Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

She Ain't Little Anymore

Collin

The road between Houston and home hadn't changed in years, long stretches of heat hazed pavement flanked by grazing cattle, busted fences, and wild sunflowers that somehow thrived in the dust. I knew every dip, every turn, every rusted out billboard. Billie didn't say much the last thirty minutes. Not because he wasn't feeling anything. Because he was. I could see it in the way his leg bounced, how he drummed his fingers against the passenger door in a rhythm I didn't recognize.

I had ten minutes left before I pulled into the driveway that used to mean safety. Ten minutes before I saw my dad's truck parked out front, before my mom peeked through the kitchen window, before everything we'd built in California had to stand up to a real test. The Texas kind. Boots and barbecue and the kind of pride that didn't bend easy.

I saw the gas station up ahead - the one just past the county line with the faded red roof and the vending machines that barely worked. I flicked on my blinker. "Need a break?"

Billie blinked like I'd pulled him out of a dream. "Yeah. Bathroom. Maybe splash my face. Look less like someone about to beg for his life."

I snorted. "I thought you said you didn't need to freshen up."

"I didn't. Until I saw I look like the ghost of Sid Vicious."

He wasn't wrong. We'd both passed out hard after takeoff. I still felt half drugged from the dramamine. He looked like he'd survived a plane crash with his hair flattened in wild directions and his hoodie tugged crookedly over his shoulder. Charming, still. But definitely in need of a mirror.

I pulled into the parking lot and slid into a space under the shade of a flickering security light. Billie grabbed his little duffel and headed inside without a word, stretching once and giving me a small, crooked smile before disappearing through the glass doors.

I stayed outside for a minute. Just breathed.

It was hotter than hell. That kind of Texas heat that didn't just warm your skin, it weighed you down. But I was used to it. My jeans stuck to the back of my thighs. My blouse, white with tiny blue flowers was just light enough to keep me from sweating through it, and my hair was braided down my back like it used to be when I was younger. I didn't wear it like that much anymore. But today felt like a day for familiarity.

Ten more minutes and I'd be home. Ten more minutes and I'd be face to face with the man who raised me and the man who, until very recently, thought Derek might be the one waiting for me at the other end of the isle. Not a punk rocker from California with too many opinions and tattoos scattered on his forearm.

I stared down at my ring, gulping at the thought of everything that was coming at us.

I leaned against the hood of Erin's car, arms crossed, watching the traffic roll by. No one honked. No one looked twice.

Until someone did.

A familiar blue pickup slowed as it neared the pumps, the window already rolling down before it came to a stop. My stomach did a slow, traitorous flip.

I immediately yanked off my ring and clutched it in my hand.

"Collin Grey? Is that you?"

Mrs. Haverford. My neighbor. Part time church organist, full time neighborhood dispatch. Her sunglasses sat low on her nose, gray curls piled into a messy bun under a floral visor, and her mouth was already forming the shape of more questions than I was ready to answer.

I pushed off the hood and gave her the most polite smile I could muster. "Hi, Mrs. Haverford."

She squinted at me like I might vanish if she blinked. "Well I'll be! We didn't know you were coming home! You weren't at church the last few Sundays, your mama didn't say nothin'. Is that Erin's car? And, wait, is she not with you?"