Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Just You

Collin

June 29th, 1995
The night before the wedding

The house was finally quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels eerie or uncertain but earned, the hush that follows days of running on adrenaline, laughter, steam, sweat, and too many extension cords.

The last of the folding chairs had been set. The flower centerpieces, vases filled with queen Anne's lace, wildflowers, and a few stubborn sunflowers from the farmer's market, lined the kitchen counter like polite soldiers. The smoker outside was already working on the brisket, the smell weaving into the air with that sweet, smoky promise of tomorrow. My mom's casseroles and side dishes were stacked like puzzle pieces in the fridge, and the porch had been swept clean three separate times today.

Everyone else had gone to bed or, in Billie's case, been sent to bed at Uncle Pete's under strict orders from my mom, who still swore by the old southern rule that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. "You've made it this far," she told me firmly, handing Billie a pillow. "You're not gonna jinx it now."

I couldn't argue. Not with the way she said it.

Now, it was just the women left awake.

Me, my mom, Erin, and Ollie, all gathered on the front porch under the slow hum of a ceiling fan and a strand of white lights that Erin had insisted on wrapping around the banister. The air smelled like honeysuckle and smoked wood. My hair was still damp from my bath and braided loosely over one shoulder. Erin was in shorts and one of my old softball shirts. My mom had her feet tucked under her on the swing, and Ollie, barefoot, sat cross legged in one of the wicker chairs with a glass of iced tea that was more lemon than sweet.

"Remember when we all used to sit out here during storms?" Erin asked, her voice low, nostalgic. "You used to swear the lightning was gonna take out the mailbox."

"Because it did one time," I said. "Dad had to dig out half the wiring from the ditch."

"That mailbox was made of tinfoil and prayer," Mom muttered, reaching for her mason jar of tea.

Ollie chuckled softly. "I grew up with front porch nights. The kind where nothing really happens, but somehow it feels like everything matters."

That silenced us for a moment. The kind of silence that stretches comfortably.

I looked out over the yard, squinting toward Uncle Pete's house across the property. I couldn't see it through the dark, but I knew Billie was probably lying awake, staring at the ceiling fan, counting the hours until tomorrow. Part of me wished I was beside him. The other part knew I needed this night, just us girls.

Mom stood and disappeared inside for a moment, returning with a tin box full of old photos. She set it on the wicker coffee table with a thud.

"Oh God," I groaned. "Not the baby pictures."

"Y'all have time for one walk down memory lane," she said, opening the lid. "I won't get another chance once you go running off to California."

"I'm not running," I mumbled.

Erin leaned over and plucked a photo from the stack. "Collin! This one of you in the inflatable pool with popsicle juice all over your face... iconic."

I grabbed it from her. "You mean mortifying."

"I mean formative," she grinned.

Ollie leaned forward and picked one out too - a faded shot of me holding a little league trophy, half scowling at the camera. "You always had that fire," she said, tapping it gently. "Even when you didn't know where to put it."