and headed out to the stage.
Soundcheck was a blur of cords and cables, stage chatter and small talk. But everything sounded right. Crisp. Tuned. Like instinct and effort had finally merged into something close to magic. Her band was dialed in. The crew looked loose, confident. Even Malik was joking instead of brooding.
Frankie ran through two songs— “Pretty Girls with Sharp Teeth” and “Colors in the Crowd”—back to back, the second barely giving her time to breathe between the verses.
Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, slicking under the collar of her tee.
She didn’t care. Her fingers flew across the strings.
Her voice pushed into the rafters like it was chasing something sacred.
Willa stood near the mixing board with Kara, casual and quiet. No camera bag today. No press pass. Just a girlfriend in jeans and boots and a sweater falling artfully off one shoulder, phone in hand as she recorded little pieces of the morning—just for her. For memories, not headlines.
They locked eyes between chords.
Frankie’s mouth curled into a grin she couldn’t stop if she tried.
Willa’s smile mirrored hers, then she hit record just as Frankie leaned into the mic for the bridge—growling out the lyrics like a dare.
By the time the final chord rang out, Frankie was breathless, flushed, laughing.
“Okay, hometown queen,” Malik called from behind their kit, twirling one drumstick. “Saving your full chest for tonight?”
Frankie grabbed a towel, dragging it across her face. “Trying not to peak too early.”
Ember snorted, slipping her bass off and leaning into her mic. “Remind me again who all’s coming tonight? I saw that guest list. That shit looked like a wedding.”
Frankie laughed, shaking out her arms. “It’s… a lot. My mom, my sister, Tevin, Tara, a couple old friends from college. Willa’s people, too. Lena. Some of her work crew.”
She paused, heart catching.
“Basically, everyone I love who isn’t Mimi.”
The stage went still.
Blake, always soft-spoken, said gently, “She’d be proud as hell, you know.”
Frankie nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah.”
Then from across the room, clear and steady—
“She already is,” Willa said.
Frankie turned toward her.
And just like that, everything else fell away.
The crew, the instruments, the snow still falling outside—none of it mattered. Her entire world narrowed to the look on Willa’s face. That quiet, luminous love.
For a second, Frankie swore she could hear her heartbeat louder than the amps.
That was her person. Right there.
Not behind a lens. Not with a press badge or a notebook in hand.
Just hers.
And this was her moment. Her city. Her last show.
Her love.
She stepped off stage, guitar still in hand, and made a silent promise in her head:
Tonight, she was going to give them everything.
Every lyric. Every scream. Every beat of her goddamn heart.
Because the woman she loved was front row.
And this time, she was singing for her.
* * *
Back in her dressing room, the noise of the venue faded behind thick walls and closed doors. Out in the main hall, people were already pouring into the space, their voices rising in anticipation—but in here, it was another world. Calmer. Sacred. A breath held between heartbeats.
The overhead fluorescents were off. Only the vanity bulbs glowed—warm, golden light surrounding the mirror. The room felt like it was holding its breath.
Frankie’s outfit was laid out perfectly across the back of the couch—black pants with silver detailing, a sheer mesh top layered beneath a custom jacket embroidered at the sleeves.
Her boots, scuffed at the soles but polished clean, waited like old friends at the edge of the rug.
The setlist was taped beside the door, crisp and final. The last one.
But Frankie wasn’t looking at any of it.
She was looking at Willa.
Willa sat perched on the arm of the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, hoodie slouchy and soft, sleeves bunched at her elbows.
She looked utterly at home—head tilted back, neck exposed, lips curved with the ghost of a smile as she traced her finger along the couch’s seam.
Like she wasn’t just in the room—she was the room.
Like her presence made the space more itself.
Frankie’s chest ached.
She crossed the room without a word and hit play on her Bluetooth speaker.
A slow, moody song began to play—one of theirs.
A track from a playlist they’d made together weeks ago.
Soft vocals, aching strings. The kind of song they played in hotel rooms while tangled in sheets, on long drives between cities, in bathrooms scented with steam and bath salts and whispered confessions.
Frankie lit a single stick of incense, the match hissing softly. Cedar and something warmer curled into the room like memory. Like safety.
Willa smiled as the scent reached her. “I love that one.”
Frankie didn’t answer. Just walked back, slow and deliberate, and held out her hand.
Willa took it.
Frankie pulled her to her feet and guided her gently until her back met the wall beside the mirror. The vanity lights haloed around them. Frankie’s hands slid around Willa’s waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her hoodie, confirming it was real.
They stood like that for a long, quiet moment. Foreheads almost touching. Breath syncing.
“You good?” Willa whispered.
Frankie nodded. “I am now.”
And then she kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. It was slow. Intentional. A kiss that said we made it. That said this is ours. That said thank you and I missed you and I’m here.
Willa kissed her back just as slowly. One hand slid up Frankie’s spine, the other curling around the back of her neck.
Frankie deepened the kiss—just slightly. Tongue brushing over lip. Thumb pressing into Willa’s hip.
“I’m not nervous,” she murmured into her mouth. “I should be, but I’m not.”
“You’ve done this a hundred times.”
“Not like this.”
“What’s different?”
Frankie pulled back to meet her eyes. “You’re here.”
Willa’s breath caught.
“You’re gonna break hearts tonight,” she whispered. “Actual chaos in the crowd.”
Frankie smirked. “Already broke mine when you walked in wearing that Side B press badge.”
Willa groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “God, I do.”
They stood still, held close by the quiet.
Frankie reached for Willa’s hand and squeezed. “Say it with me?”
Willa nodded. Closed her eyes. No hesitation.
Together, they breathed in.
The incense burned low.
The music filled the space like a heartbeat.
Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be mine.
Frankie opened her eyes. Her pulse steady now. Full.
She kissed Willa once more—one last press of lips, one last promise.
Not goodbye.
Just go time.
“I’ll be in the front row,” Willa whispered. “Screaming every word.”
Frankie kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s all I need.”
Then she turned—jacket in one hand, heart in the other—and walked toward the door.
The scent of incense clung to her like armor. The memory of Willa’s lips still fresh on hers.
This wasn’t the beginning. This wasn’t the end. This was her moment. Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be ours
And she was ready.
* * *