Inside the tire store, a guy around my dad’s age dressed in brown Carhartt pants and a shirt with FAST TIRE embroidered on the pocket is standing behind the counter. A toothpick dangles from the corner of his mouth.
Annabelle goes up to the counter. “We’re looking for Dale?”
“You found him,” the man says. “Help you girls?”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “A guy called Hank told us to come. We need a tire.”
“Model, make, and year?”
“It’s a 2007 Ford Focus,” Annabelle says.
Dale types one-fingered onto a keyboard smeared with grease and frowns at the computer. He leans against the counter and rubs his chin. “We’re outta tires here for that make, but I probably have it at the warehouse.” He taps the keyboard and squints at it. “Looks like they can get that tire on the truck … that should take you…” He chews on the toothpick for a second. “Be outta here about four—no later’n six. That sound all right?”
“I thought this place was called Fast Tire,” Annabelle says.
“I’m sorry, girls. Best I can do for you. You can go on and wait in the customer lounge. There’s free coffee and a TV. Coupla doughnuts might be left.”
Dale charges us ninety dollars for the tire, which includes Hank’s discount. Bea hands over her Jesus money.
They take our car into the garage. The flat tire flaps.
“Poor Buzzi,” Annabelle says. “She didn’t deserve that.”
We trudge across the street to a little kids’ playground. Annabelle leans against a slide and Bea sits on a swing.
“Why do guys have to be like that?” I ask.
Annabelle snorts. “That’s the question of the universe.”
“I can’t imagine girls running people off the road,” I say.
“Because they wouldn’t.”
“Hank was nice,” Bea points out. “And Mateo is, too. And Léo, don’t forget.”
“Who’s Léo?” Annabelle asks.
“This really cute French guy—”
“Really cute,” Bea interrupts.
“He was Hamlet in our spring play, and I was Ophelia. He’s at Willow now.”
Annabelle listens, nodding from time to time as I tell her about how I met Léo. She snorts when I get to the part about puking on him.
“How would it work out anyway, him being in France and me being here?” I say. “But still. It would have been nice to know him better.”
“Has he reached out since closing night?” Bea asks.
“No, and I don’t blame him. Who would want to be with a girl who threw up after she kissed him? And I don’t want to text him. I don’t want him to think I’m desperate.”
“Maybe he’s thinking the same,” Annabelle puts in. “Maybe he thinks you don’t like him.”
I shake my head. “Guys don’t think that way.”
“Maybe this guy does, and you’ll never know if you don’t reach out. Why does saying what you feel make you look desperate?” She says this like she doesn’t know the answer, either. “It’s such a ridiculous standard.” She kicks at a dandelion poking out of the gravel.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe French and British guys are different from Americans.”
She snorts. “No.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say to Léo anyway. ‘I didn’t come to Willow because I’m pregnant’? That’s not a good way to start a relationship.”
“You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself, you know. And besides, he’d be an asshat if he dumped you because of that.”
“I know he’ll understand,” Bea adds. “He really is a good guy.”
“I’m beginning to think good guys are the exception rather than the rule,” Annabelle says.
Bea pushes her swing back. She drags her feet in the dusty hollow under the swing. “Was your guy nice, Camille? The one you…” She blushes.
“Dean?” I sit down in the swing next to her. “I wouldn’t say he was nice like Léo’s nice, but to be honest, he noticed me and that felt really special at the time. He had nice eyes and he didn’t care what anyone thought about him, and I liked that.” I twist in the swing and then let it go, spinning around in a circle.
“But, like, what was it like?” Bea asks.
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, a little shy. “I really do.”