Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Texas or Bust

Collin

We had exactly forty hours.
Not that I was counting, but Billie was.
He kept checking the clock like it might suddenly decide we didn't have to fly to Texas at all, like maybe if we just stared long enough, the whole state would cease to exist.

The morning light barely filtered through the blinds, but he was already pacing the bedroom barefoot, one hand in his hair, the other holding a mug that said Hot Stuff Coming Through. Tre's, obviously.

"We could push it a day," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "Just one day. Flights get delayed all the time. Weather. Tornadoes. Frog rain. Shit happens."

"You think my dad'll go easier on you if you show up late?" I asked, still half under the covers. "He'll hog tie you and ask you to replace his water heater to see if you're worthy."

Billie groaned like he was being drafted into war. "God, I can hear his voice already. When I called the hardware store that day, remember? That first time - I swear to god, he sounded like a Marlboro commercial. I could smell the tractor grease through the receiver."

I snorted. "That was just Monday George. Wait till you meet Saturday George. That one drinks from a camo mug that says 'Nope.'"

Billie sank onto the bed beside me, rubbing his face. "You're daddy's little girl. I'm marrying daddy's little girl. Without meeting daddy first. I'm gonna get shot."

"Only if you say something dumb."

He glanced at me. "That's all I say."

"You're doomed."

We both laughed, but it was nervous. Thin. Like stretching a rubber band and pretending it wasn't about to snap.

In the kitchen, Erin was sitting cross llegged on the counter eating cereal from a bowl and flipping through a Teen People magazine. She raised a brow at us.

"Y'all look like you saw a ghost."

Billie pointed at her with the kind of panic only impending doom could stir. "Tell them I'm cool. You know, like... decent. Respectable."

"You're barely house trained," Erin said, licking cereal milk off her spoon. "But yeah. You'll pass. My money's on your tattoo sleeve being the final boss."

He groaned again and collapsed into a kitchen chair. I stood beside him, arms crossed, trying to keep the storm of emotions from swirling up again.

Erin winked at me. "You nervous too?"

I hesitated. "Yeah. I mean... it's my dad."

Billie looked up at me, eyes softer now. "You don't have to do this if it's gonna mess things up. I meant it, Collin. I'll drive out there every weekend. Fly. Whatever. I'm not gonna make you choose."

I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "We're already doing this, remember?"

Tre wandered in like a cartoon character who didn't sleep, still wearing his robe and holding what I think was a peanut butter sandwich with Doritos crushed inside. He paused. Looked around. "Why does the kitchen feel like a funeral parlor?"

"We're leaving in forty hours," I said.

"Jesus," Tre whispered, like we were announcing an execution. "I'll light a candle. And maybe call my weed guy."

He pulled a chair up to Billie and slapped a hand on his shoulder. "If you die, I get your guitar.''

"Touch my blue and I'll haunt you forever," Billie muttered.

"Ohhh," Tre breathed reverently. "Okay, then yeah. I want it even more."

Billie reached for a throw pillow and lobbed it directly at Tre's face. He yelped like a wounded coyote and flopped onto the floor in dramatic protest.