Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Ghost Girl

Collin

Backstage was a mess of sweat, gear cases, empty beer bottles, and muffled voices - all warbled together under the high of adrenaline and the low buzz of cigarette smoke curling through the air.

I stood off to the side, just far enough from the others to be alone with my thoughts - but not alone enough to stop replaying the moment he looked into the crowd and spoke those words. I didn't realize how tightly I was holding my jacket until my fingers went numb.

Then-

"Hey, Ghost Girl."

I turned. He was standing there, towel around his neck, shirt sticking to his chest, eyes droopy just enough to make him look a little dangerous and a lot unfair.

His smile was lazy and crooked, but there was something hungry behind it.

"Hell of a show," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the sweat and smoke still clinging to his skin. "You think?"

"You sweat on half the crowd."

"I sweat for you."

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. "Oh my god."

"I meant what I said up there," he added, quieter this time.

The air shifted.

I looked up at him. My throat was suddenly dry. "What part?"

"All of it." His voice lost its teasing edge. "I kept looking out into the crowd like an idiot, trying to find you. Even though I knew where you were."

I swallowed. "You were a little cryptic."

Billie laughed, just under his breath, and then shrugged. "I wasn't gonna say your name onstage."

"Why not?"

"Because that's mine," he said. "You're mine."

My breath caught. Heart pounded. "We're not even dating," I said, but my voice sounded small. Useless.

"Yeah," he said. "That's a problem, isn't it?"

My pulse went sideways. "You're really bad at this."

"I'm so bad at this," he agreed. "But I still keep trying."

There was a beat where neither of us moved, and then Billie stepped in again, slow this time. Careful. Testing the air between us. My heart was about to explode.

"Come here," he said softly.

I didn't even think. I just went.

And when he kissed me, finally - it wasn't frantic. It wasn't messy or desperate. It was slow. Earnest. Like every phone call and lyric and postcard had been counting down to this.

When we pulled apart, he pressed his forehead to mine, smiling like I was the first good idea he ever had.

"Ghost girl," he whispered. "You wreck me."

My voice caught in my throat, but I still managed a measly, "Good."

The air was thick - humid with sweat and sound and smoke - and still, I felt like I was floating.

That kiss was slow. Too slow for how long we'd waited. It didn't match the chaos of the night, or the crowd still echoing in my ears. It felt out of time. Like the kind of moment that didn't belong in real life. Like it had been borrowed from someone else's movie and we were just pretending to be those kinds of people.