Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Maybe This Is Recovery

Collin

Saturday Morning.

The smell of bacon didn't hit the same after you've been hollowed out.

Still, I showed up. Hair wet from the shower, sweatshirt sleeves half pulled over my hands, bare face, and the faintest flicker of effort in the way I set my coffee cup down instead of just letting it clink.

My mom looked up from her paper like she didn't want to scare me off. My dad, already chewing on a bite of toast, gave me a soft "Morning, kiddo," like we were strangers learning from each other again.

"Morning," I muttered, easing into my chair like it might give out beneath me.

They didn't ask anything right away. I could tell they wanted to - my mom's fingers tapping the edge of her coffee cup like morse code, my dad eyeing me over the rim of his glasses. I reached for the butter, mostly to keep my hands busy, and started quietly assembling a biscuit sandwich like I wasn't still piecing myself together.

"So," my mom said, casual as she could manage. "You signed up for school."

"Yeah." I pressed the fork tines into my plate. "Just a couple classes. In Rockdale."

"That's still a drive," she said, but she was smiling. "Good for you."

The door flung open.

Erin.

Hair in a messy braid, jacket falling off one shoulder, breathless like she ran the last few steps up the porch.

"I brought the good donuts," she announced, tossing a greasy brown bag onto the table and planting herself in the chair beside me. "And I'm eating at least three of them, no matter what your dad says."

Speak of the devil - ''G'morning. At least leave me the glazed.'' He shook his head at her over the rim of his coffee, muttered something about checking on the lawnmower, and made a quick exit.

My mom barely bit back a smile. "Morning, Erin."

"Mornin', Mrs. G," she chirped, already licking glaze off her fingers. Then, to me: "You look like a person again. That's cool."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks."

We all chewed in silence for a second. Erin slumped next to me, nudging my leg with her own like it was muscle memory.

"I talked to Derek," I said, blurting it out like it was a cough I couldn't swallow.

My mom's eyes flicked up. Erin froze with half a donut hanging from her mouth.

"What?" Erin said, blinking. "When?"

"New Year's," I said, quietly. "At the barn. Before the countdown."

My mom set her mug down carefully. "How'd that go?"

"He looked good," I said, and then hated myself for saying it. "Older. Tan. Like Florida did something to him. He was called up for spring training with the Yankees. Not college. Real deal now."

My mom gasped, clasped her hands. I could tell she was proud.

"And how was the... conversation?" Erin asked, like she was asking about a job interview.

I ran my finger over a crumb on my plate. "We caught up. He was nice. He asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime before he heads back."

"You gonna go?" My mom asked, carefully, like she was with one of her hospital patients asking if they wanted to proceed with care.

I hesitated. "I don't know."

They didn't say anything. I hated that they didn't say anything.

"It's not like that," I said, fast. "I'm not - I don't have feelings for him. Not like before. But it felt... familiar. And safe. And after everything..."