Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Mother Knows Best

Collin

The park was quiet in that surreal, after midnight kind of way, still, but not empty. The kind of quiet that felt thick with ghosts and old secrets. The bay glimmered below us like someone had spilled a handful of stars across the water, and every so often, the wind picked up just enough to make the swings creak like they remembered being used by kids long grown.

It was 2 a.m., and somehow none of us were tired.

I sat on a bench with Billie, legs curled underneath me, sipping from the same bottle of something we'd been passing around since midnight. He sat with his arms spread out over the back of the bench, the tip of one finger brushing the edge of my shoulder, deliberate in a way that felt entirely accidental.

Erin was pushing Tre on the swings, and he was letting her, with full dramatic flair, legs kicking, arms raised like he was flying a jet through a war zone.

"You're not even trying," he called back to her.

"You weigh more than my car," she shouted.

"You wound me."

Mike was crouched a few feet away, shielding a lighter from the wind and expertly rolling the cherry of another joint to life. The flame briefly lit up his face, casting sharp shadows under his eyes, before it flickered out and he leaned back with the kind of exhale that sounded like resignation.

The air smelled like sea salt, weed, and whatever perfume Erin had spritzed on before we left Tre's. Something citrusy and a little too hopeful for this late.

I tilted my head toward Billie. "You ever think about how weird this is?"

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Which part?"

"All of it. This park. That swing set. Us. The fact that this started with bleach fumes and tacos."

Billie smiled, lazy and soft. "Everything good starts with tacos."

I nudged his knee. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah." He looked out at the bay, eyes squinting into the dark. "I do."

There was a long pause, but not the awkward kind. The kind you settle into. Like slipping into a hot bath. My fingers twitched at my side, not quite ready to reach for his, but aware of the space between us.

"You okay?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't answer right away. Just watched the lights across the water like they were trying to spell something out.

Then, "I think so. For now."

I nodded, more to myself than him. "Me too."

"Would've believed that more if you hadn't spent the morning power-washing my entire house."

I snorted. "Consider it... emotional fumigation."

"I should've gotten you gloves."

"My knuckles may never recover."

Another beat. Tre let out a theatrical whoop from the swing, and Erin cursed at him for almost kicking her in the face. Mike chuckled from the grass, passing the joint to himself.

I glanced at Billie again, studying his profile in the dark. He looked tired in the way people do when they've lived too many lives before they hit thirty. But there was something else under it tonight, something steadier. Like being here, with all of us, was keeping him tethered.

He turned toward me suddenly, his fingers slithering towards mine. "You're leaving in a week."

It wasn't a question.