Chapter 13 #4
“Lucky shot.” Chat took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his shoulder.
“Lucky shot my ass; you’re a goddamn prodigy. Next time, I get him as my duo.” He noticed Augie and rushed toward her. “Oh,
thank god. I’m parched as hell. You’ve been sleeping on us. What gives?”
Wyatt Greene waved as he put away his putter and headed toward her.
“Our apologies.” Augie hopped out of the cart and headed around back to the cooler, smoothing her shorts. In the moment, even
her cutest uniform felt hideous. “We’re a little behind.”
She didn’t look at Chat, but she felt his attention all the same. Her heart pounded even harder; she felt her pulse in her
neck, in her wrists, in the soft backs of her knees.
“Afternoon, Aug.” Wyatt pulled off his golf gloves. “How’s it going?”
Despite herself, Augie was relieved by his presence. Wyatt Greene had a gentle, steady demeanor. Like Leah, he was a good
listener, though Lyle was the one who had been a carbon copy of their dad.
“Going fine.” Augie forced a smile.
“Let’s hope we can wrap this thing up soon, huh? It’s a hot one.” Wyatt moved closer to Augie as everyone grabbed beers from
the cooler. “My guest canceled last minute, as did Josh Mike’s,” he whispered to Augie. “Which leaves me . . .”
Augie mouthed, “Sorry.”
“Well we were sorry you couldn’t join us last night. That really is a fantastic restaurant. And as I told Leah, it was only fitting
we got to celebrate her new job on Lyle’s birthday. It’s all the more proof he’s watching out for her. And that lobster bisque.
Incredible. We’ll all go back.”
Augie’s whole body clenched. Lyle’s birthday? It had been Lyle’s birthday celebration, too? July eleventh. She usually went
out with them every year. It was the one time they spoke of Lyle openly. How could she forget? Her mouth went dry.
“I’m, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.”
Wyatt studied her, seemingly surprised by the intensity of her remorse. “No, Aug, don’t worry.” He reached out and squeezed
her shoulder. “Really. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. It’s okay. We’ll celebrate again soon. Like I said, I want to
go back to that spot.”
Augie nodded and was about to apologize again when Mr. Crawley and Joshua Mike joined them.
“Ugh, no IPAs?” Josh Mike whined as he opened both coolers.
“Oh, sorry, no, not today,” Augie said.
Joshua Mike booed, grabbed a Summer Shandy, and, to Augie’s relief, walked to his cart.
Mr. Crawley reached for a water and smiled at Wyatt. “I can’t believe you agreed to play with him.”
Wyatt rubbed his forehead underneath the brim of his hat. “You’re telling me.”
“If you’d agree to be my partner for once and let us clobber everyone . . .” Mr. Crawley trailed off. “Let me know.”
“Oh, hey now. You know that wouldn’t be fair. It’s an unwritten rule, right? The best of the best can’t play together.”
Augie closed the cooler as the sun fell over the ice, and the men jolted when the clasp snapped into place.
“Oh well. I guess I should stick with the youth while I can, old man.” Mr. Crawley gave Wyatt’s arm a light punch as he moved
past him toward his cart.
“I am an old man,” Wyatt sighed to Augie. “But, all right, I should go. Hang in there, kiddo.” He dipped his hat to her as
he headed toward Joshua Mike.
Augie looked out to the lake, blinking away a gust of wind, but a second later, she felt the air shift in a new way—Chat.
They were alone now. Still, she was no longer excited to see him; she was too consumed with guilt about Leah. All she wanted
to do was call her and apologize for everything. She was such a bad friend these days, forcing all her petty drama on Leah
when Leah was the one with real problems—a real job. Once again, a guy was taking over Augie’s focus.
“Hi,” Chat finally said, clearly thrilled to see her.
Augie studied his blue Lacoste polo, white pants, golf gloves—Club hat. He pinched the collar of his shirt and reached out
to touch hers.
“We match.” He laughed, grinning manically. “I haven’t worn a polo in years.”
“What a coincidence.” Her voice was harsher than intended, but she couldn’t help it. She looked away, watching the men drinking
by their carts, updating their scorecards.
“Okay, another random run-in means you’re thinking it again.” Chat leaned closer. “I was never supposed to . . .” he began, prompting her to finish the sentence.
Augie opened a cooler and grabbed a piece of ice, squeezing it in her fist until the water melted through the cracks of her
fingers.
“See you again.” She looked straight up at him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye at the cabin, by the way. That was all . . . a lot.”
“It was something.”
Chat pulled back.
“At least people love a story,” Augie said before he could respond—echoing what she’d heard him say to Mrs. Crawley. She hadn’t
planned to do it, but her frustration was growing. Chat and Mrs. Crawley shouldn’t be consuming so much of her energy; she
just needed to know once and for all what was really going on between them. Did he actually like her?
Chat scrunched his eyebrows. Augie wasn’t sure he remembered saying those words, but he was registering her attitude all the
same; the previous ease of their back-and-forth was gone.
“Do you want a water?” she suddenly asked, exasperated. She’d always been like this: the first to break a spell of uncomfortable
silence. To feel bad.
He took the water without saying anything.
On reflex, she rolled back her shoulders, and in her moment of weakness, she asked what she really wanted to know. “How was
the rest of the week?”
“It was fine. The weather was good. I can’t complain. But I was still working, so. It was still work.”
This wasn’t the answer Augie had wanted. She wanted to hear it was awful—that Mrs. Crawley was horrible, a pain in the ass
to be around.
“I’ve been working a lot, too.” She latched the coolers. “I was glad to have some time off.”
“Yeah, I could use a break. I’ve been with them nonstop. At this point, I feel like I’m a thirtysomething dad.”
“That cabin is pretty special, though.” Augie gave him a challenging look. “Not exactly a bad place to work.”
Chat stepped closer, moving his head toward her ear as if he was about to whisper—but at that moment, Mr. Crawley and Joshua
Mike returned for more drinks, and Augie realized she needed to write down their orders.
“Uh, gentlemen”—she backed away from Chat—“if you could let me know your drink totals and what number you’d like to use, that’d
be great.”
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.”
“Not that busy,” 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 and fuck 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