Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Legally Required to Deal With It

Collin

It was almost 2 a.m., and Billie was fast asleep beside me, his arm slung across my waist, his breath soft against the back of my neck. The fan in the corner hummed low, stirring the night air just enough to keep the room from going still.

And still I couldn't sleep.

Not after that.

Not after "Fine. Then marry me."

Not after the way he meant it.

Not after feeling I should just pack a bag and run away.

But especially, Not after the way I wanted to say yes.

I slipped out of bed quietly, the way you do when you're trying not to wake something fragile. My feet hit the floor, and I pulled on his flannel that had been draped across the chair. The house was quiet, except for the distant sound of the fridge humming and some old pipes groaning like ghosts in the walls.

I padded into the kitchen, hoping some water or cold air would help, but really I just needed something to anchor me. I didn't know what I was looking for. I was too wired to sit still and too spun out to think straight.

Then I saw it.

A little yellow sticky note, stuck haphazardly to the fridge under a band sticker. Scrawled in Billie's jagged, half legible handwriting:

MIKE – (510) 555-4183
"Don't be weird."

I stared at it for a long second. My fingers hovered.

Then I pulled the house phone off the wall. The cord twisted around my wrist as I punched in the number before I could second guess it.

It rang. And rang.

"...Hello?" Mike's voice, hoarse, groggy. Not mad, just surprised.

"It's - it's me. It's Collin."

A pause.

"...Collin?" Now he was more awake. "Is everything okay?"

"No," I whispered. "Yes. I don't know."

Another pause, then: "You want me to get Erin?"

"Please."

I heard the rustle of blankets, footsteps, the sound of him knocking on a door in the background. Then the phone shifting hands.

"...Collin?" Erin's voice was sleepy but alert, instantly more grounded than I felt. "What happened?"

I pressed the phone harder to my ear. My eyes burned.

"I need you to tell me I'm not insane."

"Okay, well that depends," she said. "Are you calling because you killed someone? Or because Billie Joe Armstrong asked you to marry him?"

My breath caught. "...Shit."

"I knew it," she muttered. "I knew it. He had that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'd commit tax fraud for her' look."

"Erin."

"Okay, okay, start from the top. Tell me everything."

So I did.

Whispered it into the kitchen phone like a confession. The sea lions. The bread bowls. The bridge. The joke that wasn't a joke. The look in his eyes. The way I didn't know whether to run or say yes.

When I finally stopped talking, Erin was quiet for a moment.

Then softly: "Do you love him?"

I closed my eyes. The fan kept humming in the background.