Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Howdy, from Texas

Collin

The next day, the two of us ended up at the town's strip mall - our usual post boredom destination. The air conditioning was too cold, the tile floors were too shiny, and the gift shop near the front entrance smelled like cheap bubblegum, pinesol, and vinyl.

We wandered into the souvenir section, where a spinning rack of postcards squeaked under Erin's hand as she gave it a half hearted spin.

I crouched down near the bottom row, holding up two options like they were sacred artifacts. One had a giant cartoon cowboy tipping his hat under big bubble letters that read Howdy from Texas! The other featured a herd of longhorns, each wearing little red cowboy boots and standing like they owned the damn state.

I snorted. "Do I go full cowboy cliché or booted up cows?"

Erin raised an eyebrow without looking up from her own search. "Always go with the cows. It's called taste."

I studied them for another second like I was trying to read Billie's mind from a distance. He'd probably laugh at either. Maybe that was the point.

"I just want it to be the perfect mix of stupid and sincere," I muttered, more to myself than her. "Like... I care, but I'm still pretending I don't."

Erin finally stopped spinning the rack and yanked out one with a neon yellow background and a gigantic American flag draped across a pickup truck bed full of fireworks. Across the top, in screaming block letters, it said: DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS.

"Oh my god," I laughed. "That's hideous."

"Exactly," she said proudly. "Mike's gonna open this and instantly lose three brain cells."

"You're gonna kill him with patriotism."

"That's the plan."

We both stood there, flipping the cards over to the blank sides, pens hovering in hesitation.

"What the hell do we even write?" Erin asked.

I shrugged. ''I dunno.''

Erin snorted. "Well... I'll write: 'Thinking of you and this truck. Mostly the truck.'"

I leaned against the rack and raised an eyebrow at her. "You sure you don't wanna write one to Tre too? So he doesn't feel left out?"

She shrugged. "Think he'd care?"

I tilted my head. "Maybe not. But he might pretend he does."

She rolled her eyes but grabbed an extra card anyway, one with a dancing jalapeño and the phrase Hot Stuff in the Lone Star State.

"I'll just draw something weird on his. A lizard with boobs or something."

"Peak Tre content," I nodded.

We ended up buying four postcards total - two for the guys, one backup in case we messed up, and one we didn't even need but bought because it had a horse in sunglasses sipping a margarita.

We sat on a bench outside the dollar store, scribbling under the heat of the afternoon sun, our pens smudging as we tried to sound effortless and not like two girls overthinking their words for two guys in loud bands a thousand miles away.

But we were overthinking it.

Obviously.

Because it wasn't just a postcard.

Not to us.

And maybe not to them either.

We paid for our stuff and walked across the parking lot to the little ice cream shop tucked next to the dry cleaner's. The bell over the door jingled as we stepped inside, the blast of cold air smacking the sweat off our shoulders. The place hadn't changed since middle school - mint green walls, faded photos of kids from little league teams past, and a jukebox in the corner that only ever worked when no one was watching.