When I opened my eyes the next morning, my first cognizant thought was that I really needed to shut off the bell tower alarm on my phone before it woke up Hanna.

This triggered an avalanche of memories. Hanna slumped over Andre's toilet, black hair all askew and eyes heavy-lidded. Bodie St. James carrying her home, the muscles in his arms flexing elegantly under her weight in that black henley shirt. Me kicking him out of the apartment so I could have a moment alone to cry about—

My car.

I pulled my duvet up over my face, burrowing deep in the Tide-pod-scented darkness beneath the covers. I wanted to scream, but there was no time for emotional breakdowns in modern capitalist society.

I had work in an hour.

My Garland Country Club uniform was in a clump on the floor of the closet. I slipped into the white polyester polo shirt and unflattering khaki shorts in the bathroom. After I'd brushed my teeth and braided my hair, I fired off a text to PJ asking if she'd be able to swing by and give me a ride to work.

My car has a flat tire, I lied, then added a sad emoji to keep it casual.

Her reply appeared a few seconds later.

Sure thing girl!!! Be there in fifteen

She'd punctuated this with a shooting star and a thumbs up.

With that sorted, I pulled on my sneakers and padded out into the kitchen, tugging the bedroom door shut behind me. I was shoving granola bars into both front pockets of my jean jacket when the door flew open. Hanna appeared, like a tiny hungover goblin from her cave, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the kitchen light.

"Good morning," I whispered.

She flinched.

"How bad was I?" she demanded, her voice a gravelly croak.

Half her hair was still tied up in a pre-wrap ponytail. The other half was matted to the side of her neck in one enormous thicket.

"Andre was the only one who noticed you got sick," I said.

I didn't know if that was true, but I figured I'd rather lie and save her the embarrassment than let her spend all morning panicked and picturing the entire Garland football team listening to her hurl.

"Did he carry me home?" she asked. "I remember somebody carrying me."

"Um. Actually, Bodie did."

"Bodie St. James?"

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

"PJ's here, gotta go, talk later—" I dashed out the door, "—stay hydrated!"

❖ ❖ ❖

On Sundays, the Garland Country Club was dominated by the retirement crowd, which meant PJ had to cruise very cautiously through the parking lot, and stop for a solid three minutes while a very elderly man tried to navigate his Audi into a spot big enough to park a doublewide trailer in.

PJ ended up sliding into an employee space right next to Rebecca's car—a pretty Lexus (sleek and black, like a river rock) with a Garland University decal on the rear window.

Just the sight of it made me slump in my seat.

"I hope you're on wait staff today," PJ said, using her rear-view mirror to check her lipstick and fluff her copper red hair. "I had the worst blind date on Friday. You would not believe the kind of guys I attract on Tinder."

Hearing the trials and tribulations of PJ's dating app activity sounded like the best kind of distraction to keep me from wallowing in sorrow about my car.

"I doubt it. Rebecca keeps giving me caddy duty," I said. "I think she's trying to punish me, or something."

PJ snorted.

"Does she know you're clueless about golf?"

"She knows I'm bad at it," I said. "That's my concern. I feel like she's trying to get me to fuck up at my job so she has an excuse to—"

"To what?" PJ prompted, eyebrows furrowing.

"I think she wants to fire me," I admitted.

"Girl, she wants to fire everyone," PJ said with a laugh. "I heard her on the phone with the owner last week. Bitchin' about the fact that I don't have a degree. Like I need to know shit about international relations to do my job."

"International relations?"

"That was her major. I looked her up on LinkedIn." At my scandalized expression, she added, "I'm petty, Laurel. You know this. Look, Rebecca's just high strung. She's not gonna fire you unless you fuck up real bad."

I sighed.

"I feel like today's a fuck up kind of day for me."

"Then I'll just hide you under the bar," PJ said.

This was precisely what she did four hours later, after the Sherwoods had finished a round cut short by Mrs. Sherwood's arthritis flare-up. I was in desperate need of a fifteen-minute break. While PJ cleaned glasses, I sat on the floor behind the bar, basking in the air conditioning and munching on toasted almonds.

"I think I'm getting Bermuda short tan lines," I said, scrunching up my shorts to show her the distinctly paler upper half of my thighs.

"I've got some self-tanner you can borrow if you need it," PJ offered.

"Thanks."

"And, babe, you need it."

I scoffed in outrage and chucked a toasted almond at her. PJ laughed as she dodged it, but almost as quickly, dropped her smile and cleared her throat.

"Hi, Rebecca," she said, voice theatrically loud. "How are you?"

I froze.

"Fine," Rebecca answered curtly. "Have you seen Laurel?"

PJ put her pageant training to use with her answering smile.

"No, ma'am," she answered smoothly. "Think she went on break."

I still had an almond in my mouth. I was too afraid to chew it.

The crunch might betray my hiding spot.

"Well, when you see her, could you let her know she needs to wash down the carts again? The windshields are streaky."

Bullshit. I'd scrubbed them dry with plush monogrammed Garland Country Club towels. Rebecca was, for someone who claimed to be low maintenance, very much not.

She was looking for things to pick apart.

"I'll let her know," PJ said generously.

There was a pause. I didn't hear footsteps.

"Is there—uh, is there anything else I can help you with?" PJ asked, clueing me in to the fact that Rebecca was hovering.

"No. No, I'm just watching the TV." My eyes flickered up towards the screen mounted over the bar, which—given the sharp angle at which I was viewing it—was populated by very distorted figures against seas of green. "Have they talked about Vaughn at all this morning?"

"I've had it on golf," PJ said. "I doubt they'll have any news soon. These investigations take time. They've gotta be thorough, and all."

Rebecca huffed.

"Well, I hope they can be thorough a bit faster," she grumbled. "It's a travesty, what they're doing to that man. Those tips were fake. Everyone knows it."

I opened my mouth, as if to argue, then remembered I was trying to hide.

"And what about the missing girl?" PJ asked, nudging me with the side of her foot in a way that said don't you dare make a sound. "Josefina, wasn't it?"

"The Mexican one? God, I wish they'd get over that. She could've been a hooker, for all we know—who's to say she wasn't going door to door looking for drugs? Honestly, they're all so corrupt down there—"

I bit down hard on my almond.

"But don't you think they should investigate?" PJ said quickly. "Just in case something bad really did happen to her?"

Rebecca sighed, like she thought every question that came out of PJ's mouth was a dumb one.

"All I'm saying is," she said, "I think he should be allowed to coach. It seems so obvious they're only picking on him because the guy's got a strong personality. Some people don't like that—that kind of tough love coaching. But that's Vaughn. He gets the job done."

PJ just smiled and nodded.

"Anyway. If you see Laurel—golf carts."

I knew Rebecca had left when PJ scoffed and declared, "That woman is such a piece of work."

"I told you she wants to fire me," I whispered.

PJ snatched the Costco-size bag of almonds out of my hands and set them up on the bar.

"Go do the golf carts," she told me. "I can't survive this place without you."

My dad and I had never been in the position to turn our noses up at paychecks for the sake of pride. I could complain about the day to day frustrations of my job—ninety-eight percent of which revolved around the stick wedged firmly up Rebecca's rear end—but when it came down to it, the positives outweighed the negatives.

I liked the club. I liked PJ. I even liked the Sherwoods and their disintegrating knees.

And I definitely liked my paychecks.

Rebecca could pry this job from my cold, dead hands. I wasn't going anywhere until I had enough cash to fix my car.

_________________

Hopefully there was some much-needed lightheartedness after that multi-chapter Sad Boi Hour for Laurel. I am very, very excited for next week, though. We've got back to back to back Bodie.

I got a couple comments about the last two updates (aka the chapter I split into part one and part two) feeling too short and not satisfying. While I do intend to break up longer chapters again, I'll post them simultaneously next time so that you could experience them as I originally planned them out. I never want you guys to feel let down or shortchanged by a chapter!

Last note (because I read the news on Buzzfeed yesterday and haven't stopped thinking about it since) is #JusticeForNusrat (trigger warning for sexual harassment and murder, please be cautious if you choose to look up the articles).

Your friendly author,

Kate