Endurance

A cathedral hush ripples through Lincoln Park Church, the kind that makes even the pews feel nervous. Sunlight, filtered through stained glass, pools at odd angles across the flagstone, painting prisms onto the polished shoes of the guests as they wait, shifting from side to side, unsure if they are part of a celebration or a powder keg. The floral arrangements are excessive: creamy roses and white hydrangea crowd every surface, as if to pad the room against future blows.

In the first row, Melanie Beeks sits with her hands knotted in her lap. She’s worn her hair up and chosen a dress the exact blue of her eyes—a color meant for hope. Her face glows, luminous with pride, and her gaze never wavers from the back of the sanctuary, where her daughter Abby waits, invisible behind the double doors. Melanie’s mind is a parade of memories—Abby’s birth, Abby’s ballet recitals, Abby’s endless chatter at breakfast. She has no knowledge of the previous night’s debauchery, nor the years-long secret her husband carries in his veins. She is simply, stubbornly, happy.

Marsha Lewis is across the aisle, in a pale suit and an expression stitched together from shreds of dignity. She dabs at her eyes with a tissue, not because she’s overcome, but because she can’t stop replaying the moment her son looked at her this morning with flat, empty eyes. She tells herself today is about him, about second chances, about a family coming together. She tells herself lies she almost believes. Next to her is Mitchell. Whenever Mitchell glances at her, she musters a smile—soft, sad, and meant to assure him that she’s holding together. Sometimes, she almost is.

On the altar, Michael stands between Doug and Steven. The air around Michael is motionless, as if he’s been set in amber. The tux fits perfectly; the tie is perfect, every line of his posture rehearsed into place. Only the eyes betray him—dark, bloodshot, vibrating with effort not to scan the crowd for faces he dreads.

He locks on the gleaming aisle runner instead, focusing on the choreography of the wedding party as they begin their march.

First, Jamie Kingsley. She floats forward in a column of gold, her movements precise, almost militarily so. She holds her bouquet exactly as instructed, chin slightly up, hair a glossy helmet. She doesn’t look at Michael, but she doesn’t look away, either. Her gaze sweeps the pews, mentally cataloging every guest, every sideways glance, every raised eyebrow. There’s a small crack in her composure when she notices Michael’s jaw set too tight. She files it away, another detail in the blueprint of disaster she’s mapped out in her head.

Next is Becky, her walk less a glide than a forward assault. She flashes her teeth at the audience, beams at the kids in the front row, almost trips on her own hem, but recovers in time to mouth “nailed it” at Michael, who nearly smiles before he remembers himself. Becky’s gold dress is slightly off-code—she’s tied a navy sash around the waist, a wink to her own alma mater and a not-so-secret jab at tradition. As she reaches the altar, she gives Jamie’s arm a squeeze, solidarity in satin.

Monica Bukowski struts up the aisle third, a masterclass in optics. Her smile is dazzling, broad enough to fill the church, and she pivots at every camera, letting the light catch the highlights in her hair and the shimmer of her dress. She glances over her shoulder at Carla, who’s next, as if to say “follow this.” Monica relishes the moment; she wants to be here, wants to be seen, wants the spectacle. She gets to the altar, blows a micro-kiss to Michael (for show), then plants herself next to Becky, who gives her a once-over, unimpressed.

Carla’s walk is pure performance. She’s short, but she moves like she owns the runway, chin high, bouquet swinging with rhythm, eyes never leaving the end of the aisle where the action is. Carla smirks, parks herself next to Monica, and whispers, “We are absolutely crushing this,” loud enough for the first three rows to hear.

Last of the bridesmaids, Shelly Beeks. She enters with less pageantry and more presence—straight-backed, face stone-calm, purple hair blazing in the sunlight. She scans the room once, then locks on Michael and doesn’t let go. Her smile is practiced, bright, not quite mocking. She’s decided she will play along, be the “good sister” for one hour, and if it kills her, so be it. At the front, Shelly takes her place at the far end, but angles herself so she can watch both Michael and Abby at all times.

A ring bearer—someone’s cousin in a child-sized tux—follows, gripping the tiny velvet pillow like a drowning man. The flower girl, a wisp of a child in a cloud of tulle, hesitates at the end of the aisle, then dumps her entire basket of petals in one glorious heap. The church erupts in a brief, collective laugh, which somehow makes the moment feel more real, more alive, more like something that might matter after all.

The music shifts—thicker, sweeter, threatening to topple into cliché—and every head swivels to the rear doors. For a moment, the world contracts to a single, breathless beat.

The doors swing open. Abby appears, her arm hooked in Lawrence’s. She is radiant, but not in the way people use the word for brides. It’s a dangerous, volatile radiance, like a filament one second from bursting. The dress is a masterpiece, the veil floats like a feather, but her face is an exact blend of terror and defiance. She keeps her chin high. She stares straight down the aisle, refusing to look left or right, a woman on a mission or a woman on death row.

Lawrence, for his part, is every inch the proud father. His jaw is set, his smile fixed, his stride unyielding. He’s chosen a tux one shade darker than the rest, a subtle flex, and his cufflinks catch the light with every step. He looks neither at Melanie nor at the guests who know his secrets; he moves forward like a man sure of his footing, ignoring the possibility of a tripwire.

Abby and Lawrence make their measured way up the aisle. Melanie’s face crumples with joy. Marsha’s does the same, but with a layer of grief.

When they reach the altar, there is a moment—a too-long pause—where father and daughter stand frozen, inches from Michael. Lawrence’s grip tightens for an instant, as if daring Abby to flinch or bolt. She doesn’t. She lets go, hands her bouquet to Shelly, and turns to face her fiancé, who hasn’t blinked since the music started.

The officiant steps forward, clears his throat, and begins the ceremony. But the energy in the room is electric, tense, a live wire coiled around every heart.

From her vantage, Jamie sees everything. The tremor in Michael’s hands. The pulse hammering at Abby’s neck. The way Monica’s heel taps a nervous rhythm on the floor, or how Shelly’s jaw flexes whenever Lawrence looks her way. Jamie catalogues it all, filing every glance and twitch under “evidence,” waiting for the inevitable moment when everything combusts.

Steven, standing at Michael’s left, can feel the tension radiate through the groom’s sleeve. He leans in, whispers, “Just breathe, man,” and means it. Doug, on the far end, tries to catch Michael’s eye, to offer a smirk, a lifeline, but Michael is locked in, unreachable.

Mitchell is seated up front, stone-faced, but his eyes are moist. He watches his son with a kind of aching hope, willing him to survive the next hour.

The officiant’s words drift over the congregation: about love, about sacrifice, about trust. They echo and settle, slightly off-key.

On cue, the congregation stands, and the vows are about to begin.

Everything is set: gold dresses blazing, roses trembling in the air, secrets swirling like dust motes in the beams of colored light.

For a breathless instant, it seems the universe might allow this illusion to last.

But only for an instant.

The officiant’s voice rings out over the gathered congregation, practiced and neutral, as if he’s presided over enough of these to know that joy and disaster arrive in equal measure. He stands behind the altar, the script in his hands, the question poised like a loaded gun.

“Before we proceed, if anyone present knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The silence is almost religious. For one long, humming moment, the only sound is the mechanical whirr of the church’s ceiling fans, the nervous shifting of bodies in the pews, and a lone cough from somewhere near the back.

Shelly’s gaze bores into Abby, watching for the flicker, the flinch, the last-chance confession. Nothing. Abby stands motionless, lips pressed white, gaze trained somewhere just above the officiant’s head.

In the back of the line of bridesmaids, Jamie glances at Michael. His eyes are hooded, mouth set in a line. Jamie’s heart quickens; she wonders if this is the moment—the cinematic detonation she’s always half-expected and half-dreaded. Monica and Carla are statues, Becky quietly chews her lower lip, eyes darting between the bride and the groom.

The officiant waits, scanning the room for signs of pending doom. When none materialize, he continues, unruffled, as if disappointment is a minor occupational hazard.

“We now come to the exchange of vows—”

Michael raises a hand, palm outward, cutting through the drone. The officiant stops, the entire church recalibrating to Michael’s interruption. Even the choir, tucked into the loft, stops mid-breath.

“I can’t do this,” Michael says, loud and clear. His voice is raw, but it’s the clarity that makes the words echo. “I can’t marry you, Abby. Not after what happened last week.”

The words drop like a brick into a pond. Shock ripples out from the altar, row by row. Abby’s mouth opens and closes. She blinks, as if unsure whether this is the start of a joke or the end of her world.

Lawrence turns, eyes wide, face darkening by the second. Melanie gasps, a sound that snags in her throat.

Michael steps away from the altar. “You know what you did, Abby. I know too. And I think everyone here deserves to know.”

There’s a collective intake of breath, a shifting in the pews. Monica’s eyes go wide. Carla’s face freezes, already calculating escape routes.

Michael’s voice shakes but never wavers. “At her bachelorette party, my fiancée had sex with a stripper. In front of half the bridal party. I have the video, if anyone doubts it.”

Abby’s hands fly to her face, veil tangling in her fingers as she tries to hold herself together.

Michael sweeps the crowd, then levels his gaze at Monica and Carla. “And you two—you were there. You watched it happen. You helped cover it up.”

Shelly’s voice, cool and even, cuts through the chaos. “I told Abby to come clean. I told her to tell you before it got this far.” Her eyes don’t leave her sister’s.

Carla is the first to respond, voice trembling but furious. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Michael? You’re humiliating her—in front of everyone?”

Michael’s answer is instant. “What’s humiliating is finding out the person you planned to spend your life with never respected you enough to tell the truth. What’s humiliating is being the last one to know.”

Monica tries to rally, tossing her hair. “You’re pathetic. You can’t satisfy her, and now you’re just taking it out on her in front of all these people? Real fucking classy.”

Michael snorts. “Honestly, considering your track record, I’m surprised you didn’t try to fuck him first!”

A wave of ugly laughter ripples through the crowd—some desperate, some scandalized, some just glad to see the mask ripped away.

Lawrence storms forward, face flushed with outrage. “That’s enough, Michael. You will not destroy my daughter’s reputation in front of her entire family—”

Melanie grabs Lawrence’s arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. “Stop it, Lawrence. This isn’t helping.”

Michael’s eyes dart to Lawrence. He’s not sure if he’s making a choice, or if the words just escape. “Don’t talk to me about destroying families, Lawrence. You’re the last one who should be giving lectures.”

The implication hangs, heavy, but Michael keeps going. “I wasn’t going to say this, but you pushed me. So here it is. You had an affair with my mother. I know all about it.”

Every molecule of air in the church is instantly electrified. Even the walls seem to lean in, listening.

Marsha gasps, the sound splintering into a sob. Mitchell—who’s been watching this with a sort of grim resignation—goes slack, as if someone’s yanked the bones out of his body.

Abby nearly crumples, still trembling.

Melanie is silent, then turns to Lawrence, voice a hiss. “Tell me he’s lying. Tell me you didn’t.”

Lawrence doesn’t answer. He just stands there, a marble statue with nothing behind the eyes.

Melanie slaps him, hard enough to echo. The room flinches as one. She turns on her heel and walks out, shoes clicking sharp and unbroken all the way down the aisle.

Shelly’s voice is low, but lethal. “You’re dead to me, Lawrence. You were supposed to protect us, not this.” She rips the bouquet in half and lets it fall to the carpet, then follows Melanie out.

Abby tries to speak, but the words dissolve into a soundless wail. She bolts from the altar, bridal dress slashing through the air. Monica and Carla scramble after her, their movements clumsy and desperate. Becky hesitates, then follows, casting one last, anguished look back at Michael.

On the altar, Jamie remains, unmoved. She lifts her chin, a glint in her eye—a mix of satisfaction and something like pity.

Mitchell moves as if underwater. He stands, turns to Marsha, and meets her gaze for a long, brittle moment. “Why?” he whispers. She reaches for his hand, but he’s already gone.

Michael watches his father retreat, then looks down at his own hands. He feels empty, scorched, unmoored.

Steven puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder, grounding him. Doug, sensing the need for comic relief, cracks, “So, uh… does this mean there’s more cake for the rest of us?”

Jamie, at last, moves from her spot. She walks to Michael, touches his arm, and says, quietly, “You did what you had to do.”

Michael almost smiles. Instead, he breathes. Jamie gives him a sympathetic look, and she leaves the altar. As she’s walking away, a part of her feels horrible for Michael, while the other part is happy for him.

The church is half-empty now, the hush settling again. The ruins of the day—shredded petals, broken bouquets, the echo of vows unsaid—linger in the air.

Michael, now heartbroken, finally turns to leave, with Steven close behind.

The last to exit is Doug, who pauses at the altar, plucks a rose from the arrangement, and tucks it behind his ear. “Best. Wedding. Ever,” he says to no one in particular, then saunters down the aisle, already looking forward to dessert.