Archive of Our Own ^beta

Billie Joe listened to the news while chopping vegetables, his cutting board a rainbow of various tomatoes and peppers and onions in preparation for the tacos he was cooking for dinner that evening. It was his daughter’s favorite meal, and today was Olivia’s thirteenth birthday. Despite Billie’s offer to take her out to dinner—a sky-is-the-limit offer—she had expressed a preference to eat in with little fanfare, so, naturally, he was pulling out all the stops. He was making pico de gallo and guacamole from scratch, and he had both chicken and steak marinating in the refrigerator. If his daughter wanted to spend a birthday at home, Billie was going to make sure it was a good one.

He’d never been much of a cook, but he’d been forced to learn a lot in the last year. These days Billie Joe could follow a recipe pretty well, and much to Olivia’s relief, he had grown out of overcooking everything for fear of giving them food poisoning. Cooking was just one of the many things he’d had to get used to, and for the most part, he tried to make the best of it. At first, Billie had a bad habit of crying into pots he was stirring or dishes he was washing, but he was proud to say he was doing a lot less of that as time went on. Which was bittersweet in and of itself, but he couldn’t bare to examine that too closely, either.

Even as Billie stood there dicing, he tried to focus on the news report playing from the little flat screen on the kitchen counter and keep his mind from wandering. Music had been his distraction of choice, once, but that was just another thing that had been turned upside down. The problem was, Olivia’s birthday happened to be tangled up in a load of hard memories, and for all of the distractions an elaborate meal provided, Billie Joe couldn’t quite push past them like he wanted to. It didn’t help, either, that the wrist movement required to saw through peppers caused an old injury to flare. In the end, Billie decided to give in to one of his worst impulses. When he was finished chopping, he found his packet of cigarettes in his jacket hanging up in the hall closet and took them outside.

It was a little chilly outside. Late September meant a fair breeze and weaker temperatures, and Billie should’ve brought his jacket out with him because his zippered sweatshirt didn’t provide quite enough warmth. He decided it wasn’t worth going back in for, though, and lit a Marlboro, closing his eyes at the first plume of smoke that hit his lungs. Billie Joe took a seat on the concrete patio steps and let his eyes wander the backyard while he smoked, chasing the fallen leaves that swirled in the wind, scattering over the pool cover and the area that surrounded it. The nicotine was a comfort, and it helped to keep the knot forming in his chest at bay but couldn’t prevent it altogether. 

Infrequent tears burned Billie’s eyes, and he rubbed them out with thumbs that smelled like green peppers. He didn’t want to do this today. Billie had been giving himself mental pep talks for weeks, but he suspected that, even then, he had known deep down the ache would overwhelm him regardless. It didn’t help that it was for that same reason Olivia hadn’t wanted too garish of a birthday celebration. She hadn’t been the same in the last year, just as he wasn’t, but the last few weeks had been as bad as the beginning. Olivia was markably quieter, more withdrawn, and Billie Joe knew exactly why. About a hundred times, he had told her she could come to him, whenever she wanted to talk about it, but she never did.

The cigarette smoldering in the crook of his fingers, Billie used the tips of his free ones to smooth over the healed scars on his left arm. His tattoos were discolored and distorted by angry, jagged lines. Tre knew an artist who he swore could fix them, or at least make them less noticeable, but every time he made an appointment with the guy, Billie ended up canceling and rescheduling. He didn’t know why. Billie Joe shouldn’t have wanted any reminders of the worst day(s) of his life, but then again, it didn’t matter, because the reminders were everywhere.

With his cigarette still balanced between his index and middle fingers, he dug the heels of both hands into his eyes and swallowed thickly. Billie decided, as he did sometimes, to allow himself a moment to submit to the pain; he knew he could claw himself back out of it in time for Olivia to get home from school since he had plenty of practice. Sobbing silently, his shoulders shaking with it, he cried as his lips moved with words he couldn’t say, the hand not holding his waning cigarette fisting around the pendant that dangled from his neck on a simple gold chain. The hole in Billie’s stomach that he’d grown to live with had flared wide open, the agony of it extending outwards, and for that moment, he let it, unhindered, because it was a year later and he still felt like he deserved it.

Tires squealing. Glass breaking. Metal crunching. The same sounds reverberated through Billie Joe’s head as they always did, returning to him in disjointed fragments. Those sounds, he could live with, but the images, he could not, and he fought against them. But still, the blood and broken skin trickled in, and Billie dropped the cigarette so he was free to bury his face into the crook of his arm and cry there instead, a bid for comfort that would never cut it. 

He cried until it was time to step back from the hysterics and get back to dinner preparation. Billie returned to the kitchen and splashed his face with cold water to get the sticky tears off of his face and give his burning eyes a wake up call, and drank some of the lukewarm coffee he had forgotten on the counter. After a few deep breaths and a moment of listless staring at the television, he started to put the pico de gallo together, reading from the recipe on his iPad with magnified print so that he didn’t have to put on his reading glasses—he hated wearing those when he was cooking.

Billie Joe could hear the front door open when he was just about done consolidating the ingredients for the authentic topping, and he was glad he had gotten himself together with time to spare. Hopefully his face was just about back to normal, and he boosted the illusion with a big smile for Olivia when she came into the kitchen.

“Hey, birthday girl! C’mere,” Billie moved around the massive island that had been serving as his work surface to envelope his new teenager in a careful hug, touching her only with his arms because his hands were sticky from tomatoes and lime juice. He laid a zealous kiss to the top of her head. “How was your day?”

“It was okay,” Olivia shrugged and climbed up onto one of the barstools across from Billie as he resumed stirring something in a big bowl. She leaned closer, peering down into the colorful concoction. “What’re you making?”

“Pico de gallo! I made it from scratch.” Billie Joe grabbed a clean spoon from the utensil drawer to taste his creation and nodded in approval. “I was worried I put too much cilantro in there, but I think it’s perfect. Wanna taste?”

Olivia shook her head. “What’re you making pico de gallo for?”

“Tacos, for your birthday dinner! I’m gonna make some fresh guacamole, too. We’re having all the fixings.”

She nodded, lip between her teeth, her gaze trailing from the pico to the ingredients that were still spread out all over the counter. There was flour on Billie’s sweatshirt and in his hair, and that’s when Olivia realized there were frosted cupcakes on the counter. It was obvious her dad had gone to a lot of effort for a day she would’ve rather forgotten, but the last thing she wanted was to disappoint him. Olivia had learned by now, how Billie coped with things, and it was with distraction after endless distraction. “Thanks, Dad… You didn’t have to do all this, though.”

“I wanted to,” he told her, his voice as soft as his bloodshot gaze. “Thirteen is a big deal, baby. Even if it’s a low key night at home.” Returning the very timid smile given to him, Billie Joe picked up the box of Saran Wrap to cover the pico and put in the fridge. “Tell me about your day. Anything fun happen for your birthday?”

“Uncle Tre sent flowers to my home room.”

“Oh, yeah? That was nice of him, he didn’t tell me he was gonna do that.”

“It was kind of embarrassing, actually, but yeah, it was nice.”

“He did it because he loves you.”

“Yeah, I know.” She looked down at her hands fidgeting atop the marble counter, her long dark hair drawing a curtain around the side of her face. Olivia spent a lot of time hiding behind her hair these days, at home and at school and everywhere. A year ago, it had barely touched her shoulders, but now the silky waves went halfway down her back. Running her fingers through it, Olivia asked, “Do you think we could watch a movie or something tonight?”

The question caught him off guard only because it wasn’t so much in character, not anymore. When she wasn’t at school or soccer practice, she spent most of her time in her room, and not because she was sulky or irritable… It was more that she had disconnected, and Billie had been watching television by himself for the last year. “Are you kidding me?” He asked as he emerged from the refrigerator with another pile of veggies to slice up, to cook with the meat. “Of course we can. Rom-com?”

“Duh. Preferably one where Matthew McConaughey takes his shirt off.”

Billie made a mock disgusted face over his shoulder, rinsing his selected produce in the sink—somehow managing to find space to do that when the dishes were piled inside. “How we raised a daughter whose preferred hunk of choice is the loser from Dazed and Confused is beyond me. I always liked that southern fella from that movie with Legally Blonde.”

The we fell out of her dad’s mouth so easily, and he didn’t even skip a beat. It went through Olivia like lightning because Billie Joe didn’t often drop that particular pronoun anymore, or mention the other half of that we he meant, but at the same time, she didn’t want to look at it too closely. “You mean Reese Witherspoon, Dad? Haven’t you met her?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” he shrugged. “If I did, it wasn’t memorable. But it’s your birthday, so if you want to watch How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days for the six hundredth time, that’s what we’ll watch.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, “I haven’t seen it six hundred times. Six times, maybe.”

“Yeah, okay—“

Whatever Billie was going to scoff was cut off by the television on the counter, trumpeting a breaking news broadcast. They both quieted, to at least half-listen to what the news was, neither of them expecting what the news anchor was going to say.

“A year to the day of the drunk driving accident involving two prominent Bay Area rockstars, Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt of Green Day—the accident which killed Mike Dirnt, him succumbing to his injuries just a few days after the incident—the driver responsible for the accident, Karen Shafer, plead guilty today to vehicular manslaughter and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison with the possibility of parole. It was chaos outside of the Alameda County Courthouse today, Green Day fans from all over the world coming to show their support of the band’s late bassist, and Green Day’s drummer, Tre Cool, delivered a statement before the judge today, in a bid for justice that the judge appeared to deliver today with his sentencing. Armstrong and Dirnt were not only band mates. They had been partners for almost twenty years at the time of Dirnt’s death, married for three, and the couple shared a daughter together. Armstrong and those closest to Dirnt could not be reached for comment at the time of this reporting.”

Because the plasma screen was on the counter along the wall, behind Billie, Olivia had been watching the broadcast from where she stood, on the other side of the island. She stared blankly at the video that had accompanied the news report, containing images from the crash and a picture of the Karen Shafer that had killed her father, interspersed with stock footage of  Billie and Mike at various media events, arms around each other on the red carpet, kissing at award shows, walking hand and hand out of limousines and into arenas. The broadcast moved onto a piece about something to do with a fall festival, and Olivia turned her eyes back to Billie Joe to see him frozen in place, staring down at the cutting board like he’d just seen a ghost, and she felt the first strange flip flop in her belly that told her she might cry. But when her eyes trailed downwards, to the direction Billie was gazing in, she gasped.

“Dad, you’re bleeding.”

It shook him out of whatever trance he had fallen into, and he blinked the cutting board and his hands into view. “Goddamnit,” Billie muttered, roughly setting down the large chopping knife he’d been using to dice the peppers that, incidentally, he had been bleeding all over because he’d done a number on his index finger. There was a lot of blood, and bringing it closer to his eyes and examining the cut in the light, he could see that it was bad and sighed in aggravation. “Goddamnit, I think I’m gonna need stitches.”

Olivia handed him a wad of paper towels but tried to avert her eyes from his mangled appendage. Anything to do with gore or guts or anything like that always made her queasy. “Can you drive to the E.R.?”

“I’m gonna have to, can’t call an ambulance for a little cut on my finger.” Even as Billie Joe said it, he winced and sucked in a quick breath through his teeth, as he pressed the paper towels into the source. Now that he was past the initial shock of the injury, it was really beginning to hurt. The last place Billie wanted to be on Olivia’s birthday was the hospital, however, and the apology was written all over his face before he even said it, “I’m sorry, Liv, I’ll try to get back as soon as I can.”

“What are you talking about? I’m going with you.” As Olivia spoke, she was getting things together for their departure, namely the keys to the BMW in the garage and Billie’s wallet. When she handed him both, she could see the reluctance on his face, and set hers, shaking her head. “You can’t go by yourself, Dad. You’re bleeding a ton.”

He opened his mouth to argue with Olivia, but something in her expression stopped him. Was this already the start of her becoming the parent? At thirteen freaking years old? With another long sigh, Billie Joe took the keys from her with his good hand and gestured towards the garage door. “Let’s go and get this over with.”

****

Something was beeping. That was the first thing he was conscious of; a droning and steady beeping that permeated the otherwise silent room every couple of seconds, and to begin with, he thought it was pretty annoying. Billie let it go at first, too tired to do anything about it, until the pain began to creep its way in, starting out dull but slowly building to a sharp ache in his head that seemed to extend throughout his body, touching almost every single part of him. It made the beeping sound even more bothersome, he thought, and falling back into the blankness of sleep was impossible between the two problems, though the pain was infinitely more of an issue.

When Billie opened his eyes, it was a struggle, and the amount of light he was met with was blinding and he slammed them shut again immediately, groaning in the back of his throat. He went to put a hand up to his face but stopped at the agony just the attempt caused him, and he tried to wiggles his hips, move anything and found himself stiff and sore. Everywhere. The beeping increased its pace a little bit, and Billie Joe forced his eyes back open, if only to find out what the fuck it was. Harshly, he had to blink a few times to get past the brightness and the fuzzy dots it peppered into his vision, but the more he blinked, the more everything came into focus.

Billie was in a bed. A hospital bed, wrapped up in blankets, and he realized he was in a hospital room pretty quickly, a large one, to be sure, surrounded by machines. The curtains were drawn over the windows and the door was closed, and when Billie turned his head to the left, he saw that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey, honey.” It was Aly, his best friend, leaning in close to him. She had a funny smile on her face that made her look like she was going to start crying at any moment, and it was boosted by the glaze over her brown eyes that were bloodshot, too. Before he could open his mouth, Aly was laughing, a quiet, strangled sound, and taking his face between her hands to kiss his forehead with tender lips. “It’s so good to see you up. I’m gonna get the doctor.”

“Mmmm—“ His attempt to speak came out as garbled nonsense, his voice rough from lack of use, and it became rougher when he went to grab her hand and a sharper, more acute pain radiated through his entire left arm. Billie Joe noticed, then, that it was bandaged from elbow to wrist, and there were scratches on his hand, too. He coughed a little, and that hurt his chest, but it helped him to work out words. “Aly—no—what—“

“Shhh, shhh, try to relax, Bill, come on.” Her hands fluttered around Billie, unsure of where she could touch him without inflicting him any worse, and settled for his heavily stubbled cheek. “You’re in the hospital, sweetie, you were in a car accident. You got hit by a drunk driver. You’ve got a broken arm, and you hit your head pretty hard and have been out for a couple of days. Do you remember anything, Billie?”

Billie Joe went to shake his head, which resulted in a fresh wave of pounding agony, and then with that, a flash of memories. Glass breaking. Metal crunching. Screaming. Blood, broken skin. Mike’s voice. Mike… After a moment’s wild searching off into the distance, his eyes found Aly’s again, suddenly sharp. “Where’s Mike?” Billie rasped and took another quick sweep around the room. “Mike was—he was—driving—“

“Yeah, yes, Mike was driving, honey.” Aly’s voice was almost as strained as his had been as she nodded at him, the muscles in her face twitching. She went to stand up. “Listen, let me go get the doctor, and—“

Despite the pain it caused, he grabbed her arm to keep Aly from leaving, but he couldn’t feel it anyway when the terror was building up in his chest and he didn’t even know why. The escalation of the beeping didn’t help either, that he now understood was coming from the heart monitor clipped to the index finger of his right hand. “Aly,” Billie began, low and pointed, “where’s Mike?”

Sitting back down, Aly took Billie Joe’s damaged left hand in both of her own as she straightened her shoulders and blinked up at the ceiling a few times. Trying to collect herself. Aly licked her lips before she could look at Billie again, and the first tear (that he had seen) went sliding down her cheek. “The police said—they said the way Mike swerved to avoid that drunk driver, it meant he got the brunt of the impact.”

He blinked and remembered. Billie could see Mike yanking on the wheel with one hand, felt the ghost of his arm connecting with his chest, like he could do anything to keep the impact from hurting him. But he also remembered Mike talking to him afterwards, seeing the cuts on Mike’s face and the blood all over it, but he was talking to him, trying to keep him awake. “What—he was—he was with me, Aly, I remember, he was…” Alive.

She was nodding in agreement with him, only causing more tears to scatter—tears Billie Joe couldn’t understand, or that he didn’t want to understand. “But he—he had internal bleeding, Billie. He held on for awhile, and they—they tried, sweetie, but—but this morning…” Aly trailed off, her throat overcome with the excess of emotion as the memory was so fresh, and seeing the horror dawning in glassy green eyes as a result of what she was saying made it all the worse. “Billie, I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “but he passed away this morning.”

It was incredible, how fast it washed over Billie Joe. Starting at his kneecaps, it overwhelmed his entire body, like ice water that rendered almost all of him useless, except for his voice. “No,” Billie said, shaking his head, not feeling anything but the devastation and disbelief, two warring notions. “No, no, no, no, no—“

****

“No, not on any medications currently, no.”

The nurse nodded and scratched something into a folder, and he watched her, uncomfortable on the padded table they’d put him on fifteen minutes ago. At least it was progress from the waiting room. Eventually, she looked back and smiled, flipping the chart closed. “Okay, just sit tight, Mr. Armstrong, a doctor will be with you shortly to get you all stitched up.”

“Great, thanks…”

She left and closed the exam room behind her, leaving a draft of cold air in her wake. They had wanted to take care of Billie in the triage area, but it had only taken a few stares from other patients (and staff) as well as a Google search to convince them to give him his own private room. As much as he didn’t want any attention drawn to him, the emergency room staff wasn’t keen on commotion, which left him alone with Olivia until someone was free to help him and get them the fuck out of there.

Billie Joe had felt nauseous since pulling into the parking lot, and it had only intensified when he first stepped inside, the familiar odor of the hospital hitting his nostrils and lingering there. He was incredibly anxious to leave before even walking in, and of course it was taking its sweet time, his non critical injury pushing him closer to the bottom of the list despite his celebrity status. Not that Billie was flexing it anyway. Really, he hadn’t felt like a celebrity in a very long time.

Eyes glancing over at Olivia, slumped in the vinyl chair in the corner and flicking through an old magazine, Billie murmured, “Sorry this is taking so long, baby girl. You must be starving.”

Olivia shrugged and didn’t look up. “Hospitals make me queasy.”

“You and me both, kid,” he mumbled back. Billie Joe had his elbow propped up on the extendable tray stand the nurse put by the bed, and he turned his hand a little bit in the light. The bleeding had stopped, staunched by the gauze they’d put on it, and the high dose ibuprofen they’d offered eased the pain to a dull throb. He couldn’t look at it for very long, though, without his brain getting accosted with more unpleasant memories, so he sniffed and looked back to Olivia. “We can stop and pick up food on the way home. Pizza or something. I can try tacos again tomorrow.”

“That sounds okay,” she agreed.

“Pizza and McConaughey?”

Olivia raised just her eyes up from last year’s December issue of Cosmopolitan and couldn’t help but smile a little at the indulgent way he waggled his dark eyebrows at her. “Can we get mozzarella sticks?”

“Of course we can.”

“Then I’m in.”

She looked back at her magazine, and Billie bit his lip. If she hadn’t come with him, he was rather certain he would’ve had a panic attack, so he was glad she was here, and that only intensified his guilt that this was how they were spending her thirteenth birthday. Two shitty birthdays in a row for the reason Billie got up each day, but he supposed nothing could’ve been worse than last year’s. Without thinking about it, the fingers of his good hand were twirling around the chain that dangled from his neck, and he swallowed thickly when he allowed himself to glance down at the ring that so often rested on his chest; the ring that matched the one still on his hand, the one that nobody could convince him to take off.

Of course Billie Joe had known the sentencing hearing was today. That’s why he had turned off his cell phone and left it in his nightstand drawer. Billie didn’t want to field calls and texts from people asking if he was okay, especially not on Olivia’s birthday, because he didn’t want today to be about that, and besides, he hadn’t been okay in a long time. Today was just another day to get through, just like every one before it. He didn’t care how long Karen Shafer went to prison for, or if she even did at all. No amount of punishment would change a damn thing. She had driven drunk, Mike had driven Billie because he was drunk, and he didn’t want to think about some judge damning her for her actions, or fans mourning at the courthouse, or Tre reading some kind of statement imploring for her life sentence. Some people were already serving a life sentence for her mistake—like Olivia, losing her father. Wasn’t that enough?

Before the tears could get away from him, there was a knock on the door, and it opened, a kid in scrubs walking in.

“Hey, good evening, I’m Dr. Jones.”

Billie Joe shook the hand extended to him with an arched eyebrow. “Billie—aren’t you a little young to be a doctor?”

“Dad,” his daughter groaned in the corner, a hand clapped over her eyes in embarrassment.

Fortunately, Dr. Jones laughed as he washed his hands. “No, it’s okay. I’m an intern, but I’ve taken the oath and everything and I’ve got the certificate to prove it if you need it.”

“No, that’s all right, I trust you.”

The doctor dragged a wheeled stool over in front of Billie and adjusted its height so that he was level with his hand on the tray. There was already an assortment of tools spread out there, placed there by the nurse for the doctor to use, and first Dr. Jones removed the soiled gauze, murmuring an apology when Billie Joe winced, and carefully extended the sliced index finger to get a good look. “Pretty nasty cut here. How did it happen?”

“Chopping vegetables.” He scratched awkwardly at the side of his face. “Wasn’t paying enough attention to what I was doing.”

“It happens all the time. Looks like you’ll keep the finger, though.” He winked at Olivia, earning a little giggle. “Not everybody does. You must be right handed?”

“Mmhm.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Because Billie never knew how to answer that question anymore, he hesitated, but he was just relieved the doctor didn’t recognize him. Given the notoriety of what had happened, he was surprised, but thankful all the same. Or maybe the doctor was just polite. Either way. Billie cleared his throat and said, “These days I’m a stay at home dad.”

“Hey, that’s awesome. Not enough of those out there.” 

He made sure not to watch as Dr. Jones started to sew up his finger, gaze darting from the doctor’s forehead, to the wall, to Olivia in the corner, who gave him a thumbs up. Billie Joe rolled his eyes up into his head, tilting that to the side and sticking his tongue out of his mouth, and got a chuckle of his own. It made him smile a little all the same, nothing so precious to him lately as Olivia laughing, another comfort to his self-inflicted injury. But that made Billie think about what Mike would say to make her laugh if he were here, the person that had always made her laugh the most, even when she was a tiny baby that fit in the palm of their hand. Well, Mike’s hand—she had never fit in his own hand, his being too small.

“Are you all right, Billie? Pain too much? We can get you another dose of ibuprofen.”

Blinking, he belatedly realized tears had started glazing over his eyes, and he could only imagine what kind of darkness had overtaken his face, as his mind had offered up to him a perfect replay of the day they had picked Olivia up from the hospital. Billie Joe rubbed the tears out with his good thumb and cleared his throat again, saying gruffly, “Nah, no, I’m, uh—I’m fine.”

“Well, just let me know.” Dr. Jones continued to thread the needle through his skin with a steady hand, focused on what he was doing but also attuned to Billie’s anxiety. Casually, he said, “You know, I think you could use a little sugar or something, help to make sure you have something in your system and calm your nerves. There’s a vending machine just down the hall.”

No matter what a lot of people seemed to think, most of those closest to him included, he wasn’t oblivious. Billie’s wallet was on the tray, and he nodded Olivia towards it. “Wanna go get us a couple of root beers or something?”

Olivia wasn’t oblivious either. She got up to grab the wallet, lingering on the way to the door. “What if they don’t have root beer?”

“Oh, there’s root beer int here,” Dr. Jones interrupted, looking over his shoulder to smile at Olivia. “The good stuff, Barq’s.”

“Grab yourself a snack or something, too, Livy.”

“Do you want anything?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Nah, I’m good. Saving room for pizza and cupcakes.”

The return smile Olivia gave him was weak, but an effort all the same, and she bowed out, the door clicking shut behind her.

In her absence, the doctor allowed a beat to pass, finishing up a stitch. Then he pushed his stool back to the counter to grab the box of tissues there and bring them back. “Thought you could use a second.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Billie Joe mumbled and ripped out one of the tissues to dab roughly at his stubborn eyes, coughing into his elbow afterwards to aid in getting the equally stubborn lump out of the back of his throat. Doogie Howser probably thought he was a pussy because he wouldn’t have any idea why he was actually getting emotional and the fact that it had nothing to do with the cut on his finger. Granted, it was a pretty serious slice, and if Mike had seen Billie do it, he probably would’ve wanted to call a goddamn ambulance. And thinking about that just had more tears coming. “Damnit, I’m really not usually this much of a pussy,” he grumbled for the doctor’s benefit, dabbing at his eyes with a clean tissue.

“You don’t look like a pussy to me. Tattoos like these? Makes you look like a rockstar.”

Billie caught the doctor’s eyes and noticed the little smile that had pulled at the corner of his young face, and he sighed. “So you do know who I am.”

“Sorry—yes. One of the nurses gave me a heads up. They’ve been whispering a lot of… complimentary things about you.”

“Really?” He shrugged his eyebrows, surprised to hear that. “They have bad taste.”

“I think if they thought they stood a chance, they would’ve been trying it on with you,” Dr. Jones said knowingly, and added, “I guess it’s lucky it’s common knowledge that you’re not into women, otherwise you would’ve had a lot of harassment to put up with.”

“Oh.” Chuckling once, a sad sound, Billie Joe’s good hand returned to the ring hanging from his neck, turning it over between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. He thought about telling Dr. Jones that it wasn’t that he was gay, that he’d just fallen in love with his best friend, but he could barely think it without shedding more tears. Instead, Billie murmured, “Well, I’m not really looking to try it on with anyone these days, myself, so either way…”

He nodded in Billie’s peripheral vision, and Billie Joe wondered if the doctor had seen the scars that mangled the tattoos he’d mentioned. When Dr. Jones spoke again, it was quietly, “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Can’t imagine what you’ve been through and put up with as it is.”

“It’s okay. It, uh—it is what it is, you know.”

The doctor nodded again, and then the door opened, his daughter reappearing with a pair of sodas tucked into the crook of her arm. Olivia handed one to Billie along with his wallet, and rather than returning to her seat, stood by his good side to lean her head on his shoulder, close into his side. “You all right, Dad?”

Her closeness had a contradictory effect on him, making him okay and not okay at the same time, and he took a deep breath as he wrapped his arm around Olivia in turn, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She was nearly as tall as Billie at thirteen, and that, along with her crisp blue eyes and the shape of her lips, often made him think it was Mike’s DNA in her, though they’d agreed to never prove it one way or another. “Yeah,” Billie Joe told her after a moment to collect himself, resting his cheek on her head, “yeah, I’m all right, babe.”

It was quiet as Dr. Jones finished stitching him up, and he had to admit—the young doctor did a fine job of squaring him away and bandaging him up. Billie thought he had a good bedside manner, too; he’d certainly had worse experiences at the hospital. He was given some printouts of aftercare instructions and advice on how to handle the pain, in addition to a prescription for those high dose ibuprofens, if he wanted them. The doctor bid them both a good evening and ducked out with a wave and a wink, leaving Olivia to help Billie shimmy back into his sweatshirt.

“Pizza and McConaughey?” He asked Olivia again,  and she nodded.

“Yes, please.”

****

“Jesus, how much wrapping paper did we need?”

Billie Joe smirked as he buckled up his seatbelt, glancing back at the four tubes of gift wrap and grocery bag full of ribbon and tags, then back at Mike’s slightly distraught face, illuminated by the fluorescent lamp they were parked underneath. “I wanted options. It’s our daughter’s birthday, Mike, she only turns twelve once.”

“Maybe, but she’s just gonna tear it off anyway. That’s the last time I take you to Wal-Mart when you’re drunk.” Mike stretched across the middle console to peck Billie’s lips in a gesture to prove he was only kidding. “Leave it to you to get the whole damn house decorated, taking until eleven o’ clock to do it, and then realize all we have is Christmas shit to wrap her presents in.”

He giggled, relaxing in the passenger seat as Mike meandered out of the vast Wal-Mart parking lot, the only place open at midnight where they could find the party supplies they needed. “At least the house looks awesome.”

“Yeah, we’ll see how you feel about that in the morning. I think your ability to stick streamers to the ceiling deteriorated towards the end of that bottle of wine you drank.” He smirked at Billie’s exaggerated scowl and reached for a tattooed hand to plant a quick kiss on the back of it, resting their linked fingers on Billie Joe’s thigh when he was done. “She’s gonna love it either way, Bills.”

“Hope so.” Billie watched the sparse traffic and glowing streetlights as they passed them. He’d sunk the bottle of Pinot, in part, as a means to suppress the emotions that came with their child growing up, but there was only so far the alcohol would take him before it backfired. Olivia was staying at a friend’s house, a fortunate circumstance that gave Billie and Mike the time to prepare for her birthday the following day. Sighing wistfully, Billie Joe murmured, “Can’t believe she’s turning twelve.”

“It’s gone by quick,” Mike mused, an equally plaintive tone to his voice with a sad little smile to match. “Remember how freaked out we were to bring her home from the hospital?”

A hum of agreement turned into another soft giggle as he did indeed recall the anxiety that had come with being new parents, despite the amount of time they’d had to get ready for it. The surrogacy process had been complicated and stressful in parts, and the road to get there had been long, but every single step had been worth it to have a family all their own. Billie swiveled his head back to the left to see Mike’s face illuminated by the console’s blue lights and experienced a surge of affection that had a little to do with the wine but a lot to do with a bond that ran almost thirty years deep. He squeezed Mike’s hand. “We’ve done a good job, right?”

“Oh, hell yeah, babe. She’s way smarter than either of us, and all things considered, she’s relatively well adjusted for having two gay rockstar dads.” The bassist spared a wink at Billie in the low light, and Billie Joe would swear to God he fell in love all over again. Mike appeared to be somewhat pensive when he turned his eyes back to the road and proved that he was by the way he said, “Not everybody gets to do life like this with their best friend. We’re pretty lucky, Bills.”

Man, wasn’t that the goddamn truth. The only point Billie might’ve disagreed with is that he was more so the lucky one, blessed with a best friend and husband that would drive his drunk ass to Wal-Mart at midnight on a Tuesday for wrapping paper. “I love you. Even if you drive like my fucking mother. You know the speed limit is 45, Mikey?”

“I’m going 45, dear.”

“Everybody goes 55 on this road, man.”

“It’s dark, and I’m in no rush. Safety first,

“Mmhm.” He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Mike always drove like a sixty year old man, whether it was dark or not, and it was worse when Olivia was in the car. “Do you think Olivia’s gonna like her presents? I mean, we stuck to the list, I guess, but God, I swear, girl’s taste changes so much faster than boy’s do.”

He chuckled and shook his head, likely at Billie’s misplaced anxiety. “I’m sure she’s gonna appreciate everything, babe. But I’ve been meaning to mention, next year for her thirteenth, I already have something—“

“Mike, watch out,” Billie Joe said sharply, pointing with his free hand at the oncoming SUV some fifty yards ahead that he could see drifting into their lane, “Mike—“

****

The last thing he anticipated upon getting home from the emergency room, a hot pizza box in tow, was for a delivery truck to be idling at the curb. Billie wasn’t expecting any packages, it was well after dark—nearly eight—and he had absolutely no idea what it could be. He assumed they had the wrong address or something because that’s what made the most sense. So after parking the BMW in the garage and sending Olivia on in with the pizza and a request to get the movie queued up, Billie trotted back down the brick driveway to the gate to greet the waiting driver.

“You Dirnt? Mr. Dirnt?” The man asked Billie Joe when he was close enough, standing at the back of his truck, its twin doors wide open. 

Even under the streetlight, he couldn’t tell what was inside, but being asked if he was ‘Mr. Dirnt’ had his belly cramping uncomfortably with hot, fresh agony. “Uhh—um, no, I mean, I’m not, but he—“ Jesus Christ, Billie swore to himself and sighing, he said, “He’s my husband,” because what else was he supposed to say?

Nodding emphatically, the man turned to reach inside the back of the van and pulled out the largest bouquet of flowers Billie had ever seen. “Special delivery,” he told Billie Joe in a thick accent that he couldn’t quite place. “Tried calling early—no answer—boss insisted deliver for important customer.”

“Oh.” It was hard to balance the massive box the bouquet sat in with his bum finger, especially as he tried to get his wallet out of back pocket. Did Billie even have any cash left to tip this guy with? One handed, with the wallet held to his ribs, he tried to rifle through it, counting ones, but the guy waved him off.

“No, no—tip included—boss said no tip. Sign here.” The delivery man had a clipboard out now, tapping at the bottom line of an order form with his pen.

It took some effort, and the guy ended up having to take the flowers back so Billie could take the clipboard, but they figured it out. His eyes scanned the form quickly, and the knot in his throat grew when he saw it was dated for September 21st of last year and Mike’s signature was scrawled across the bottom, above where he was meant to sign for receipt. Before he could dissolve, Billie Joe scratched out his name, handed back the clipboard, and reaccepted the bouquet. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Happy birthday. Have good night.”

“You too,” he mumbled and started back up the driveway, pressing the button on the gate as he passed it so it would swing shut behind him. It felt like Billie’s lungs were going to explode, they were so cramped, especially when he realized there was an envelope tucked in amongst the flowers, Olivia’s name written on it in bold letters, again in Mike’s spiky penmanship. He had no idea how this was being done, and he had no idea how Olivia was going to react to this late birthday gift.

She was already in the living room by the time Billie Joe had locked up the garage and moved through the kitchen. The pizza was opened up on the coffee table, and Olivia was eating it straight out of the box and was chewing on a mouthful when he walked in with a bouquet that was at least three times wider than her dad’s chest. “What the heck is that?”

“A birthday present,” Billie responded quietly and set the flowers down beside the pizza so that the addressed envelope was facing her directly. He could tell by her expression that Olivia recognized the handwriting at once, making her look like she’d just seen a ghost—probably an apt comparison—and she moved as slowly as he had, sitting forward to drop her slice back into the box and rubbing the grease off onto her black leggings. Billie nodded at her, and then towards the bouquet, standing by the coffee table with his arms folded tight across his aching chest and bottom lip between his teeth. Waiting.

It truly was a massive arrangement of flowers that probably cost upwards of a thousand dollars, full of long stemmed roses packed together, light pink in color—her favorite color—interspersed with baby’s breath and a few gorgeous lilies in purple and white. Olivia brushed her trembling fingers over the petals before plucking the envelope out of the bouquet, and in the same way she had the petals, touched her name written in permanent ink. Again, she looked at Billie Joe, but he just stared back. 

When Olivia tore open the envelope, she did it with care, making sure she only broke the seal and did no other damage. She extracted the 4”X6” notecard inside, bordered by a fancy floral design, but covered front to back in her late father’s handwriting. 

He watched Olivia read what he could tell was a lengthy letter of sorts and could see the emotion building on her young face; her cheeks were reddening, her jaw was shuddering, almost like she was shivering, and the tears were glazing over her crystal blue eyes, collecting on her eyelids until she blinked and they fell down her cheeks. Billie knew tears of his own were starting to come as the lump in the back of his throat bloomed into what had to be a full blown tumor, so that it hurt to even try to swallow and swallowing didn’t help. The only thing worse than his own loss was Olivia’s, and seeing direct evidence of it for the first time in a long time made him feel like he’d been sucker punched. When she finished reading it, she set it down on the coffee table, almost reverently, and covered her face with her hands.

Jesus. Rubbing a hand over his mouth once, Billie went to sit next to her on the couch and put his arm around her, his gruff voice saying, “Olivia,” but getting out nothing else because she stood up like a shot and ran away, towards the stairs. “Honey,” he called again, and started to go after her, but hearing her bedroom door slam shut made him stop. The sound was so violent in the otherwise silent house, it went right through Billie Joe. 

At first, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Billie wanted to go to her, but something told him it wasn’t a good idea. What could he say? Especially when this had taken the wind out of Billie as much as it had her? His cheeks dampening with tears, he scratched his good hand through his unkempt hair with agitated fingers at least six times before lowering himself onto the sofa where Olivia had been sitting. 

Mike had planned this over a year ago, Billie Joe knew that from the date on the form. He recognized the name of the florist stamped on the back of the opened envelope, and it confirmed the value of the flowers; Tre had used the San Francisco based shop more than once, for apologies to girlfriends wronged. Whatever Mike had picked out was about as elaborate as it got, a special thirteenth birthday surprised booked in advance to ensure timely delivery from a popular, acclaimed florist. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to Billie? 

It didn’t matter. He reached out to pick up the notecard, something in him desperate for a brand new piece of Mike, something he hadn’t had in a year. But Billie stopped himself because it wasn’t his piece of Mike to have. His hand went to Mike’s wedding ring around his neck instead that he hadn’t taken off once since putting on, forming a fist around it and bringing it to his lips. First Billie Joe sobbed once, then a couple more times, until the floodgates were opened and he was dissolving, alone in the living room, the same as their daughter in her bedroom.

****

“Billie? Billie, come on, Bills, wake up, babe. Gotta wake up, baby, wake up.”

Opening his eyes was a challenge, and at first, all he could see was broken glass.  

“Hey, hey, there you are, good, good, look at me, Billie Joe, look at me.”

After blinking a few times, Billie found Mike coming into focus, and a part of him wished he hadn’t. Every part of his husband’s face appeared to either be split open or covered in blood, and he felt the panic grow in his heavy chest, making it harder to breathe. Billie’s ears were ringing with the sound of metal crunching, and he couldn’t move his head, he realized, just his eyes, which darted around frantically, between the shattered windshield, the dim streetlights in the distance, and Mike, leaning in close to him—partially because Mike’s side of the car had been punched in. “Mike—what—oh, my God—“

“It’s okay, babe, you’re okay, try to relax, you gotta breathe.” As always, Mike was remaining calm; his voice was low and soothing, his touch was featherlight, caressing one side of the part of Billie Joe’s cheek that wasn’t damp with blood, and the only thing that would’ve given him away was the fear in his eyes if it wasn’t too dark for Billie to notice. “You hit your head, though, Billie, so I need you to stay awake and talk to me until help comes, okay? Help is coming, babe, just gotta hold on.”

He would’ve nodded if his neck wasn’t so stiff, and as it was, when he tried to lift his hand to take Mike’s, a sharp pain shot down his arm from shoulder to wrist, causing him to choke and hiss. Billie Joe squinted at the loose limb at his side and could tell at once something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the angry, jagged cuts that were torn along his forearm.

“I think it’s broken, but that’s nothing, Bills, remember when I broke both of my elbows? Remember?”

“Yeah—yes,” he croaked eventually and blinked, dazed, at the gory smile he was given.

“Just keep your eyes on me, baby, eyes on me.”

Mike was so persistent, and Billie didn’t want to let him down, even as his head felt like a bowling ball on his shoulders, radiating with a sick pain that pounded in time with his pulse. It appeared Mike only had eyes for him, too, not distracted like he was by the destruction around them, their trusty BMW in literal pieces. Billie kept shifting his eyes between that and the evidence of whatever injuries Mike had sustained. Blood, blood everywhere, and he whimpered in the back of his throat. “Mike—Mikey, you—what about you?”

“Me? I’m fine, Bills, probably gonna need a helluva lot of stitches, but no big deal, I’ve seen worse…” There must’ve been a doubtful glimmer on Billie Joe’s face because he sighed, a tired sound, one corner of his cut lip trying to smile. “Okay, maybe not worse, but I’m good, babe, I don’t want you to worry about me ‘cause I’m all right. Promise.” Mike looked away for just a second, eyebrows pulled together as he tried to see through the spiderwebs the crashed had created in the windshield, and probably also to hide the panic he needed to succumb to for a second—just a second. Billie couldn’t see, either, the arm he kept around himself, palm pressing flush into his side, where all of his pain was located that told him something was very wrong, aside from all of the blood he was losing on the outside. But then Mike turned back to Billie, Mona Lisa smile back in place. “Guess I wasn’t safe enough, huh?”

“You kidding? Always safe—with you…” Billie Joe’s words were coming out slurred, and he was so tired, he couldn’t help closing his eyes, only to snap open again to the sound of Mike’s voice. 

“Eyes on me, remember? Hey, come on, okay—let’s play a game, what key is Basket Case in?”

“Huh?” Why the fuck was Mike asking him that now? 

“Basket Case, what key is it in, Billie? Want you to tell me.”

“E. Flat.”

“Yeah? And?”

“…Major.”

“Right, perfect, yes, now what about When I Come Around?” Billie groaned, and he shook his head, snapping the fingers of his free hand. “No, come on, we’re doing this, what key is When I Come Around in, babe? I forgot, you gotta tell me.”

“G major.”

“Yup. Okay, Good Riddance, tell me Good Riddance.”

They went on like that for a few more songs, Mike needling him with tender urgency if he started to get listless until they both heard it: sirens permeating the otherwise quiet night.

Mike breathed out a sigh of relief. “All right, there we go, Bills, there it is, not much longer. Just a little bit longer.” He glanced at the flashing blue and red lights, blurry through the splintered glass, and seemed to make a decision because he shifted as close to Billie Joe as he could manage, turning his face downward to ensure his husband couldn’t see the agony that played across his features as a result. Blue eyes lifted, and Mike was just a breath away, and carefully, he touched Billie’s face where he could, murmuring apologies when Billie winced, but he didn’t—couldn’t—stop, simply taking greater care instead. “Love you, Billie Joe,” he whispered and brushed their bloodied lips in the softest of kisses because he had to, “I’m so sorry.”

Billie’s brain was too foggy to question it, only going so far as to furrow his brow, and he opened his mouth to reciprocate but was interrupted by the passenger door being yanked open, the rattled hinges protesting. 

A police officer and another man dressed in a different kind of uniform—paramedic?—were there, and the former called out, “Hey, you guys, how we doing in here?” His voice was calm but urgent. “You guys okay? We’re here to help you out.”

“He hit his head pretty hard, he was unconscious for a few minutes,” Mike told them as he shifted away to give them room to work on Billie. “I’ve been trying to keep him awake, but he’s in and out.”

“All right, and how are you, sir, what’s going on?”

“Just some cuts, I’m all right, just focus on him, please.”

The paramedic glanced over to Mike, the glare of the officer’s bright flashlight making the gore on his face appear even gorier, but he didn’t stop assessing Billie Joe’s vitals. “You’re holding your stomach there, and I see a lot of blood, buddy, are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, I can wait.”

“You boys drinking tonight?”

“Me,” he mumbled before Mike could offer anything, trying to meet his eyes across the cab but unable thanks to the brace the paramedic snapped around his neck. “He drove, I… too much wine… Mike’s sober…”

It sounded like the bassist was smiling as he said, “That about sums it up, huh, Bills?”

“We’ve got another ambulance on its way, so we’ll get you taken care of as soon as possible.”

They had cut Billie out of his seatbelt and were moving around him like they were going to lift him out of the car, and he started to panic. “Mike—wait—“

“Hey, it’s okay, baby, I’m gonna be right behind you, I promise. Don’t worry about a thing, Billie, you’re gonna be fine.”

“No—you—Mike—“

“I will be fine, babe, I’ll be right behind you. Love you, okay? They’re gonna take good care of you, just try to relax and do what they say. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

****

“Man, sounds like Mike showed me up on the flower game, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

He was sitting out on the back porch on the steps, where he often smoked his cigarettes, swallowed up in one of Mike’s hoodies for protection against the chilly September wind. After a brief breakdown, Billie Joe had tried to talk to Olivia only to find her feigning sleep, though he’d been able to see the tear tracks fresh on her cheeks as she lay in bed atop the covers and fully clothed. The pizza and cupcakes, he wrapped up, and then he’d cleaned the mess left in the kitchen from the cooking he’d done all day, including the bloodied knife and cutting board that ended up being tossed in the trash. With all of that out of the way, Billie had been left with the silence and restlessness that always came after dark, and it hadn’t taken much deliberation for him to call up the person he knew would be awake: the world’s (former) most dangerous drummer, Tre Cool.

“It’s a very Mike thing to do,” Tre went on, and his voice was warm and sad at the same time. “Especially for the Livybug.”

“I know,” he said and had to swallow the stubborn knot in his throat to do it. Billie couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this depleted; like Wesley from The Princess Bride, it was as if someone had strapped suction cups to his body and extracted every last drop of his life and soul from him. Except that wasn’t true, because Olivia was his life and soul now. Without her, there wouldn’t have been anything left. “I just—I don’t know how to help her, Tre,” Billie Joe admitted tearfully to his friend, one of his thumbs pressing hard into his forehead. “She’s in agony and has been, and she just won’t ever talk to me about it, man.”

The drummer was quiet on the other end for a second, the only sound coming from ice cubes tinkling against glass. Eventually, Tre said, with some reluctance, “No offense, Beej, but what do you expect? You don’t talk about it much either, man.”

“I’m talking to you about it right now.”

“No, you’re talking to me about Liv, about how she feels. That’s not the same.”

Though he opened his mouth to argue, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Billie took another long drag from his cigarette and heard ice cubes again, and he could picture the tequila and soda Tre was drinking. He himself hadn’t had a drink since the accident. “What am I supposed to say?” The question left Billie in a whisper, gruff with the tears that were already coming, and he closed his fist around Mike’s ring for the fourth time that day. “Mike’s gone, and it’s all my fault. Why would I want to talk about that?”

“Bill,” he said, incredulous and admonishing at the same time, “is that—you think it’s your fault?”

Scuffing at the concrete under him with the heel of his shoe, he sniffed and answered, “It is my fault. For… every conceivable reason, Tre.”

“Billie Joe, that’s crazy—“

“It’s not fucking crazy, man. I made this—this ridiculous fucking deal about getting wrapping paper at eleven o’ clock at night, because I was drunk, and because I was drunk, he drove me to fucking Wal-Mart because—because that’s what he did. He took care of me, he took care of Livy, and it should’ve been me, Tre. Why wasn’t it me?” Towards the end, Billie was nearly inaudible, mostly because his chin was tucked almost all the way into his chest, and he was shivering. Something had broken somewhere, something that had been held together by a thread up until now, and it was like he was unraveling in a brand new way. It should’ve been me. Billie had thought that to himself at least a million times in the past year, and the majority of the time, he was desperate for it to be that way. 

Tre, for his part, must’ve been dumbstruck. It was true Billie Joe hadn’t talked much about Mike, the circumstances of his death and all of its consequences, so the elongated pause was fair but had to end eventually. “Billie, you have to see that what you’re saying, what you’re feeling is irrational. Brother,” he murmured, and his voice broke, “you guys were hit by a drunk driver. You did the right thing by not fucking driving to Wal-Mart, Mike did the right thing by driving you, it’s the drunk driver’s fault and no one else’s.”

“I’m sick of everybody saying that, like it makes a damn difference.”

“Dude, it does make a difference. And for you—for you to say it should’ve been you… Billie, Mike didn’t want that.” 

He was crying in earnest all over again, though this time not in complete solitude, and he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. The tears were streaming and the sobs were wracking his body, and though they were quiet, Billie Joe knew Tre would be able to hear them. Still, he couldn’t stop.

After clearing his throat, Tre began again, as careful as he’d ever been with his delicate friend, “Billie—I’m gonna tell you something I haven’t told you before, and it’s what Mike said when he was in the hospital. He was in and out, you know, while you were out, in between the transfusions and—and everything, but—but all that mattered to him was you, man. And the Livybug, of course, but he just—he kept talking about how he tried to swerve so that the other car would hit his side, and God, he was so fucking worried, Bill, about you waking up. Kept talking about how he tried to keep you awake after, making you tell him what keys songs were in to keep you talking, and—and I swear to God, brother, it was like he always knew he wasn’t gonna make it but he didn’t care as long as you did. So—so you can’t say it should’ve been you because he didn’t want that. Ever.”

The drummer had to pause every few words, he was so obviously overcome with his own emotion, and it just made Billie cry harder because they were all things he knew without having to be told. If he rifled deep into his memories, his subconscious, he could remember all of the hints Mike had unwittingly given. Mike had been so persistent that they tend to Billie Joe first, insisting he himself was just fine, superficial wounds, but that had been bullshit. And he hadn’t been in a state to call it as such, which made it hurt all the more. Billie had been… so deeply loved, and it was gone. 

He carried on crying until he had nothing left to give, Tre’s soothing (if heartbroken) voice in his ear, until his sobs dwindled to deep breaths and harsh sniffles. Billie ground the heels of his hands into his buzzing eyes, lit another cigarette, and croaked to his friend, “You opened the floodgates,” because it marked the first time that had happened in a year in front of another person, on the phone or otherwise.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he sighed, and he did sound sorry, though he added, “but I think you kinda needed them open.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.” The wind nipped at his flushed face, and he rubbed it with the sleeve of Mike’s old sweatshirt, sighing himself, loud, long, and guttural as his tired eyes blinked at the shrubs that surrounded the expanse of the backyard. Billie Joe really needed to hire somebody to do the landscaping. Mike had always done it himself, citing that he enjoyed the outdoors, but he knew it was really because Mike resisted celebrity and wealth at every turn, at least in that capacity, for things he could do with his own two hands. Releasing a plume of spoke, Billie said, “It just doesn’t get easier, you know. My mom tells me all the time that it will. It doesn’t.”

“I think it will. It’s gotten easier for me. I know it’s not the same, but reading that statement at the sentencing today… I get why you didn’t want anything to do with it, buddy, but it was definitely… cathartic.”

Chewing on his lip, he thought about Karen Shafer as he sometimes did. The 39 year old woman had only minor injuries from the crash, had expressed remorse (according to the news reports Billie had heard), and apparently she’d just gotten a divorce, before the accident, from a husband who’d had a mistress and wanted to marry her instead. There were moments where he thought he might be bitter, that she lived while Mike had died, but he had to imagine whatever she was living with was a worse punishment. “I’m glad it was like that for you, man,” Billie said, honest if meek, “but I don’t think it would’ve made a difference for me. Nothing—“ He paused for a steadying breath, fingertips coming back up to collect some new stray tears, “nothing can bring Mike back. I think the only thing is gonna be time… and I guess a hell of a lot of it.”

“Yeah. But you also need to talk more about it, Bill. Whether it’s with me, or Aly, or your mom, or a therapist or something. And if the Livybug sees you talking about it—if you talk about it with her—that might make her want to talk about it, too. You know?”

“When did you get to be all wise on me?” Billie Joe muttered around the butt of his cigarette, earning a laugh.

“I’ve always been this way, man, you just weren’t listening.”

He actually smiled a little. “Yeah… I don’t know if that’s true, but uh.” Billie paused to clear his throat and continued, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Billie. All you gotta do is call.”

****

They wouldn’t let Olivia see him right away, or vice versa—it was hard to tell—and it was strange, how it was like the only thing in the world he wanted to do but how afraid he was of it at the same time. Since the moment Aly had told him Mike was gone and Billie Joe had begun to accept it as reality and not a dream, he had thought about what it was going to be like, getting his arms around his daughter whose father had died just four days after her twelfth birthday. Olivia had been staying at his mom’s house, pulled from school for the time being, and even when the doctor cleared him for his underage visitor, he’d told everybody he needed a little bit more time. Billie needed to get himself in order first. 

That was a lot more difficult than he had necessarily bargained for. Aly helped Billie clean up because his broken arm, even though it was the left one, made certain things a challenge, and he asked her to help him out of a gown and into some real clothes, fix his hair, shave, all of the good hygiene practices that had been neglected due to a mixture of his unconsciousness and depression. There wasn’t much that could be done, however, about the healing cuts and nasty bruises.

His mom sent him a text when they were in the parking lot, abiding by his request for a heads up, and he asked Aly, who’d hardly left his side in a week or more, if she could step out. She did, with a promise to be nearby in the cafeteria, and Billie Joe made himself take deep breaths in her absence, trying to tame the beast that had taken up occupancy in his chest lately, slashing at his broken heart. Fortunately he had been too empty to cry in awhile, that well seemingly having gone dry for the time being, but he didn’t know if seeing Olivia would flip that script. Billie had to assume it would, though he was resolved to do everything he could to keep that from happening and to be there for his daughter, one hundred and ten percent.

He was busy blinking up at the ceiling and counting breaths in his head when there was a quiet rap on the opened door, and he turned his head, too quickly because he was still healing, but the pain didn’t register as he locked eyes on Olivia. She was in the doorway with Ollie behind her, who was guiding her in with hands on her shoulders, and if Billie had any ideas that he couldn’t feel any worse, he only had to look into Olivia’s bloodshot blue eyes to know that those ideas were wrong. Her dark hair was in a fishtail braid draped across her shoulder so there was nothing obscuring her pale, withdrawn face or her chapped pink lips that told him her reprieves from crying had been few and far between. Billie Joe felt like the pieces of his heart already torn to shreds fell through the floor and into the center of the earth, and goddamnit, tears were pricking at the backs of his eyes before he could stop them.

Wordlessly, he extended his unbroken arm to beckon Olivia to him, and before he could even say anything, she was flying across the room to fall into his embrace, jarring his injured body but not enough to deter him from wrapping her up close against him.

“Olivia, honey, careful—“

“It’s okay, Mom,” Billie muttered to Ollie and pressed kisses to the side of Olivia’s head before burying his face in her hair as she had buried hers in his neck. He could feel her hot tears, and his own fell down his cheeks when he squeezed his eyes shut. Billie rocked her and rubbed her back, gave her more kisses and shushed her through the lump in his throat. “I’m here, Liv, I’m right here, and I love you, love you so much, Jesus Christ…” 

Meeting his mother’s eyes over the the form of his daughter crying, for a moment, it felt like the last twenty-some years fell away because he felt as scared as he’d been at ten years old, losing his father, now that he was an adult holding his twelve year who’d just lost her father. The memories were mirrored there in his mother’s dark brown eyes, and even as Billie Joe held tightly to Olivia, Ollie walked around the bed to take up his other side and his damaged hand that was limp at his side. That was all it took for whatever was left of his walls to come crumbling down, and when she bent to embrace him, he dissolved into her without letting go of his baby girl. As much as Billie wanted to comfort Olivia, he couldn’t deny that he needed his mother, too.

****

Instead of going to bed that night, he had decided to pull out some old photo albums. There wasn’t a chance in hell Billie would be able to get any kind of decent sleep, and if he was honest, it was one of the many times he was too afraid to try. After suffering from insomnia for most of his life, his ability to sleep through the night had decidedly not improved since the loss of his best friend. Sometimes Billie Joe was plagued with nightmares, sometimes he couldn’t fall asleep because he hated sleeping alone, and other times he stayed up watching television in the little sitting room off of their bedroom until his eyes gave up on his brain and went to sleep for him. The only way he slept through the night anymore was if he took an Ambien, but he only did that if Olivia wasn’t in the house for some reason, at a sleepover or something; those things turned him into a zombie the next morning.

Admittedly, an antidote for trouble sleeping was not looking through the evidence of how happy they’d once been, but Billie hadn’t taken a trip down memory lane since everything happened and whether or not he was ready to do it, it felt important that he did. Aly had been making him scrapbooks for his birthdays for years… She had a natural talent for it that Billie didn’t have, but he’d always appreciated her ability to tell a story without any words, just Polaroids and other little keepsakes. For the most part, the books lived in a decorative storage box in the downstairs office, and it had collected some dust since it was last opened. Billie Joe dragged it out to the living room, set the bouquet of flowers and the card carefully off to the side, and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table to start looking at what was inside.

The first album right at the top was the most recent, containing snapshots from the 21st Century Breakdown tour. That was the first tour Olivia had accompanied them for more dates than not, so she was in a lot of the shots, some of them taken as a family and some of them just with her, or just with him or Mike. She was grinning from ear to ear in every goddamn one of them, and it hurt Billie, especially when he’d turn the page and see him and Mike kissing in front of a European architectural marvel he couldn’t remember the name of, or eating gelato under the Eiffel Tower, or even just the ones of Mike, making a goofy face or sleeping on a couch in a rare moment of rest on what had been their most grueling tour. Seeing so much of his departed lover was jarring, mostly because he had been tuning any other instances of it out. It was true there were photographs hung up all over the house, but Billie no longer saw them as anything other than background anymore, able to steam right past them as if they were just part of the scenery rather than artifacts of the happiness he’d once known. Flipping through the scrapbook was a different experience, if only because they were designed to tell that story of happiness exactly as it’d happened.

His eyes were glazed over with unshed tears, but he found himself smiling in parts, sometimes even chuckling every once in awhile. Despite being in a famous rock band and parents and full blown adults, the evidence of how little they’d grown up was right in front of Billie Joe’s eyes. He couldn’t believe some of the antics they’d pulled hadn’t gotten them kicked out of more than just hotels… Tre’s shenanigans in Tokyo alone, that tour, likely should’ve barred them from Japan altogether. They looked so fucking happy in every picture, and though Billie knew that wasn’t the whole story—they’d bickered plenty and had their fair share of fights, fueled by stress and sleep deprivation—he could only remember the good parts anyway. 

He kept going through the thick stack of albums until it was well past sunrise. At that point, Billie made coffee and continued on. It was a Thursday, which meant Olivia had school, but the time to make sure she was up came and went because he’d already decided he wasn’t going to send her in today, not unless she wanted to go. By the time Olivia emerged from her room, he was deep into an old album, full of faded and wrinkled film photos, some taken even before Dookie, and he was so lost in the past, he didn’t know she was standing there until she said something to him.

“I haven’t seen you look at those in awhile.”

Billie Joe snapped his head in her direction, somewhat startled by her scratchy voice, but he relaxed immediately, especially when he saw how tired she looked. He had to reason he probably looked the same way, however, and at least she’d had the sense to change into comfortable sweats and a t-shirt. “Wanna look with me?”

Olivia sat on the floor next to him when he shuffled aside a few inches to give her room, and she pushed her long hair back from her face with a sweep of her fingers, the better to squint closer at some black and white pictures she’d never seen before. She was honed in on one of Billie and Mike sitting in the back of a pickup truck, arms slung around each other’s shoulders; Mike was making a funny face at the camera, and Billie appeared to be laughing. “How old were you guys?”

“Mmmm,” Billie Joe hummed in thought, then answered, “I think eighteen in that one. Pretty sure it was taken right before we went on our first tour.” His lip between his teeth, he ran his finger over the picture, or rather the protective plastic that covered it, and though his eyes were on the Polaroid, his memory was twenty years in the distance. Billie could remember a lot of self-discovery occurring in that red pickup, back before they’d been willing to admit it meant anything, but to Olivia he simply murmured, “Your dad loved that truck. Bought it from Uncle David for five hundred dollars he scrapped together shucking oysters.”

Olivia glanced at her other dad’s pensive face, then back to the picture. “Shucking oysters?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled weakly and leant back to rest against the bottom of the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s how we got money together to buy a van and tour, after he graduated from high school. He worked at some hole in the wall seafood joint, I worked at a pizza place. Humble beginnings.”

“Huh…”

Billie watched Olivia pull the book closer to herself and begin to flip through it, slowly, at pictures taken long before she had been even in a fleeting thought in either his or Mike’s mind. There was some questionable content in there, mainly involving drugs, but it wasn’t as if Olivia didn’t already know about all that—her parents were in Green Day—and as it was, he wouldn’t have stopped her in a million years. Instead of looking at the photos she was seeing, Billie Joe maintained his gaze on her face: the brightness of her blue eyes, the shape of her lips, how her brow furrowed as she reviewed each snapshot with intent, and he had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle his shaky inhalation of breath because he knew. He knew, as he’d always known, that she was Mike’s, that his was the valiant sample that had fertilized the donor egg, and it only made him love her more, a feat he couldn’t believe was possible.

Distracted by the need to suppress his emotions, Billie didn’t realize she was on the last page until she was looking at him with a question in her eyes.

“Was this your first kiss or something?”

Blinking, he sat forward to review the image: it was of him and Mike backstage in Germany, he thought, their lips together and their eyes crinkled from their grins. Billie didn’t remember the moment, not exactly, but he did remember their first kiss so he laughed thickly and shook his head. “No. No, but we, uh—that was ‘93, I’m pretty sure, and we were—not dating, but uh—starting to realize our feelings for each other, I guess…”

Her eyes lingered on the picture, what was to her an archaic relic of the relationship her two gays dads had before being her parents, and while the world had sometimes been cruel to her because of who they were and who they loved, she had never once wished for a different family. Olivia had always felt right where she belonged, and she guessed that was because her dads always seemed to be right where they belonged, together. They certainly looked that way in this new-to-her picture, and she chewed her lip as she thought about it, the tears building in her eyes and throat. Eventually, Olivia whispered, “I miss him.”

It was a punch that took the air out of him. Not since the very first time they’d seen each other since their world had come to an end had Olivia spoke to Billie Joe about Mike in any capacity, and just those three words said everything. He swallowed, but still his voice was practically a squeak when he said, “Me too, kiddo.”

She turned her head towards Billie, revealing in full the debilitation of her composure that had been sloppily thrown together to begin with, and when he reached for her, she met him halfway. Olivia curled into her father, wrapping her arms around his middle and hiding her crying face into his chest. For the first time in a year, she sought comfort from tattooed arms, and it was given to her immediately with all of the love in the world.

What Olivia didn’t realize was that she was just as much Billie’s comfort as he was hers, and he sobbed quietly into her sweet smelling hair, holding her as close to him as he could manage. In a lot of ways, it had felt like he had lost everything when he woke up to be told Mike was dead, but Olivia was like the most important piece of him he would always have to protect and keep safe. She was theirs, but she was Mike’s, and Billie Joe knew he could never take away the extent of her agony anymore than he could will his own away but maybe he could soften it, just even by just a fraction. That much, he would settle for, because he knew from experience it could make all of the difference in the world; after all, Olivia was the difference for him between spiraling out of control and getting through each day, with goddamn purpose.

“It’s not fair,” Olivia was whispering into Mike’s old hoodie Billie was wearing, in between chokes for breath, that if you sniffed hard enough, still smelled the faintest bit like Mike’s favorite cologne. “I miss him, and it’s not fair.”

“I know—I know, it’s not fair,” Billie agreed tearfully, his cheek resting on the top of her head as his good hand stroked her hair, the other tightened around her petite frame. “I’m so sorry, Livy, so sorry… He loved you… so much, you know, more than anything. You were everything to him, just like you are to me.”

Listening to Billie Joe struggle to speak, his broken words and pauses as he drew in breaths that didn’t satisfy, she burrowed deeper into his embrace, like she did, in fact, know he needed it, too. A year almost to the day had passed, and Olivia was as amazed as anyone at how much it could still hurt, to miss someone this much, and while she had often felt like she shared her parents with the world, they had always made her feel like priority number one—along with each other. She’d grown up knowing her parents were stupidly dedicated to their partnership, loyal, true, and grossly in love, and it was part of what made it so unfair.

“He loved you too, Dad,” Olivia squeaked to Billie and could feel his chest hitch under her ear.

“Yeah—yes, he did,” he managed to respond after a moment, forcing himself to, to have this impossible conversation with the one thing he’d done one hundred percent right in his life… other than falling in love with Mike. Billie closed his eyes when her fingers tangled around the chain that hung from his neck, tears sliding down his cheeks as a result. “And I loved him, and—and I’m really lucky I got to be with my best friend. Not everybody gets that, and I—I miss him every single day, honey, and as much as it hurts, I know how lucky I am to have had what I had, and—I’ll never lose it completely, because I’ll always have you…”

His words made her cry harder, and she was hugged harder in turn, and she experienced a brief reminder, of how closed she’d come to losing both of her parents, a would-be reality she couldn’t entertain for more than half a second. When Olivia was able, she lifted her head to look at Billie Joe, and for the first time in a year, allowed someone else to wipe her tears away. Calloused, gentle fingers smoothed over her skin, and with trembling lips, she said, “Love you, Dad.”

One corner of his mouth twitched upwards in some semblance of a smile, and he rested his palm against her flushed cheek. “I love you, Olivia,” Billie told her, and this time, his voice was strong. Sniffing, he continued, “You know, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be sad and pissed off and upset. Your dad, he—he wouldn’t want you to feel that way, and I don’t want you to feel that way, but that’s only because I don’t ever want you to hurt. We—you never want your kid to hurt, but it’s okay that you hurt, baby girl. I know—I lost my dad when I was ten, and it—it still hurts, so I know, Liv, but what you feel is okay and it’s valid and we can talk about it. I want you to talk to me about it.”

Olivia was still holding onto the wedding ring that she had watched Billie slip onto Mike’s fingers as a precocious nine year old, when she didn’t understand ceremony at all and only cared that she got to wear a pretty dress, and she thumbed the two words engraved into the gold: always + forever. Her red rimmed eyes flickered upwards to find Billie Joe’s, and she murmured, “I’ll try. If you will.”

Tre’s advice echoed between Billie’s ears, and he took a steadying breath before nodding. “I will,” he promised softly and wrapped her hand up in his to hold it against his chest. “I don’t—I just never want you to doubt that you’ve still got me, honey, all of me, one hundred and ten percent. I’m not going anywhere, you never have to worry. And as long as we have each other,” Billie paused to lift her hand up to kiss it, “we’re gonna be okay. You know?”

Nodding, Olivia sank back against him for another hug. She felt him kiss her forehead as her eyes scanned the room that still seemed empty sometimes, just like the rest of the house, until she found her birthday bouquet on the side table. Quietly, Olivia asked,“Did you know he did that?”

He followed her gaze to the flowers, Mike’s handwriting staring back at him, and he swallowed. “No,” Billie Joe told her, “I didn’t.”

“Did you read the card?”

“No,” he repeated, “I didn’t.” When she didn’t say anything right away, Billie kissed her temple and said, “It’s not mine to read, Livy. And I’ll bet, wherever your dad is, he’s—he’s glad he could give you one last birthday present.” His words broke, and he could tell by the way she leant harder into him that they affected her, too. Billie thought about Mike looking down at them, if anything fucking worked that way, and wondered if Mike thought he was doing a good job. He hoped so, and he hoped Mike didn’t worry about him. That if he worried about anything, he worried about Olivia. Kissing her head again, Billie Joe tilted his to the side, then, to catch her eyes. “I think we should do something fun today.”

She sat back, and after rubbing her aching eyes, raised her eyebrows at him and God did she look like Mike when she did that. “Like what? I’m supposed to be in school.”

“Yeah, but you’re playing hooky today. Which reminds me, I have to call the office about that…” He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek, thinking, and then he said, “We should go to the beach.”

“The beach?” Olivia repeated, quizzical. “Isn’t it kinda cold for that?”

Billie shrugged, half-smiling. He was operating off of no sleep, but that was nothing new. Some extra coffee would get Billie through and between that and some ocean breeze, maybe tonight, he would sleep. “I think we could use some fresh air. We’ll dress warm and bring a few blankets, pack some cold pizza to eat, and we’ll tell funny stories about your dad. What do you think?”

The effort Billie was making was obvious, and she could only be grateful; she really loved funny stories about her dad. After a second, Olivia nodded. “Okay. Okay, yeah, let’s do it.” But she reached out a hand to pull at a few locks of his hair and added, “You gotta shower first, though, Dad, you still look like you got into a fight with the stand mixer.”

Laughing, he rubbed at his scalp—he was definitely overdue for a shower, not having done so since making a mess out of himself in the kitchen between the cupcakes and the tacos they still had to eat. “Deal. Go start getting ready, and we’ll be out of here in an hour,” Billie said as he started to stack the photo albums back into their box, and made a silent promise to himself that he wouldn’t wait quite so long before he looked at them again.

Olivia got up to heed his request but hesitated before passing by the side table where her bouquet was. She took a second to think about it, then she plucked the envelope back out of its resting place to hold it out to Billie Joe. “I think you should read it,” Olivia told him in a quiet voice. “I think Dad would want you to.”

With some reluctance of his own, he took it from Olivia, pinched between his thumb and middle finger of his left hand, avoiding it with his bandaged pointer finger that he incidentally really needed to take a look at. Billie looked at the envelope before nodding at Olivia and didn’t turn back to it until she was ascending the stairs. He bit his lip and touched Olivia’s name, unsure if he was ready for whatever was in the letter or if he ever would be, and taking a deep breath, he fished the notecard out to read it.

To my Livybug:

You’re thirteen today, and I can’t believe it. There was a time I thought it would take a miracle for Billie and me to have a baby of our own, and you were that miracle and now you’re a teenager. From the first time I held you, Olivia, I knew I would love you more than anything or anyone for the rest of my life. You are the most important thing in the world to your dad and me, the best thing that ever happened to us, and I want you to always remember that—especially as you grow up and start wanting to date and go to parties and hate us when we tell you no. All of the awards and fame mean nothing without you, and you have been our purpose since we first saw you as a fuzzy little blob on the ultrasound screen thirteen years and… seven-ish months ago. We would do anything for you, we want to protect you from anything that could ever hurt you, and as you become a young adult, it’s going to be difficult for us to let go and allow you to make your own choices, but I promise you we’ll try. There’ll be fights and tears and dramatics (from you, and Billie Joe—just kidding, don’t tell him I said that!) but we’ll always figure it out and get through it because we’re family. Whether you’re 3 or 13 or 33, we will be there for you, loving you through every choice you make, celebrating when things work out and picking you up if you fall because you will always be our baby girl. There is nothing that could ever change that—not an argument, not time, not even death because it’ll happen to Billie and me, hopefully someday far in the future, and hopefully you’ll take care of us and not put us in a nursing home but hey, him and I’ll have each other, right? But if you do put us in a nursing home, I’ll love you even then, past my last breath. Always + forever.

Happy birthday, baby girl.

XX Daddy

Towards the end, Billie had trouble reading Mike’s script through his blurred vision. There was an instinct to dissolve into a thousand pieces, for the third time in less than 24 hours, but something else kept him intact. Billie Joe didn’t know what it was, but it was strong, a sense of comfort that settled on his shoulders and he would swear to God it was Mike if that didn’t sound so fucking crazy. As it was, he took in some wet inhales and exhales, wiping at his damp face with his good hand, reluctant to let go of what had to be some of Mike’s last written words.

It was almost as if Mike had known what was going to happen, and that was something else that sounded fucking crazy in Billie’s head but goddamn everything about the pre-written letter felt like such perfect coincidence. In one 4X6” notecard, Mike had written all Olivia would ever need to read to know how much he had loved her, hard proof she would now always have, if she didn’t already have enough. Just like Billie had a million memories spanning thirty years; three decades of devotion, from best friends to lovers.

“Oh, Mikey,” he sighed shakily, and it hurt to say that childhood nickname, when all it made him think about was the way Mike would smile  when he called him that in public. Billie Joe finally set the note down, then, before he could smudge the ink on it, in favor of rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he dropped them, his gaze caught on one of the photo albums still on the coffee table, its cover insert a snapshot from the day they’d brought Olivia home from the hospital. She was in Mike’s arms, dwarfed by ink-daubed muscles, but he held her like she was made of China, Billie right at his side. He pulled it closer to him and blinked more tears away. “I miss you,” Billie whispered and trusted Mike could hear him, because that’s what he’d promised him and Olivia both—past his last breath, always + forever. “I know you’re here,” he continued, tracing Mike’s immortalized smile in the picture with the tip of his finger. “I’m sorry I forget that sometimes, Mikey, but I know. I know you’d never really leave us. Wherever you are, you’re here, too, and we’re gonna figure it out, Liv and me. I promise.” With his eyes closed, Billie Joe pinched his fingers around Mike’s wedding ring to hold it to his lips as he said, “I love you, babe.”

He opened his eyes, and by the time he finished cleaning up the coffee table, they were mostly dry. The shower would take care of the rest of it, and with more peace than Billie could remember having in a year, he went to get ready to spend the day with his daughter and end it with a good night’s sleep.