Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Letters Left Unsent

Collin

I was crouched by the endcap display, tagging prices on a new box of galvanized nails that smelled like factory grease and cardboard. The sharpie was starting to give out, leaving a faint ghost of a dollar sign on the label when I stopped mid mark.

I was smiling.

Like a total idiot.

My face hurt from smiling - like a muscle I wasn't used to flexing too often. And it had everything to do with the phone call last night. Billie's voice still echoed in the back of my mind, low and teasing, then soft and real, like a secret only I got to hear.

"I think about you."

He said it like it was inevitable. Like gravity.

I'd barely slept - replayed the whole thing in my head until dawn started to bleed through the curtains. Every flirt, every pause, every time I almost said something and didn't. My heart had been a restless thing, trying to memorize the shape of his laugh and the weight of his honesty. I could still feel the quiet between them, the way it didn't feel empty.

I smiled again, pressing a crooked price tag to the box of nails.

"You always say shit like that and then act like you don't mean anything to me."

I replayed that line over and over. As if he'd actually meant it. As if he wasn't just killing time in a hotel room with nothing better to do than call some girl who sells hammers and had dirt under her nails.

But it hadn't felt like that.

Not even a little.

"You always sat shit like that...."

The sharpie hovered over the last label when the front door swung open, the bells above it clanging with a sharpness that cut through the hum of her daydream.

I was startled, almost dropping the pen.

I turned toward the door - and froze.

It was Derek's dad.

Mr. Callahan. Still tall. Still broad shouldered. Still dressed like he'd just stepped off his ranch - even if he probably hadn't been on one in years. Time had softened the lines on his face but not the weight behind his presence. And as soon as he locked eyes with me, his expression shifted into something warm and oddly familiar.

"Hey there, Collin," he said with a nod, his voice rough but kind. "Didn't mean to scare you."

I stood up too fast, palms sweating like I was fifteen again and got caught holding Derek's hand.

"Hi, Mr. Callahan," I said quickly, nerves punching through my voice. "No, you didn't. I was just - uh, pricing nails."

He smiled at me the way someone does when they're staring at a memory. A look that carried the echo of a hundred backyard barbecues and awkward family dinners. He hadn't seen me since the fallout.

And he didn't look angry.

He just looked like he remembered.

Like maybe I was still, somehow, his memory too.

Mr. Callahan took a few slow steps inside, glancing around like the store hadn't changed since the last time he'd been in - and honestly, it hadn't. Same smell of lumber and motor oil. Same buzzing lights overhead. Same creaky tile floor that groaned when you stepped just right.

"I was just coming by to talk to your dad," he said, hands in his pockets like he didn't want to seem like he was lingering. "We're organizing something for the town - trying to raise enough for new bleachers at the high school. The old ones are rusted to hell and back. Just figured I'd see if he wanted to help out."