Endurance

The Lewis living room is exactly as Michael remembers it—faintly lemon-scented from an eternal pledge to Lemon Pledge, the light glancing off honey-oak trim, floorboards shiny from half a century of determined foot traffic. The walls are lined with family photos in matching frames: Michael at nine, chin smudged with baseball dirt; Marsha with her arms around a toddler version of him; Mitchell in a yellowed tuxedo, cradling a blushing bride. All the moments that counted, preserved under glass. Even the couch, brown corduroy and still faintly ridged with the memory of childhood naps, feels like it’s been waiting for this day.

Michael sprawls on the edge of the ottoman in his favorite faded Radiohead t-shirt, the one with a small coffee stain near the hem that he never bothered to treat, and jeans worn thin at the knees. Across from him, Doug lounges in the armchair, Cubs hat flipped backward, sipping from a glass of whatever whiskey Michael could rescue from the dusty bar cart. Next to Doug, Steven sits with his hands folded neatly over his knees, posture immaculate, his smile as effortless as always.

“So, let me guess,” Doug says, swirling the ice in his glass. “You called a summit so we could plan your bachelor party. Vegas? Or are you more of a ‘rent a canoe and die in the woods’ kind of guy?”

“I’m not the one who’s going to die in the woods,” Michael says. “You’re the one who thinks GPS is a government conspiracy.”

Doug points at him. “That’s not what I said, and you know it. I just don’t trust satellites. Or trees.”

Steven, who has weathered their arguments since the first summer they met, just shakes his head. “I thought you didn’t even like the outdoors.”

“Nature hates gingers. It’s evolutionary. But I’d do it for Mike.” Doug raises his glass. “That’s called loyalty, Page.”

Michael gives a slow, skeptical nod. “Touching.”

He looks at both of them, suddenly aware of the smallness of this moment, how the years have whittled his friend group down to these two constants. There’s a reason he asked them here, a reason he wanted to do this in the only room in the world where he ever felt totally himself.

“So, seriously,” he says, “thanks for coming. I know it’s a weeknight and everyone’s got jobs and—”

Doug snorts. “You’re my only friend who schedules things with Google Calendar. You sent three reminders.”

Michael ignores him. “I wanted to ask you guys something.”

Steven leans in, sensing the shift. “Anything, man.”

Michael draws in a breath, holds it, then just lets the words out. “I want you two to stand up for me. Doug, will you be my best man?”

Doug’s first reaction is pure slapstick: he feigns a swoon, clutches his chest, pretends to fight back tears. Then he sits up, grins, and says, “You mean it, Mike?”

“Who else would I pick?” Michael says. “I’ve known you longer than I’ve known my own liver.”

Steven laughs, deep and warm, and Doug bows his head in mock humility. “I’m honored. Deeply, spiritually honored.” He glances at Steven. “And I assume you want Steven here as the first lieutenant, or whatever?”

“Groomsman, yes,” Michael says. “Steven, you in?”

Steven’s smile widens. “Always. I appreciate it, man.”

Doug raises his glass for a toast. “To the last man standing. Also to whoever ends up holding Mike’s pants when he inevitably does the worm at the reception.”

“Not happening,” Michael says.

“It’s happening,” Doug assures him, already planning the play-by-play.

Michael sits back, letting the warmth of the room and the moment seep into his bones. For a minute, they’re just three guys, suspended in the same sticky now as when they were nineteen and thought the world would always circle back to moments like this.

“So who else is on the roster?” Doug asks, putting his glass down. “You going big, or is this like a minimalist wedding with sustainable flowers and gluten-free vows?”

Michael shakes his head. “It’s just you guys, maybe one or two cousins if they can make it up from Florida.”

Doug nods, satisfied. “I respect that. Less competition for the open bar.”

The conversation is interrupted by the familiar creak of the staircase, a specific floorboard that Michael always avoided on late-night returns. Mitchell appears at the top of the steps, moving with that combination of authority and caution that comes from years of managing both a business and a family. His beard is trimmed, the silver catching the light, and his hair is combed back, but his jeans are streaked with what might be paint or flour.

He takes a second at the landing, scans the room, and finds Michael. He starts to descend but stops midway to adjust a crooked frame on the wall—a photo of Michael in cross-country gear, grinning at a finish line.

“Everything all right in here?” Mitchell says, voice gentle but trained to carry.

“All good, Dad,” Michael says.

Mitchell comes the rest of the way down, straightening the hem of his old rugby shirt. He nods at Doug and Steven, acknowledging them as members of the tribe. Then he fixes on Michael, pride and skepticism in equal measure.

“Discussing the wedding?” Mitchell asks, settling onto the arm of the couch like he’s about to hand out a midterm grade.

“Something like that,” Michael says. “Say hello to my groomsmen.”

"Good to see you both," Mitchell says, his tone carrying a blend of formality and warmth, a reflection of his ability to straddle the line between fatherly concern and respect for Michael's choices.

Doug, ever the jovial one, nods enthusiastically. "Likewise, sir. Honored to be part of this shindig."

Steven, with his usual composed demeanor, offers a genuine smile. "Thank you, Mr. Lewis. It means a lot."

Mitchell then leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “I know I told you once to take your time. But I’m glad you’re finally doing it.” He says it quietly, a note of finality in the words, like he’s surrendering something he held on to for years.

Doug clears his throat. “Should we, uh, give you guys a minute? Or is this going to turn into a whiskey commercial with sad piano music?”

Mitchell smiles, but his gaze stays on Michael. “No need. This is a family thing, after all.”

He lets the silence settle, then steers into the curve. “You sure about Abby?” he asks, not unkind, but with a weight that makes the air shift. “I always figured you’d end up with Jamie Kingsley.”

Michael meets his father’s eyes. “Dad, Abby and I have been together for three years.”

“I know,” Mitchell says. “But I know you. You hold on to things. You held on to Jamie for a long time. Just want to be sure you’re not…settling for what’s safe, is all.”

Doug glances at Steven, eyebrows up, as if to say, This is getting good.

Michael steadies his voice. “I love Abby, Dad. She’s it for me.”

Mitchell nods, a slow acceptance moving through him. “She’s a good kid. A bit wild, maybe, but your mother likes her. That counts for something.”

Steven smiles, chiming in. “She’s good people, Mr. Lewis.”

Mitchell gives Steven a look of appreciation, then turns back to Michael. “All I ask is you don’t lose yourself in the process. Marriage isn’t a finish line. You keep running.”

Michael nods, grateful. “I will.”

Mitchell stands, rests a hand on Michael’s shoulder—just a touch, just enough. “Proud of you, son.” He turns to Doug. “And I expect you to keep him out of trouble.”

Doug salutes. “No promises.”

“None expected,” Mitchell says, heading toward the kitchen, the floor creaking behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, Doug lets out a low whistle. “Your old man doesn’t pull punches.”

“He means well,” Michael says, but he feels the tremor in his own hands, the way even grown men never quite outgrow their fathers’ approval.

Steven gives him a solid, reassuring nod. “You’re making the right call.”

Michael exhales. “Thanks.”

Doug claps his hands. "Alright, when's the first planning meeting for the bachelor party? And do I get a say in whether or not we have strippers?"

"Let's focus on one thing at a time," Michael replies, now genuinely smiling.

Doug lifts his glass. "Here's to women and the fools who believe they can change them."

Michael snorts. “I’ll make an honest woman out of her,” he says, and the moment it leaves his mouth he knows it’s a cliché, but it’s too late—Doug’s whiskey nearly exits through his nose, and Steven gives him a look like, Are you for real?

But the room is lighter now, the way it always is when the truth is spoken, even if it stings or cracks a joke along the way.

The night stretches out in front of them, as easy and inevitable as the light on honey-oak trim, and for once, Michael lets himself just be here, in the center of it all, surrounded by the people who know exactly how he got this far.