Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Almost Home, Almost Gone

Collin

The morning felt like a hangover made of warmth instead of alcohol like the air still buzzed from the night before. The house was unusually quiet for how full it had been just hours ago.

Empty bottles on the coffee table, pizza crusts left in boxes, scribbled lyrics across napkins and receipts. The instruments were half limp across the couch, Billie's notebook face down on the floor, Mike's jacket used as a pillow. The kind of quiet that only comes after everyone has finally shut up from laughing too hard.

Erin stirred first. She was curled up at the edge of the guest bed, one sock off, eyeliner still smudged just enough to look cool and not tragic. I was barely conscious, limbs heavy, hair a wreck from sleep and the floor fan pointed at my face all night. I felt Erin shift beside me before I heard her whisper.

"Hey," Erin murmured, nudging her arm. "C'mon. Time's up."

I groaned into the pillow. "For what?"

"For us, dummy," Erin whispered, sitting up, stretching her arms above her head. "You and me. We've been in boyland too long. I'm starting to forget what your unboy filtered opinions sound like."

I cracked one eye open. "You're literally in Mike's shirt right now."

Erin looked down at herself and shrugged. "Exactly why we need to get out of here. Before the estrogen evaporates and we become honorary tamborine players."

I blinked at her. "What time is it?"

"Too early for the boys, perfect for us." She tossed a pillow at me. "Get up. Let's steal Mike's car."

"You're deranged," I muttered, but I was already swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes.

We padded down the hallway like burglars, avoiding the creaky boards and dodging piles of half eaten pizza and empty soda cans that littered the floor.

Billie was passed out sideways on the couch, one arm dangling to the floor, hair a full blown mess, and Tre had somehow cocooned himself in two blankets and a guitar strap like it was a survival tactic.

Mike was sprawled on the floor, a comic book over his face and his keys just within reach, bless him. Erin plucked them from the carpet and handed me a sticky note.

I scrawled quickly in Billie's sharpie from the kitchen drawer:

We borrowed Mike's car. Don't panic. Be back before the apocalypse. Maybe. - C + E

Erin stuck it to the fridge right next to a doodle Billie had drawn that said "MARRIAGE = DOMESTIC PUNK?" in all caps with devil horns.

Then we slipped outside, sunlight already slicing through the early haze. It was too early for summer heat to bite, just the kind of breezy morning that smelled like ocean air and sidewalks being hosed down.

Mike's car was parked half assed on the curb, and Erin slid into the driver's seat like she owned it. I barely had time to close the door before she peeled away.

"Where are we going?" I asked, pushing the visor down to check myself in the mirror. I looked like a raccoon who'd been kissed and half dragged through a tour van.

"I don't know," she grinned. "Somewhere. Anywhere. We're girls with a mission."

"To do what exactly?"

"To talk shit. Eat carbs. Maybe buy something wildly unnecessary at mall." She turned to me, eyes bright. "You just got engaged, dude. We need to scream about it where the boys can't hear."

The wind picked up as we rolled the windows down. Music blasted. We didn't even pick a direction, we just drove.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I felt the quiet kind of freedom that only comes from being around someone who knows all your skeletons and still hands you the cd book anyway.