Endurance

The next morning at Shelly's apartment, just above her pub. Morning is a joke, and Abby is the punchline. There’s a high C ringing through her skull, so sharp it could slice through drywall. She opens one eye, then the other, then immediately regrets it; even the filtered light slanting through the sheer curtains feels like a laser pointer aimed at her brainstem. Her tongue tastes like old pennies and the inside of a dead Duracell. The room, her room, is an archaeological dig: empty water bottles, bobby pins, one high heel wedged in the radiator, and glitter. So much glitter. It catches on the curve of her arm and pools in the bedsheets, the aftermath of a war fought entirely with craft supplies and bad decisions.

She tries to sit up, but her stomach lurches as if it’s trying to leap out her mouth, and she falls back, arms pinwheeling, grabbing at the duvet to keep from capsizing. Something cold and clammy slides along her thigh—her own hand, sweat slicked and trembling. Her phone chirps from somewhere deep in the blankets, but she’s not ready for conversation, not even with herself.

At the threshold: Shelly, looming in the doorway like the world’s tallest, most disapproving house cat. She’s in an old White Sox sweatshirt, purple hair pulled into a bun, holding a chipped mug of black coffee and a plate with two slices of toast cut into childish triangles.

“Jesus, you look like you got hit by a bread truck,” Shelly says, voice even and unhurried.

Abby attempts a retort, but all that comes out is a wet croak. She tries again, tongue barely working: “Water.”

Shelly sets the tray on the nightstand. “Try coffee first. You’ll puke less.”

Abby pushes herself upright, clutching the headboard with both hands. Her left hand slips, nearly sending her back down, but she recovers and blinks at the mug until it becomes a real thing and not a shimmering mirage. She lifts it, sips, and immediately gags; the taste is volcanic, but the jolt is what she needs. The world tilts, then steadies.

“Where am I,” Abby manages, then, seeing her own comforter, “Wait, did I get home?”

Shelly watches, unsmiling. “You got here at five. Cab dropped you off. Don’t remember who called it, but you tipped the guy thirty bucks to carry you up the steps.”

Abby’s eyes roll upward as she tries to summon last night, but all she gets are fragments: the strobe-lit club, Monica shrieking, Chad in a gold thong, the taste of tequila chased with something blue. Then, a sudden, vivid image: herself, straddling the lap of a man whose real name she did not bother to learn, her hands in his hair, her own hair wild and sticky against her neck.

She clamps the mug with both hands. “I don’t feel good,” she says, as though this will absolve her from having to process anything else.

Shelly sits on the edge of the bed, arms folded. “You want the recap, or should I let you reconstruct it yourself?”

Abby doesn’t answer, just sips again and breathes through her nose, trying not to throw up.

“Fine,” Shelly says, as if reading a police report. “Club Euphoria. You were hammered before we even finished the second round. Monica got us comped into the VIP booth. Carla hit on the bartender. You did the shot gauntlet, which I told you not to, but you said, and I quote, ‘It’s my last night of freedom.’” She ticks the memories off on her fingers, nails painted matte black and chewed short. “Jamie spent the whole time texting someone. I think she’s allergic to fun. Becky almost left after the first dancer but stuck it out until you—” Shelly stops, raises her eyebrows—“until you kissed the stripper.”

Abby stares, the words slipping around her like water. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Shelly says. “Not on the cheek, either. Full show, right on the stage, in front of fifty people and God. There’s probably a video on the internet by now.”

Abby feels her face burn. She glances at her phone, now wedged under the pillow, and the fear spikes sharp and hot. “No.”

Shelly shrugs. “Could be worse. Chad’s used to it. He thanked you for the tip.”

A flash: Chad’s face up close, his hands around her waist, the taste of mint and cologne and sweat. Abby shudders and sets the coffee down, then grabs the toast, just to keep her hands busy.

Shelly keeps going. “After the show, you and Monica and Carla disappeared upstairs. Jamie went with, but only because Carla said she’d buy her a vodka tonic. Becky and I tried to drag you out, but you told us to go home, said you were a grown-ass woman.”

Abby looks down, seeing the glitter now pasted to her thighs, her wrists, even caught on the tips of her lashes.

Shelly continues, “We waited for an hour at the bar across the street, just in case you came to your senses. You didn’t. I went home. Becky Ubered.”

Abby tries to remember the afterparty but finds only flashes: a loud room, unfamiliar faces, Monica and Carla egging her on, the taste of something stronger and then nothing at all.

She rubs her temple. “Did I…?” She can’t finish the question.

Shelly sighs, then softens. “You did what you always do: drank until you forgot what hurt. You didn’t go home with anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. Jamie made sure of it. She sent you out the door with the cabbie and your purse zipped and your phone charged. Maybe she’s the one who ordered the cab.”

Abby chews the toast but can’t taste it. The bread sticks to her teeth and she washes it down with more coffee, ignoring the scald.

The shame blooms slow and sticky, like sap on a summer day.

Shelly reaches out, pulling a lock of Abby’s hair free from where it’s matted to her cheek. “You’re alive, Abs. Not much more, but alive.”

Abby nods, hands trembling. She glances at her left hand, and for the first time, notices the naked space on her ring finger.

Her heart skips.

“Shelly,” she whispers, “where’s my ring?”

For a moment, there’s no air in the room. Abby claws at the bedsheets, yanking them up and down the length of her legs, then checks under the pillows, between her toes, the undersides of both hands. The panic is a physical thing: her heart booms against her ribs, her chest tightens to a fist, her ears fill with blood-rush.

“I can’t find it,” Abby says, voice cracked and childish. “I can’t—I had it last night, I swear—”

She twists, lurching to her knees, but the head rush sends the ceiling wheeling, and she topples sideways, catching herself on the bedpost. Her elbow stings but she doesn’t care. She gropes at the nightstand, knocks over the coffee, leaves a streak of dark across the wood.

“Easy, psycho,” Shelly says, but she’s already at Abby’s side, holding her by the shoulders. “Sit. Stop.”

Abby sags, panting, hands still raking the mattress. She turns to Shelly, tears already pricking the corners of her eyes. “It’s gone. The ring. I lost it.”

For the span of three full breaths, Shelly lets her squirm, lets her feel the full bite of the disaster. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she reaches behind Abby, grabs the purse off the nightstand, and flips it open.

Inside, nestled between a flattened pack of gum and Abby’s battered wallet, is the engagement ring. Diamond facing up, the band slightly sticky with what could be either vodka or hand sanitizer. Shelly holds it out, palm flat.

“You must’ve taken it off and put it in here before things got freaky with Chad,” she says, her voice both flat and oddly gentle. “You made a speech about ‘not wanting to lose Michael over a night I’ll never remember.’ Very noble Besides, I checked it this morning. Everything is in there.”

Abby stares at the ring for a full second before snatching it up, sliding it back onto her finger with shaking hands. The relief is so sudden she almost sobs, but what actually comes out is a sick little laugh, so thin it sounds like a different person entirely.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She kisses the ring, then her hand, then shoves both fists to her mouth to keep from crying in front of Shelly.

Shelly just sits, watching. “You’re welcome.”

Abby holds the ring up to the light, turning her hand, making sure the diamond is still set, that nothing’s chipped or missing. It’s perfect, shining like it did the day Michael proposed, and just seeing it here—so clean, so heavy—makes the previous night all the more disgusting.

A tidal wave of shame rolls through her, flattening whatever relief was left. “Don’t tell him,” Abby blurts, her voice barely audible. “Please. Don’t tell Michael. I swear to God I’ll never do anything like this again.”

Shelly doesn’t answer right away. She watches Abby, eyes steady, then says, “I’m not telling him. Because I expect you to.”

Abby flinches.

“You owe him the truth,” Shelly continues, voice low but firm. “Not because he’s perfect. Not because you’re a monster. But because he deserves to know who he’s marrying.”

Abby curls tighter, the ring pressed into her palm like a brand.

“I’m giving you space,” Shelly says. “Not cover.”

That, more than anything, crumples Abby. She slumps forward, curls into herself, arms wrapped tight around her shins. For a long minute she just rocks, breath coming in jagged little stabs, the ring pressed so hard into her palm it leaves a mark.

Shelly leans over, brushes the hair from Abby’s forehead, and says nothing at all. She sits, just breathing, her presence a silent promise: the world can be rebuilt, one secret at a time.

In the ruined bed, the sisters sit side by side, the weight of a diamond and a hangover between them.