Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Grit, Grease, & Good Intentions

Collin

The sun bled through the blinds in soft, golden slats, painting my bedroom in familiar walls. I hadn't slept much, even with the cicadas humming through the night and Billie two doors down in the guest room. Mom had made it clear with a single look - not under this roof. Not until vows are said. Billie hadn't argued. Neither had I.

I sat on the edge of my bed in my old pajama pants, staring at the vanity mirror that still held dried up perfume bottles and a lopsided senior photo. Eight months ago I couldn't even walk into this room without it pulling me under. Now I was sitting here engaged, back in this house, my heartbeat climbing my throat like it was trying to escape.

I heard the back door open. Heavy footsteps. Then the smell of fresh coffee cutting through the quiet.

I padded down the hallway, bare feet cold against the tile, hair still damp from last night's shower. Billie was still asleep or pretending to be. He'd earned the right to rest. I hadn't stopped since I walked through that door yesterday.

The screen door creaked open as I stepped onto the porch.

There he was. My father. Sitting in the same spot as always, coffee mug in one hand, eyes fixed on something distant. Probably the fence line. Or the sky. Or nothing.

He didn't look at me. Just held up the mug in silent offering.

I took the second chair beside him.

The porch was quiet. Just the wind, the occasional truck passing down the road, and the faint buzz of summer. The same quiet that raised me.

We sat like that for a long while. Me sipping the coffee he'd poured. Him not asking questions. Me not offering answers.

Then, without turning, he said, "That boy of yours. He know how to change his own oil?"

It caught me off guard. I blinked, then smiled a little.

"I think so," I said. "But he also has a guy for that now."

Dad huffed. Not quite a laugh, but close. He sipped his coffee again.

"I gotta run to the shop today. Me and James been meaning to replace that compressor belt, but he had to go down to Amarillo for somethin'." He paused. "He can help if he wants. I could use the hands."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't exactly an invitation either. But I knew what it meant.

"I'll let him know," I said softly.

Dad finally turned his eyes toward me. They were tired, red around the edges. He looked like he'd aged a year overnight. Maybe he had.

"I ain't said yes," he said, voice low. "You know that."

"I know."

"But I also know you. And I know what you look like when you've made up your mind."

My throat ached.

"I'm not doing this to spite you," I whispered.

"I know," he said, staring down into his cup. "That's what makes it harder."

We sat again in silence.

Eventually, I stood up. "I'll wake him. He'll be ready in ten."

Billie didn't answer right away, which meant he was either still asleep or doing a damn good job pretending to be. I stood there for a second with the mug in both hands, steam curling up into my face, warming the nerves that had rooted themselves in my skin ever since my dad spoke.

I knocked gently on the door. "Hey," I said, voice soft. "Coffee's hot. And you've got a shift at the world's smallest hardware store in about ten minutes."