Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Texas Heat & California Boys

Collin

The kitchen was already warm with the smell of butter and black coffee by the time I pressed the biscuit cutter into the soft dough. It was 5:30 a.m., but it felt like I'd been up for hours, the kind of sleep where your dreams feel more like to do lists.

"Tre sounds like a chainsaw on its last leg," I whispered, trying not to laugh as I lined the biscuits on the pan.

Mom snorted from the stove where she was flipping hash browns. "Poor thing probably scared off every raccoon within a five mile radius."

"You're assuming there are raccoons brave enough to get this close to Dad's porch light," I said, brushing the tops of the biscuits with butter. "He's practically declared war on them."

"Well," she said, hands on her hips, "Maybe Tre's snoring is just God's way of protecting the neighbor's chicken coop."

We both cracked up.

It was quiet outside, the kind of Southern stillness that wrapped around the house like a soft quilt. But inside, the slow shuffle of feet down the hall signaled that not everyone had managed to sleep through the wood paneling groaning or Tre's nasal sawmill impressions. Billie and Mike were probably up, rubbing their eyes, contemplating murder. Erin was probably still scrawled over my bed.

I moved to the percolator and poured two mugs of coffee, one for me, one for Mom, and slid hers across the counter.

She took a sip. "You nervous?" she asked, not looking at me.

I folded my arms over the counter, the steam from my cup curling up between us. "No. But I feel... weird. Like something big is about to happen."

"Because it is." She gave me a side glance. "And you're handling it a hell of a lot better than I did at your age."

I smiled. "You were nineteen, right?"

"Almost twenty. Got married in a dress I found in a Sears catalog and wore the heels your Aunt Margaret got on clearance." She laughed softly to herself. "But I wouldn't change it. I'd still choose your father. Even when he's impossible."

"You think he's coming around?"

She flipped the hash browns once, then looked over her shoulder. "He's already come around. He's just got to say it out loud."

I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. "I'm just scared he'll change his mind."

"He won't," she said, like she knew something I didn't. "Give him space. And some coffee."

The oven timer dinged. I opened the door and pulled out the golden biscuits. The smell filled the room instantly, flaky, buttery, like Sunday mornings growing up.

We heard the creak of footsteps down the hall. Heavy ones.

Mom grinned. "Sounds like the snoring giant awakens."

"Should we warn him about the raccoons?"

"Let him figure it out," she winked. "It builds character."

We both laughed again, voices low, morning soft, and everything, just for now - felt okay. Three days until the wedding. Everything still ahead.

The footsteps got closer. A yawn echoed from the next room, followed by a groggy voice:

"Did someone run a damn lawnmower through the living room last night?"

Tre.

I looked at Mom. "And he lives."

She grinned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Barely."