Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Here Lies Punk's Last Heartthrob

Collin

I didn't sleep much.

Not in the bad way, not like the months before, where my body would lie still and my mind would scream. This was different. Billie had fallen asleep eventually, his hand resting over mine, his breathing slow and warm against my shoulder. But I stayed awake, just... staring.

At the ceiling. At the way the light from the window turned his curls to ink. At the feeling in my chest that kept growing every time I thought, He wants to marry me. And I said yes.

Around six, I slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats and Billie's old Dead Kennedys tee that still smelled faintly like him, like sleep and skin and a little bit of smoke. My hair was a mess. I didn't care.

I padded out to the kitchen and found Ollie at the table already, sipping coffee from the same mug she'd used yesterday. There was a grocery bag by her feet and a newspaper folded neatly beside her hand. She smiled when she saw me, genuine, but also knowing.

"Morning," I mumbled, cheeks warm. I wasn't even phased she was here.

"Forgot some things in the delivery yesterday, ," she said simply. "This old brain doesn't sleep in anymore so I figured I might as well bring em." She nodded toward the counter. "There's coffee. You're gonna need it."

I poured a cup, mostly for something to do with my hands. The silence settled comfortably between us, like she was giving me space but also watching closely, like only moms can.

"You know," she said after a beat, "I've heard a lot about you."

I paused with the cup halfway to my mouth. "Oh?"

She smiled again, this time with just a hint of mischief. "Yes. Billie's not as mysterious as he likes to think. Especially not when he's in love."

That made me pause. My stomach did a weird somersault.

I laughed nervously. "Did he... say that?"

Ollie raised an eyebrow, stirring her coffee slowly. "He didn't have to. Not really. But I know my son. I know what it looks like when something breaks through that stubborn head of his and gets under his skin in a way that matters."

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, heart pounding in a way I couldn't explain.

"I only met you yesterday," she continued, "but I've been hearing your name for months. Even when he wasn't saying it. You've been here. In this house, on that tour. In that boy's heart."

Behind me, I heard a groan and the unmistakable sound of bare feet shuffling across the kitchen tile.

"Mommm," Billie muttered, voice still gravelly with sleep. "Come on."

"Oh, don't be shy now," she said, not missing a beat. "You brought her home, didn't you?"

I turned to face him. Billie had on his pajama pants and a shirt that looked like he slept half in, half out of. His hair was sticking up at least four different directions.

"You talk about me a lot, huh?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, then looked at me and rolled his eyes. "She's exaggerating."

"No, I'm not," Ollie chimed. "You moped like a kicked puppy for months. I thought it was the band, but then Mike told me a few things, and-"

"Okay," Billie groaned again, flopping down at the table like the world had ended. "Please stop."

I walked over, leaned against the counter across from him, chin tilted up just enough. "You moped?"

He looked at me, deadpan. "I was emotionally processing."