Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Joints & Motel Parking Lots

Collin

Tre was the first to comment as we all piled into the truck, practically tripping over each other and the crumpled Whataburger napkins on the floor.

"Holy hell, this thing still runs?" he said, peering around like he'd just discovered the lost city of Atlantis.

I smacked his arm lightly. "She runs better than you do after a bottle of whiskey."

Mike whistled low. "'70s Chevy, right? Damn. This thing's seen more Texas dirt than an oil rig."

"Don't act surprised," I said, flipping the keys and shifting into reverse with a satisfying clunk. "She's got guts."

"She's got character," Billie said from the seat, giving the cracked dash a loving pat. "And probably tetanus, but I dig it."

I gave him a side eye. "You're just bitter she doesn't come with a cassette deck that only plays your band."

"Give me twenty minutes and a roll of duct tape," he said, "I'll make it happen."

Erin was squished with Mike and Tre, reapplying her lip gloss in the mirror clipped to the sun visor. "Y'all, I swear," she said, voice sing song, "first thing we're doing is hitting Bucee's. The one off the interstate is practically a small country."

"Is that a gas station or a theme park?" Tre asked.

"It's a way of life," Erin said proudly, swatting his arm. "You want a barbecue sandwich, a ten pound bag of gummy worms, and a beaver hat all in one place? You go to Bucee's."

"Texas sounds like a fever dream," Billie muttered.

I grinned. "You're just jealous we have road trip stops that can double as a survival bunker."

He looked over at me as I turned the wheel. The streetlights painted soft gold lines on his face. "I'm jealous of a lot of things right now," he said under his breath.

I swallowed and focused on shifting gears. "Careful," I said. "You're starting to sound like you like it here."

The truck rumbled as we pulled onto the highway, all of us lit up by the neon signs, laughter echoing off the windows, the night unfolding around us like something we hadn't earned but were glad we stumbled into anyway.

We made our way back to the hotel room after curing a case of the munchies.

Tre swung open the door like he owned the place, nearly dropping the half empty bottle of Jack he was nursing. "Room sweet room, baby!"

I stepped inside with Billie just behind me. The carpet smelled like ashtrays, despair and shitty carpet cleaner, but we'd all smelled worse.

Tre flopped onto one of the two lumpy beds and immediately launched into some wild eyed monologue about how the moon landing was staged by Stanley Kubrick and Elvis was actually living under an alias in a small town outside Reno.

Erin kicked off her heels and dropped onto the other bed, grabbing a throw pillow like it was a weapon. "Tre, for the love of God, no one is hiding under a pancake house in Nevada."

"I didn't say pancake house," Tre said, wounded. "It's a retirement condo. And it's government protected."

Mike was leaned back in a busted chair near the window, arms crossed, watching Erin argue with the fascination of a man seeing fire for the first time. He hadn't said a word in five minutes - just nodded at everything she said like she was giving a speech about the meaning of life.

Billie elbowed me gently, whispering low in my ear. "What do you think's going on in Mike's head right now?"

I grinned. "I don't know. But I think he just mentally proposed to her."