Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Truth or Dare

Collin

Somewhere between the third pass of the Jack and Tre insisting the haunted microwave was trying to rejoin the band, the night tipped fully into absurdity.

Billie had abandoned the guitar in favor of sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, arms draped lazily over his knees. Erin was perched on the edge of the mattress now, flushed with laughter, eyes glassy but alert. Tre had climbed halfway onto the dresser like he was preparing to launch himself into space. Mike looked like he was trying to decide whether to drink more or just melt into the floorboards.

"Alright," Billie said, clapping his hands once, sharp and sudden. "We're doing it. Truth or dare."

Tre whooped. "Let the degeneracy begin."

"Rules?" Erin asked, voice syrupy from whatever she'd just smoked.

"No rules," Billie said, shrugging. "We're too far gone for structure."

"Hell yeah," Tre slurred. "That's what got me kicked out of Boy Scouts."

Billie turned to me first. "Collin. Truth or dare?"

I considered. "Truth."

He smirked, eyes a little too knowing. "Alright. You got a boyfriend?"

The question hit with just enough alcohol behind it to bypass my usual defenses. My first instinct was to scoff. But the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the soft flicker of interest behind it. It felt honest, not performative.

I shrugged. "No."

Erin choked on her drink. "Not now, but please. Tell them about him." She emphasized.

I groaned. "No, absolutely not."

"Oh, come on," she said, nudging Tre like this was her favorite story. "In high school..'' Erin paused to giggle, remembering the details. ''She dated the shortstop. letterman jacket and everything. It was so cute. They matched."

Billie's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"Prom queen, too," Erin added gleefully.

Mike gasped, Tre laughed, and Billie had a confused look all over his face.''Wait, wait, wait," Billie said, sitting up a little straighter. "Prom queen? How does that even happen?"

I rolled my eyes, tugging a pillow into my lap as the laughter died down to snickers and wheezy breaths. "It wasn't...like, real prom queen. I only won because Derek was popular."

"Derek?" Mike echoed. "Oh God, of course his name was Derek."

"The shortstop," Erin said helpfully, still sprawled on the floor. "Letterman jacket, jawline, gatorade addiction. Beautiful pale green eyes. Lived for baseball and Styx."

"Oh no," Billie groaned, falling backward in mock agony. "You dated a Styx fan?"

"He wasn't that bad," I said, half defensive, half mortified. "Okay, yeah, he liked Styx. But also Bon Jovi, and some early punk...quietly. I think he had a NOFX tape in his glove compartment."

"He used to meet me at the fields during practice," I said, my voice softening a little, recalling my teen years. "While the others were warming up, we'd sneak behind the batting cages and trade tapes. I gave him a Bad Religion tape once and he said it 'sounded like the inside of a riot.' He meant it as a compliment."

Billie raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. "Okay, that's kind of hot."

"Don't encourage her," Erin muttered, grabbing a half-squashed pop tart from the floor and tearing into it like a feral animal.