Joshua Mike guzzled the last of his beer before crushing it in his hands. “I think we should get at least one free drink. Since it took you so long to get out here.”
“I understand. I can ask Aida when I get back, but for now, I need to write them down. For inventory’s sake.”
Mr. Crawley gave his order while Joshua Mike scoffed.
“Oh, come on. How about I play you for it?” He burped. She wished Wyatt would come back, but he was still at his cart.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Come on, I know we’re way ahead of those other guys. We should be killing time, right? Come on, one shot, one putt. One beer. We’ll make it easy. Here.” Joshua Mike held his putter out like a sword. He shook the head of the club at her, and she imagined swinging it into his shins. Its silver rod reflected in the sun.
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Consider it part of the job. Wait a second.” He moved closer to her. “Aren’t you that girl from the cabin? With Zami?”
He glanced to Mr. Crawley and Chat for recognition.
“How about I play you for a beer?” Chat stepped between them, grabbing the head of the putter, swinging it upside down until it was pressed to the ground. “She’s busy.”
“Notthatbusy,” Joshua Mike sang as he reopened a cooler. He took another beer. It didn’t matter, Augie thought. She’d charge him for five. She knew his number, too.
“She’s basically one of us! An old friend.” He popped the top of his beer. “She’s been to the elusive cabin! She’s been through the life-threatening fire! You might as well join our foursome.”
“Hey, are you hungry?” Mr. Crawley turned to Chat, ignoring Joshua Mike. “Gotta keep you fueled up if we’re gonna take this thing.”
He rubbed Chat’s shoulders with two hands. Everything about this moment was making Augie uncomfortable.
“Oh fine,” Joshua Mike whined and glanced at her name tag. “But next time, Augie, you owe me.”
They all moved toward their carts, and for the last time, Augie slammed the coolers shut.
Augie would have paid to leave the happy hour if she could—the ultimate sign of a bad shift. It was a cacophony of a shit show: Beer glasses crashed from tables; metal chafers clanged back and forth as men piled chicken fingers and French fries and mini Reubens onto plates; everyone was jeering and guffawing, throwing around handshakes andfuck yous. Trophies adorned every table. “Participation awards,” TC joked, and the whole room was cast in a dizzying glow from the rainbow of colorful, sweat-soaked polos.
The entire staff was struggling. The players had all arrived in waves, which threw off the timing of food, the lighting of Sternos,the stocking of the bar. The newbies looked like they might cry as they raced food back and forth, hands stinging from hot metal trays.
A few hours in, things finally started to relax. While most men were officially drunk—the valet would have to drive at least a handful home, or call a wash of cabs—they were manageable. Tired. Most were standing around the tables or mingling on the patio, everyone congratulating Mr. Wright and his guest, who had taken first place.
Mr. Crawley and Chat came in second. Augie avoided watching the ceremony, tuning out the golf pros’ congratulations and Mr. Crawley’s acceptance speech—“Couldn’t have done it without my bud here”—as he took the silver. In fact, Augie had avoided watching Chat the entire event. Even when she spotted him from her periphery, even when she felt his attention land on her like a gavel, she focused elsewhere. She was tired, too. Tired and fed up with them all.
So, she was all the more surprised when, as she went to the lower level and unlocked the door to the storage room—they needed more IPAs, Joshua Mike was on a roll—Augie felt a hand on her back. She jumped.
“Sorry,” Chat said, stepping away.
“What are you doing down here?” Shock vibrated through her.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Before he could respond, they heard a group yelling and laughing down the hall, likely headed to the men’s locker room directly to their left. They both went still.
Augie filled her lungs and sighed in annoyance. “Fine, come on.”
The contrast of the storage room to the Club was drastic: It was a huge, cement room, all exposed pipes and locked chain-link gates and endless boxes of booze. It was chilly, too, and as such, they all called the room “the cave.” Augie shivered as she stepped inside,unlocked a gate, and slid it to the side—the sound of grating metal filling the room. She looked down at the boxes and searched for the IPAs, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Now, this is where they should throw parties.” Chat stared up at the ceiling, his fingers clasping the chain-link metal. “A warehouse party? Isn’t that a thing?” He paused when Augie didn’t respond. “Okay, look. I really don’t mean to bother you. I know you’re working.”
“What do you want, then?” She was exhausted.
