Chapter 2

Don’t Smile Too Much—It’s Not Free

Noelle | Wednesday, July 9^th

***

Twelve Paychecks to Freedom (and One Exploding Cabbage).

Someone was singing.
Someone was shouting about losing a shoe.
Someone else was eating cereal directly off the floor like a war criminal.

Someone was crying.
Someone was always crying.

Noelle padded through the kitchen in socks, dodging a neon-green plastic truck, a yowling cat launching off the counter, and a puddle of orange juice no one had actually cleaned, despite swearing they had.

She pressed her forehead against the fridge door—cold metal, zero peace.

“Has anyone seen my Hydro Flask?” she called, opening the fridge and immediately regretting it.

The smell hit like a dare.

“Don’t open the fridge!” her mom shouted from upstairs. “The cabbage exploded!”

“What does that even mean?” Noelle muttered, grabbing a yogurt and a string cheese and shoving them into her purse.

The dog barked. The toddler shrieked. One of her brothers sprinted past in only one sock. She didn’t know which one. Too many little brothers.

At the table, her dad—still in gym shorts and a PAXVILLE WRESTLING 2011 T-shirt—was surrounded by three piles of bills and one bowl of cereal that had gone soggy three crises ago.

“Morning,” he said, writing with one hand and blocking the toddler from eating a crayon with the other.

“Is this how you pictured adulthood?”

He didn’t look up. “Living the dream.”

A crayon rolled under her foot as she stepped into the hallway—perfect timing.

She bent, picked it up, and handed it to Oscar, who was coloring directly on the wall.

“Not washable,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s art.”

She blinked. “Mom’s going to kill you when she has to repaint.”

“Dad said art exists where it wants to exist.”

“Of course he did.”

Abby ran past screaming, “I can’t find my left shoe! The new dog ate it!”

Noelle didn’t ask. She just slipped on her own shoes by the door. One of them was damp. She didn’t ask about that either.

From the stairs, her mom’s voice: “Did you pack sunscreen? Remember that weird sun rash last time!”

“It’s called a tan!” Noelle yelled back.

“It looked infected!”

Not wrong.

“I work inside!”

Her dad reached around the toddler and offered her a travel mug of coffee—still warm. That alone felt like a miracle.

“You’re a good kid,” he said. “Even if you hate us.”

“I don’t hate you guys.”

“You just hate being here.”

“Different thing.” She kissed him on the forehead before the dog launched at her leg.

She peeled him off, grabbed her keys, and paused. Twelve more paychecks. Give or take. Depending on if the tip fund held.

She used to play a quiet game: The If I Vanished Test.
If she disappeared tomorrow, who at home would notice first?

Probably Abby. Because she borrowed my clothes.
Her mom might not realize until laundry day.
Her dad would assume she was working a double.

Not sad, exactly—just measuring how much space she took up in a house made of chaos and crayon murals.

Twelve more paychecks.

It wasn’t just about the money. It was about proof. That she’d been here. That she’d worked. That she’d earned her exit.

Someone upstairs shouted MOM! Someone else started crying again.

She stepped outside into the heat—
and the sound of herself, finally, breathing.

***

She’s Kenzi. With an I. I’m Tired.

Noelle’s phone buzzed.

Kenzi:
🦋 sooooo many walk-ins already!
🦋 put your cute face on…the guys today are HOT
🦋 also trina said you left your nametag here again lolololol

Three butterfly emojis.
Two LOLs.
Zero regrets.

She walked through the back employee entrance and was immediately hit with the club’s former holy trinity: citrus cleanser, chlorine, and entitlement.

Inside, the AC was working overtime, but the hostess stand still felt like a slow roast. The seating chart was already covered in Kenzi’s loopy handwriting, complete with sparkly pink stars and an unnecessary smiley face next to the Van Ryans’ name.

Kenzi was instantly in her face—practically bouncing on white sneakers, blond ponytail swinging like it had its own theme music.

“Elle-Belle!” she sing-songed.

Noelle kept walking. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re late!” Kenzi chirped.

“I’m on time.”

“Trina says if you aren’t fifteen minutes early for your shift, you are late,” Kenzi said, nudging her.

Noelle gave her a look. “Do you ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Whatever this is.”

Kenzi blinked, deciding if it was an insult. “You mean fabulous?”

Noelle didn’t answer. She checked the seating chart instead. “The Van Ryans want the window again?”

Kenzi nodded. “Yes. The wife said if they don’t get their favorite seat, she spirals. Like, yelling-at-her-husband-in-public spirals.”

“Noted,” Noelle said. She picked up two menus and straightened her shirt.

Kenzi leaned in. “You’re so good at this, Elle. You have that thing.”

“I have that thing where I’m pretending not to die.”

“Nooo,” Kenzi insisted. “You’re like… calm and cool, but also approachable.”

“You cried last week because someone brought a Labradoodle onto the patio.”

“Okay, but he had a bowtie. And his name was Mr. Wigginton.”

Noelle turned away. “Cover the stand for two minutes.”

She crossed the waiting area like a pro—confident, smooth, not thinking about how many hours she had to fake this smile.

Mrs. Van Ryan was already halfway through what was likely her second mimosa, probably courtesy of Mr. Van Ryan from the lounge, to keep her occupied while they waited.

“We’re early,” Mrs. Van Ryan whispered loudly. “So, we get our favorite table.”

Noelle smiled. “Right this way.”

She led them to the window table—off-center, half-shaded by trees, positioned perfectly for optimal brunch envy.

They sat. She placed menus. Mrs. Van Ryan dabbed her forehead with a linen napkin like she was the star of her own Jane Austen remake.

“Bless you,” she said, slipping a folded bill into Noelle’s hand. “For understanding good service.”

Noelle smiled. “It’s my life’s calling.”

She didn’t look at the bill until she was behind the lemon tree centerpiece.
Fifty bucks.
Into the fund it would go.

Back at the hostess stand, she’d already taken a table change, a stroller to the ankle, and another verbal assault from Kenzi.

She was considering whether a fork to the eye counted as self-defense when Kenzi sidled up.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Kenzi whispered. “Do you see him?”

Noelle didn’t have to ask.

Casey was flipping through the staff binder like employment had personally wronged him.

“New hot caddy,” Kenzi said.

Noelle responded before she could stop herself. “Not an Amex Avenger?”

Kenzi blinked. “Exactly.”

“I heard it from Phoebe while out on the patio,” Kenzi added. “Caddy. New hire.”

Kenzi leaned on the podium. “He owns a Lexus.”

“Technically,” Noelle said, “he arrives in a Lexus. We don’t know who owns it.”

She turned to head back toward the front when—

“Excuse me—”

A voice.
Low. Calm. Unbothered.

She turned.
And froze.

Casey.
Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, a single brow raised like he’d just asked something and expected you to have heard it the first time.

His shirt was wrinkled. His name tag was crooked. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or didn’t care if you thought so.

Not like someone trying to impress a new boss—more like someone testing the rules to see who’d flinch.

Kenzi was saying something. Noelle didn’t hear it.

Casey looked directly at her. “I remember you. Do you know where they keep the drawer keys?”

Noelle blinked once. Then again.

Casey nodded once. “Yeah. Sorry. Just trying to find the drawer. Walt said there were keys.”

Noelle found her voice. “Right. Top drawer, under the shift clipboard.”

“Thanks,” he said. No smile. No sarcasm. Just cool—and gone with the keys, disappearing around the corner like he belonged to some other movie.

Noelle stared after him. For a new hire, he sure didn’t act like one.

Kenzi stepped closer, beaming. “Hi! I’m Kenzi. With an i.”

He slowed, amused. “Cool. I’m Casey. With a C.”

“So, wait—you’re new and you’re not, like, somebody’s cousin? That’s rare,” she said, twirling her walkie cord like jewelry. “Walt doesn’t even hire a dishwasher without a background check.”

Casey leaned on the counter, unreadable. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

Kenzi laughed too loud. “Okay, mysterious. So, who’d you bribe? Elle said you looked like an Amex Avenger—her words, not mine.”

Noelle cleared her throat. “No, she didn’t say that. Also, my name’s Noelle. Not Elle.”

Kenzi waved her off. “Anyway. No one shows up looking like that unless they’re either loaded or lost.”

Casey tilted his head. “Or both.”

“Oooh, are you lost and loaded? That’s so Gatsby of you.”

He didn’t answer—just half-smirked.

“So really… what’s your deal?” Kenzi pressed. “Are you doing a social experiment? Or the Club President’s son working here undercover to rat us all out?”

“Caddy gig. Summer job,” he said.

“And the Lexus?”

“Stepdad’s car. He offered me a Lamborghini, so the Lexus felt like a compromise. To be fair, it’s his used Lexus. He bought the Lamborghini for himself.”

“My mom just married rich. Fourth time’s the charm, I guess,” Casey added. “I give it six months. Maybe seven.”

“That was the realest thing I’ve ever heard in this building,” Kenzi said.

He looked past her toward the dining room, scanning like he was looking for someone. “Her husbands don’t last. Statistically. So I figured I should earn something before the next one trades her in.”

Kenzi pointed at him, then at Noelle. “He looks like he was born to flip golf balls into a martini glass, but he’s making ten bucks an hour. It’s giving hidden royalty on a punishment arc.”

Casey offered Noelle a shrug that could’ve meant sorry, help, or welcome to brunch.

Noelle gave him a slow nod. “If Kenzi starts assigning you a zodiac sign, that means she likes you. Congratulations. You’re doomed.”

Kenzi smacked her arm. “You know me too well.”

Casey turned to Noelle, smirked. “How do I know if you like me?”

Kenzi jumped in. “Wait, I called dibs on the new hottie.”

“You can have him,” Noelle said. “He comes with a complimentary existential crisis and a stepdad named Brent, probably.”

“Baxter,” Casey corrected.

“Oh my god. Of course it is,” Noelle muttered.

A bell rang. A toddler screamed at table eleven. Someone knocked over a Bloody Mary and blamed their spouse.

Casey sighed. “Anyway. Where do we keep the backup napkins?”

“Wait—you’re actually doing labor?”

“Spite doesn’t clock out.”

Noelle watched him clean the spill. Untucked shirt. Non-reg shoes. That walk like he’d already judged the whole club and handed down a B-minus.

Kenzi’s eyes tracked him. “I swear, something’s off about him—but like, hot-off.”

She leaned in. “We don’t even know what team Casey swings with.”

Noelle choked. “Kenzi.”

“I’m just saying—let’s hope it’s our team. Because you,” Kenzi pointed, “are already gone.”

Noelle started to protest.

Then Casey looked back.
Once.
Not long enough to mean anything.
Too long to mean nothing.

Noelle said nothing—just straightened napkins that didn’t need fixing.

Kenzi grinned. “Yup. Gone.”

***

It’s a Virgin Daiquiri, Karen.

Back in the break room, she peeled open a granola bar and shot Milo a quick text.

Noelle:
his name is casey
not an amex avenger
just a new caddy

She was mid-chew when she heard it—
raised voices. Loud ones.

Noelle froze.

People didn’t shout at Thornbrook Country Club.
They complained. They sighed. They whispered something withering to the manager.

Shouting was for shopping malls and airport gates—not here.

Which meant something had gone seriously wrong.

She shoved her phone into her pocket and headed for the noise.

Table eleven.

A red-faced teenage girl sat stiffly, glaring at a half-empty drink with a cocktail umbrella.

The strawberry-rum smell hit Noelle before she even reached the table.

Kenzi was mid-flail. “I didn’t bring her anything! I’m not your server!”

Phoebe clutched her tray to her chest, eyes wide. “She asked for a virgin daiquiri. That’s what I told the bar.”

The woman at the head of the table—tortoiseshell sunglasses, blowout, one manicured finger mid-jab—looked ready to escalate.

Likely the mom. Possibly the grandmother. Honestly, with the plastic surgery rotation around here, it was hard to tell.

Sharper now: “I don’t care which one of you it was—one of you idiots just served alcohol to my teenage daughter. My Sophie is only thirteen.”

Sophie looked like she wanted to disappear into her pleated tennis skort—but not without finishing the drink.

Noelle stepped in, voice low and steady.
“Phoebe, grab her an actual virgin daiquiri. Kenzi—check the patio.”

Phoebe bolted. Kenzi huffed and spun off like she’d been accused of arson.

Noelle faced the woman. “Mrs…?”

“Chadwick.”

“Mrs. Chadwick,” she repeated with a nod. “There was clearly a miscommunication. I’ll speak to the bar staff so this never happens again—and today’s lunch will be on the house. If Sophie’s feeling up to it, we’d love to send over some carrot cake.”

Mrs. Chadwick sniffed. “I remember when this club only hired the best.”

Noelle smiled with just enough nothing to be polite. “We’re working hard to return to that.”

Phoebe reappeared with the replacement—rum-free this time—and Sophie accepted it with a glare, umbrella already back between her teeth.

Noelle walked away.

She’d survived worse.
Wine moms, toddler tantrums, Trina in full clipboard mode.

She could handle this.

Once the coast was clear, she ducked back into the break room, dropped onto the bench, and exhaled.

No response from Milo yet. Probably out charming the old guys for tips.

She’d show him the Wicker Park apartment later—two stops from the L, tiny kitchen, perfect view.

She stared at it a moment too long.
And wondered why a smug ginger caddy’s voice was still lodged in her head.

***

Why Is He Carrying $300 Scotch?

By noon, Thornbrook Country Club was starting to crack at the seams.

Noelle dodged a tipped stroller, handed out the wrong menus, and tried to stay Zen while a member complained their iced tea was “too cold.”

A woman in a visor and Thornbrook Racquet Club jacket marched up.
“I’ve been a member here for forty-two years,” she snapped, “and I’m waiting fifteen minutes to be seated like I’m at some mall food court. My legs are killing me from tennis. We need a table.”

Noelle smiled serenely. “Right this way.”

She seated them, fielded a complaint about the temperature of the water carafe, and returned to the hostess stand—just as Kenzi spun past, lip gloss shining.

“Going to check on the patio again!” Kenzi called.
Translation: hot tennis coach sighting.

Noelle muttered under her breath and turned back to the seating chart—
and nearly collided with a wall of navy-blue polo.

She stepped back—straight into Casey.

He looked mildly startled, but recovered instantly.

He was holding a capped bottle of Glenfiddich 21—the kind of thing members treated like liquid gold.

Noelle clocked it immediately: untucked shirt, crooked name tag, not-regulation shoes. Not just underdressed—unbothered.

She crossed her arms. “You know there’s a dress code, right?”

Casey glanced down. “What part of this screams noncompliance?”

“Shirt’s untucked. Name tag’s upside down. And those are Vans.”

“They’re fashionable.”

“Barely.”

“Fair. But thanks.”

“You run uniform inspections now? Or just me?”

“Just the newbies I’m trying to keep off Walt and Trina’s radar.”

Casey gave a solemn nod. “Good to know you care.”

“I don’t—never mind.”

They paused.
Then he leaned in—just enough to shift her pulse.

“You gonna report me to Walt and Trina? Or let me sneak by with a warning?”

She snorted. “Careful not to spill Glenfiddich on your knockoff Vans.”

She nodded toward the bottle. “Why are you even carrying that?”

“Mr. Paxton sent me,” Casey said flatly. “Apparently the drink cart’s too slow, and he’s ‘not about to chase down a cocktail like a peasant.’”

“Thirst waits for no one—especially when you’re wearing cashmere socks on the golf course.”

Noelle raised an eyebrow.
No straight guy should know that much about sock fabric.

“You’re walking it all the way back out to the course?”

“Clubhouse said the bartender wouldn’t hand it off unless someone personally vouched. So I’m headed to hole 7. Or maybe 8.”

She shook her head. “You do know most caddies just carry the clubs, right?”

“Not my fault I look like someone worth trusting with expensive liquor. And Paxton tips in hundreds.”

“Classic Paxton. Pretty sure tipping hundreds got him elected Club President this year,” she muttered.

He glanced past her. “By the way, someone’s throwing a fit about a highchair out there.”

“We’re out. Unless you know where one’s hiding.”

He pointed toward the terrace. “Passed one earlier. Looked like it was holding court for two elderly queens’ Louis Vuitton.”

“Fantastic.”

She pivoted and headed for the terrace. Casey set down the scotch and followed.

Sure enough—highchair by the railing, under a cashmere shawl and a designer tote.

One of the women sipping rosé glared.

“Sorry,” Noelle said sweetly. “We need to reclaim this royal throne.”

She lifted the bag. Casey grabbed the highchair.

“So,” he said as they walked it back. “This happen often?”

“If I wanted noise and chaos, I’d stay home. This place is usually dignified. Controlled. Today feels more like brunch with The Real Housewives.”

“Better outfits,” Casey said.

She glanced at him. “You always this observant?”

“Just trained. Second day, remember?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

They reached the dining room. She adjusted the highchair; he reclaimed the scotch like it was a diplomatic gift.

“May your members be sober and your highchairs unclaimed.”

She blinked. “That almost sounded like a blessing.”

“I contain multitudes,” he said.

Then he was gone.

Noelle watched him disappear into the kitchen hall, not sure if she wanted to slap him or follow him. Possibly both.

Kenzi reappeared like she’d been summoned by drama.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a ghost that looked really good in a caddy polo.”

“I’m fine. Just… processing.”

Kenzi misted her wrists with vanilla rose. “You know what helps? Spa day. Also, this body spray.”

Noelle blinked. “Did you just aromatherapy me?”

“Self-care is a lifestyle.”

They leaned against the hostess stand.

“If one more person complains their water has too much ice,” Kenzi muttered, “I might run screaming into the koi pond.”

“I’ll give you five bucks if you do.”

“Ten if I cannonball.”

“Twenty if you drag Trina in with you.”

Kenzi grinned. “Add in Casey and we’ve got a pool party.”

Noelle groaned. “We’re not inviting the complication.”

“Too late,” Kenzi whispered. “He RSVP’d to your emotional core.”

***

If I Breathe Too Loud, Trina Schedules a Meeting.

By mid-afternoon, the brunch crowd had thinned, leaving behind only crumbs, complaints, and sticky mimosa residue.

Noelle wiped down the hostess stand and resisted the urge to hurl the reservation tablet as it froze—again.

“Elle!” someone stage-whispered.

Kenzi peeked around the corner like she was in a teen soap. “Trina’s rampaging. Just a heads-up.”

“I’m not scared of clipboard Barbie,” Noelle muttered.

“You should be. She’s got that psycho-glint—like she just found a typo in the gala program.”

Before Noelle could duck into the back, Trina appeared—pencil skirt, heels slightly mismatched, clipboard snapping orders like a metronome.

“Noelle.”

“Hi, Trina,” she said, with the flat cheer of someone greeting a DMV employee.

“Can we have a quick word?”

Noelle followed her into the hallway off the lounge.

“I’ve received some… observations,” Trina said, flipping her clipboard like it was scripture. “That your tone with members can come off a little… flippant.”

“My tone?”

“This morning’s seating issue. And the incident with Mrs. Chadwick.”

“I fixed that for Phoebe.”

Trina smiled the way people do at toddlers about to eat glue. “I’m not here to assign blame. But perception matters.”

Noelle’s stomach sank.

“I overheard your conversation with that club member,” Trina added, tapping her pen.

“Which one?”

“The red-haired boy. The one with the scotch bottle.”

“You mean Casey?”

“I don’t know his name,” Trina said, like it tasted cheap. “He may be young, but we don’t assume casualness based on age. Every member expects professionalism. What I heard sounded more like—well, banter.”

“He’s not a guest. He’s a caddy.”

Something flickered in Trina’s eyes—annoyance she didn’t know something Noelle did.

“All the more reason to maintain boundaries,” she said smoothly. “You represent the club. This isn’t your personal improv stage.”

“I think we should absolutely do improv.”

Casey.

Leaning against the wall just behind Trina, arms crossed, unreadable expression.

“Start with something classic,” he added. “I’ll be the overworked summer staffer, and Noelle can be the underpaid hostess barely surviving the brunch elite.”

Noelle blinked.
Trina looked like someone had burped in her martini.

“Sorry,” Casey said lightly. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just passing through.”

“And you are?”

“Casey. With a C.”

“I assumed you were a guest.”

“That’s been happening a lot lately.”

Trina’s lips thinned. “Do you have a task?”

“Always,” he said, pushing away from the wall. “I’ll get back to it.”

He glided past without another word.

Trina gave him a once-over, then turned back to Noelle. “Just… be mindful. We all represent Thornbrook.”

She walked off, heels clicking like a warning shot.

Noelle sighed—and turned to find Casey back at the edge of the podium.

“So,” he said, “that’s your boss?”

“Unfortunately.”

“She seems fun.”

“Oh yeah. If your idea of fun is getting scolded for breathing too loud.”

They hovered in the cooler air, away from the brunch battlefield.

“Didn’t know we were improv partners,” Casey said. “Should we start charging for the show?”

“We’re more of a tragicomedy.”

“Those get the best reviews.”

She shook her head. “You’re not funny.”

“You laughed.”

“I coughed.”

“Sounded like a laugh.”

“You didn’t have to jump in,” she said.

“Didn’t like how she was talking to you.”

She blinked. No one says that out loud. Not here.

“She always talks like that.”

“That’s tragic,” he said. “Do we need to stage an intervention?”

“You always this… involved?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

“Or nosy.”

“Could be both.” He tipped an invisible hat. “See you around, improv partner.”

She watched him walk off—slower this time. Less strut. More stroll.

She wondered—not for the first time—if Casey had actually been hired… or just let in.

He rounded the corner near the back hallway—staff-only access—and she could’ve sworn she saw him slip a key into the service door.
The one that was always locked. Only management had keys.

When she blinked—he was gone.

Her phone buzzed.

Milo:
the ginger is one of us
🧡

Noelle smiled.
Then frowned.

Because deep down, she wasn’t sure if that was good…
or very, very bad.
That boy wasn’t just a caddy.
He was trouble waiting to happen.