Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Thread & Temptation

Collin

The living room was a mess.

Fabric scraps littered the floor like ghostly confetti, scissors were wedged into couch cushions, and my mom's old sewing machine sat on the coffee table like it had seen things - things it would never recover from. I had probably broken three needles. Maybe four. I'd stopped counting after I stabbed my finger and bled on the first prototype. That one was now shoved deep in the trash, buried under two McDonald's wrappers and a failed attempt at eyeliner.

It was officially a week before the show, and I had lost track of how many times I'd messed this thing up.

"I swear to God, if this sleeve rips again, I'm going to take up a hobby that doesn't require fine motor skills," I muttered, holding the nearly finished top up to the yellow light of Erin's living room. "Like...I don't know. Axe throwing."

Erin didn't look up. She was lying upside down on the floor, legs draped over the couch and a Cosmo magazine spread across her stomach, giggling to herself.

"I'm on question seven," she said. "If you answer mostly Bs, it means you're emotionally withholding but probably amazing in bed."

"Charming."

"You got a lot of Bs."

"Erin."

She finally sat up, blinking at the crumpled state of my costume like she'd just remembered what I was doing. "Whoa. Is that it?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. It finally came together last night around 2 a.m. after I listened to 'Silver Springs' on loop until my brain gave up and my hands took over."

I held it out in front of me. Sheer layered white fabric. Dramatic bell sleeves that draped down like spells in motion. A delicate V cut neckline trimmed in lace that I had hand stitched like I was in some kind of romantic fever dream. A flowy bottom that was I had tailored to fit me like a mini dress. It looked like Stevie Nicks and a cemetery angel had a lovechild.

"It's perfect," I said, half in awe, half in disbelief. "I actually... like it."

Erin stared. "You look like the ghost of a rock star's forbidden lover."

"That's what I was going for."

"No," she said, serious now. "I mean it. You nailed it. It's like Stevie Nicks if she took a wrong turn and ended up in a heroin chic Calvin Klein ad from 1990."

My face flushed with quiet satisfaction. I hung the outfit carefully on the doorframe, smoothing the sleeves down like I was tucking a kid into bed.

"It's weird," I said, settling beside her. "I've been so scared to wear anything that drew attention to me. But this feels... right."

Erin flipped a page in her quiz, her tone softening. "Maybe it's not about the attention. Maybe it's about showing up like you finally believe you belong there."

That hit me a little harder than I expected.

I didn't answer. Just stared at the sleeves glowing in the warm lamplight, drifting slightly from the ceiling fan's breeze, like they were floating.

Like they already knew what was coming.

Like they were ready. Even if I wasn't.

I sat back against the couch, knees pulled up to my chest, staring at the outfit like it might vanish if I blinked too hard.

"What if no one else is dressed up?" I muttered.

Erin groaned, flopping dramatically onto her side. "Here we go."