Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Smug Punk, Perfect Tacos

Collin

The coffee was burnt.

Or maybe I'd just been rewired from the smell of bleach and sleepless nights, but either way, it was bitter, sharp, like a punch in the throat. Billie sipped it like it was nothing, one hip leaned against the counter, his other hand braced on the edge of the sink. He looked like he was trying not to say anything too loud.

I didn't mind the silence. Not right now. It felt earned. A stillness after everything that had thrashed through the last twenty four hours.

The phone rang.

Billie flinched a little, then glanced over his shoulder, annoyed. "Ignore it."

Another ring. Third one.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, muttering something under his breath about it being too damn early for reality. He picked up the receiver with a lazy kind of muscle memory, dragging the cord along the floor like it owed him money.

"What?"

Pause.

"Oh. It's you."

Longer pause. His jaw worked a little.

"Yeah. I'm alive, obviously. Still got two legs, a kitchen that smells like floor cleaner and trauma, and I'm drinking coffee strong enough to kill a priest."

Another pause.

Billie exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I know."

I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but I didn't need to. The way Billie's expression softened and soured at the same time told me it was Mike. Only Mike could hit him with a reality check and a punchline in the same breath.

"I don't need another intervention," Billie muttered, voice low. "You already sent one. She mopped the soul out of the floorboards."

I rolled my eyes and sipped my coffee to hide the laugh that nearly escaped.

Billie caught it. Smirked.

"I'm fine, dude. For real. Just... tired. Lot of catching up happening." His eyes flicked toward me, held there a second too long. "She's still here."

Pause.

"Yeah, I know. I know what it means."

A beat of silence.

"Erin's with you, right." His mouth twisted in amusement. "Jesus. What are we, sitcom characters now?"

He ran a hand through his hair, yawned, and rubbed his temple. The kind of motion that meant he hadn't slept right in weeks. Months, maybe. Maybe since before I ever showed up the first time.

He glanced at me again. This time, his gaze lingered like he was trying to memorize something.

"Nah," he said finally. "I'm good. She's good. House looks like a catalog now. You'd hate it."

He listened for another moment. Nodded.

"Yeah. Thanks, man."

He hung up without a goodbye. Just a click and the gentle thunk of the receiver.

I raised an eyebrow. "Check in call?"

"Mike being Mike," he said, moving back toward the counter. "He thinks he's subtle, but he's not."

I nodded slowly, sipping my coffee. "Was that about me?"

He leaned beside me again, shoulder brushing mine, mug cradled in both hands like it might anchor him to the tile floor.