Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Don't Hang Up

Collin

I sat cross legged on the shag rug, knees up, chin resting on them, the flickering blue light of Erin's giant TV washing over her face. The room was dark except for the screen. MTV's chaotic, glitter coated world of award show nonsense blaring like it had something to prove. Somewhere in the kitchen, half a pizza was growing cold, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper sat forgotten on the coffee table, and popcorn was scattered on the coffee table.

Erin's parents were out of town at some cattlemen's convention in Amarillo, something about top grade feed and cow insemination that I refused to think too hard about. The little brother had been put to bed hours ago, which meant that we had free reign of the remote, the house, and all the junk food we could get our hands on.

And we were waiting.

Green Day hadn't performed yet. They were supposed to be on soon - Billie had said the 23rd, casually, like playing on MTV was just another Friday. Like it wasn't the biggest stage in the country right now. Like it didn't matter.

But everything mattered to me tonight.

Especially after the Kurt tribute.

I didn't mean to cry. I really didn't. But there was something about the way they showed those old, grainy clips. Kurt hunched over his guitar, hair in his face, voice full of that quiet, aching rage that cracked something open.

It wasn't even the speech that got me, Kris was dry in true grunge fashion. It was the silence after. The way the camera lingered on the photo of him, like it didn't know how to move on either.

I felt the tears slide down my cheeks, and I didn't bother to wipe them away. It felt right. Or maybe just familiar. That dull kind of hurt that didn't burn, just settled.

Next to me, Erin was leaning back against the couch, eyes soft. "I'll never forget the first time I heard his voice," she said quietly. "Fall of '91. Nevermind changed my life... every day for three months."

I glanced at her, surprised by the sudden shift from snark to sincerity.

Erin didn't look back. She was watching the screen, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. "He didn't sound like anyone else. Like he wasn't trying to impress you. Just... saying shit that hurt. And he made it okay to hurt."

I nodded slowly. She got that. God, did she get that.

I didn't say anything. I just let the silence sit, warm and heavy between us. Because this was something different than all their banter and eye rolls. This was sacred ground.

I thought about Billie then.

How he joked too much when he was nervous. How his voice cracked sometimes between verses. How he talked like he didn't care what people thought, but I could hear the weight in every word he didn't say.

And it hit me. Again, like it always did lately - that I didn't just care about him. I felt him. The same way I'd once listened to Kurt on low volume at midnight, scared the sadness in his voice might swallow her whole - and just as scared it might understand her too well.

"I didn't even realize how much I missed him," I whispered. I wasn't sure if I meant Kurt or Billie. Maybe both.

Erin glanced at me now. "I know."

We both sat there, staring at the screen, hearts sore and open.

And somewhere backstage, Billie was probably cracking a dumb joke, checking his nose for boogers, pretending he wasn't about to perform in front of the entire country. Pretending he didn't still mean things he wouldn't say out loud.