Endurance

Doug’s apartment smells like a cross between a locker room and a brewery, which is to say: exactly as he wanted. There are five kinds of chips on the coffee table, arranged with the military precision of someone who has watched too many Food Network marathons. The walls are a riot of Cubs memorabilia, dorm-era posters, and one gigantic, ironically naked calendar girl that has clearly been hanging since before Doug started working at Cadabra. The sectional is a hand-me-down from Doug’s cousin, the cushions permanently molded into the ass-prints of everyone who’s ever watched a game here.

It’s supposed to be a party, but Michael sits on the edge of the sofa, knuckles whitening around a sweating can of High Life, jaw working side to side like he’s chewing over a threat and not sure if he wants to spit it out or swallow it forever.

Doug stands in the kitchen archway, overseeing his domain. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads “Team Groom” in block letters. The shirt is two sizes too tight and probably a children’s XL, judging by the way it clings to his biceps. He’s got the grin of a man who is absolutely delighted by his own jokes.

“Gentlemen!” Doug calls, as though the volume might will excitement into the room. “This is not just a bachelor party—it’s a strategic deployment. Tonight, we honor our boy with dignity. And beer. Mostly beer.”

Steven, occupying the armchair nearest the fridge, lifts his bottle in salute. “Mission accepted.”

Michael tries to muster a smile. He lands somewhere between polite and pained. His gaze drifts across the room, through the haze of snack dust, through Doug’s speech, and finally settles on the closed door to the kitchen.

Mitchell Lewis, wearing an old windbreaker and a pair of jeans that don’t quite fit anymore, sits near the window. He’s less a participant than a chaperone, hands folded in his lap. He takes the room in with a sort of anthropological calm, eyes flicking from Doug’s showmanship to Steven’s stoicism to the silent, fraying focus of his own son.

Doug claps his hands, startling everyone but himself. “All right! Beer pong is set up in the hallway—watch the drywall, last time I had to repaint.” He’s looking at Michael as he says it. “But first: toast time.”

He pours a round of Jameson into shot glasses that have seen far better days. He hands them out like communion wafers. “To Michael,” Doug says, raising his glass. “May your marriage be longer than my attention span.”

Steven smirks, “Set the bar higher, man.”

“Fine,” Doug says. “May your union be happier than the time I got locked in a porta-potty at Lollapalooza.”

Mitchell raises his glass, but his eyes are on Michael. “To you, son. Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it.”

Michael almost laughs, almost breaks, but settles for a muttered “Thanks.” They clink, drink, and then Doug snatches the empties before anyone can protest.

“Now, I know what you’re all thinking,” Doug says, pacing. “Where’s the debauchery? Where are the questionable decisions?” He leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping. “I got you covered. But it’s a surprise. So sit tight.”

Michael glances at Steven, who gives him a little nod, like yeah, this is happening, and we’re in it together.

Doug heads to the fridge, extracts another round of beers, and tosses them—one to Michael, who catches it with the reflex of a man who’s had too many objects thrown at him, and one to Steven, who plucks it out of the air with a practiced hand. He offers one to Mitchell, who declines by shaking his head.

Doug pauses, hands on hips, then shrugs and opens Mitchell’s beer for himself. “You sure, Mr. Lewis? It’s not every day your only son gets hitched.”

“I’m good,” Mitchell says. “I want to remember this.” He watches Michael as he says it, the old coach’s gaze searching for signs of injury that can’t be taped or iced.

For a while, they just sit. Doug narrates a Bulls highlight reel playing on mute, Steven occasionally adding a statistical correction, and Michael doing his best not to look at his phone every five seconds. He’s sweating, but it’s not from the beer.

At one point, Doug disappears into the bedroom. Michael leans in to Steven, voice low. “He didn’t invite strippers, did he?”

Steven shrugs. “He said it was low-key.”

Michael’s mind flicks to Marsha’s car parked outside the Beeks house, the way her eyes couldn’t meet his when he caught her with Lawrence. The memory leaves a metallic taste. He wonders if he’ll ever get it out of his mouth.

Doug returns, arms full of cheap party hats and plastic leis. “Theme night!” he shouts, shoving a lei over Michael’s head with the delicacy of a linebacker. “We’re doing this right.”

Steven obliges, donning a hat with the phrase “Best Man” embroidered in gold. Mitchell demurs. Doug insists anyway, setting a lei on the old man’s shoulder, earning a reluctant smile.

“Okay, okay,” Doug says, finally settling. “Now. Who wants to go first on the beer pong?”

Michael shrugs. “I’ll play.”

Doug hustles to the hallway, sets up, and then stands back, arms wide. “You versus Steven. Go.”

As they play, Doug heckles. “Don’t choke, Mikey! Remember state finals, junior year? Same stakes.”

Michael nails two cups, rapid-fire. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Doug crows, fist-pumping like a man whose entire emotional range is expressed in gestures.

Mitchell watches from the sidelines, his eyes never leaving Michael. When the game is over, and Michael wins, Doug pouts, but then grins. “Winner gets the seat of honor,” he says, shoving a battered recliner center stage.

Michael slumps into it, the vinyl squealing in protest.

Steven sits next to him, voice pitched so only Michael can hear: “You okay?”

Michael nods, but it’s the kind of nod you give when you’re not. “Just tired,” he says.

Steven lets it go, doesn’t pry. “You crushed the pong, though.”

Doug returns, this time with a grocery bag full of more chips and a six-pack of novelty sodas. “Taste test!” he yells, passing out bottles with names like “Buffalo Wing Soda” and “Ranch Dressing Pop.” He’s already tearing into his, sloshing half down his front.

Michael plays along, takes a swig, grimaces. “That’s foul, man.”

Steven follows suit. “Yuck! What is this shit?!”

Doug is delighted. “That’s the face of a bachelor party! Legendary.”

A lull hits, as lulls always do, and the four men just breathe for a second. The only sound is the distant echo of the TV.

Then, the doorbell rings.

Doug’s face splits into a grin. He rubs his hands together, theatrically villainous. “Showtime,” he says, and bolts for the door.

The others exchange glances. Michael’s foot starts bouncing; Steven puts a hand on his knee to steady it.

Doug returns, door swinging wide, and behind him stands Cindy.

Cindy is—well, professional. She’s dressed for the gig: tall boots, tight black skirt, hair up in a sleek ponytail, eyes like she’s scanned this scene a thousand times and found it wanting every single one. She holds a duffel bag in one hand and a Bluetooth speaker in the other.

“Hi, fellas,” she says, voice crisp. “I’m Cindy. Congratulations, Michael.”

Michael raises a hand, but can’t quite muster words. Mitchell stands, reflexively polite, then realizes he is supposed to sit. He sits. Steven just nods, expression a poker face of maximum support.

Doug does the introductions, beaming. “This is Cindy, tonight’s headliner. She comes highly recommended.”

Cindy surveys the room, then gestures to the coffee table. “Mind if I set up?”

“Go for it,” Doug says, flustered but thrilled.

Cindy sets her speaker down, cues up a playlist, and extracts a small pile of costume items from her bag. She lays out a feather boa, a small black mask, and a pink plastic tiara.

Doug is in heaven. “This is perfect,” he whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Michael shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms. His thoughts chase each other—Abby’s last text, his father’s voice, his mother’s hands wringing a napkin into shreds. He remembers the red leaf on the Beeks’ porch and wonders if he should’ve just driven until the car ran out of gas.

Cindy starts to speak, but Doug jumps in. “Before the show,” he says, “let’s get a photo. Group shot.” He sets his phone up on the mantel, clicks the timer, and hustles into the frame.

Michael’s smile is a thin line. Steven stands close, steadying Michael’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. Mitchell, game for anything at this point, puts an arm around Michael too.

The phone clicks. The moment is captured, frozen: four men, three trying to look like they belong, one hoping not to break before the night is over.

Cindy checks the setup, nods once, and then says, “All right. I’ll need the groom in the chair. Everyone else can stay or go, your call.”

Doug cackles, already moving to the back of the room for the best view. “This is the stuff of legend, Mike.”

Michael sits in the chair, heart pounding, hands on the armrests. He looks down, then up, then finds Cindy’s eyes. She meets his gaze, and for a second, she looks almost sympathetic.

The music kicks in—a thumping, mindless club beat that vibrates the cans on the table. Cindy begins her performance, smile professional, movements precise. She’s been here before; she will be here again.

Doug cheers. Steven tries to laugh, but keeps his eyes on Michael, watching for signs of collapse. Mitchell just shakes his head, the beginnings of a grin forming at the edges.

For the next few minutes, the room fills with forced laughter, nervous energy, and the unspoken understanding that this is what people do before they get married, even if nobody is quite sure why.

Michael braces himself, knuckles tight on the chair, and lets it happen.

There are no good places to look. The music is too loud for the space; the couch is only six feet from the chair, which is barely two feet from Cindy, and she fills every inch of it with motion and certainty. The first thing Michael notices is the intensity—not the implied sexuality, but the athleticism, the impossible control of every muscle, every flex designed to draw the eye and keep it.

She starts slow, pacing around the chair, heels ticking on the laminate. The feather boa finds its way around Michael’s neck. His entire body locks up, arms flat to the sides like he’s been pressed between glass plates. Cindy smiles—never cruel, just aware—and leans in to let a trace of perfume settle on his collarbone. The scent is sharp and sweet, like dollar-store apple shampoo mixed with something faintly metallic. He can’t breathe.

Doug howls in appreciation, pounding a hand on the back of the couch. “Look at him! Kid’s never blushed in his life and now he’s beet red!” He looks to Steven for confirmation, but Steven is watching Michael too, face serious.

Mitchell shifts in his seat, not embarrassed but mildly bemused, like he’s seen this all before and is calculating the exact time to intervene if it goes off the rails.

Cindy circles, trails a manicured nail along Michael’s jawline. The speakers thump; the ceiling vibrates; the neighbor’s baby probably starts crying, but nobody will remember that. Cindy keeps her gaze locked on Michael, and Michael keeps his eyes glued to some indeterminate point behind her, as if he can stare straight through the wall and out the other side of his own skin.

He tries to play along, fakes a crooked grin, but even that costs him. His shirt clings to his back. He wants to wipe his forehead, but the boa won’t let him move. The routine is expertly paced—each motion sharper than the last, each moment designed to force attention. At the second track, Cindy ditches the boots. She twirls the tiara once, then sets it on Michael’s head, adjusting it with mock ceremony.

The room erupts with laughter—Doug’s raucous, Steven’s low and reluctant, even Mitchell offers a dry chuckle. Michael tries to match it, to ride the momentum, but the sound coming out of his mouth is all wrong. He can feel the flush creeping up his neck.

As Cindy escalates, the routine closes in. She sits astride his lap, balanced with the grace of a gymnast, leans in close and whispers something—probably a line meant to make him squirm, but he doesn’t hear it. All he can register is the heat and the pressure and the relentless expectation that he should be having the time of his life.

He steals a glance at the couch. Steven’s eyes meet his, searching and sympathetic. Michael gives him a brief, desperate look, and Steven nods: permission granted, if you need it.

He tries to loosen his collar, realizes his hands are trapped under the boa, and instead wipes a sleeve across his face. The music builds—Cindy’s hair brushes his cheek; the boa is now a leash in her hands; Doug is chanting something in the background.

And then, it happens: Cindy leans in for the final move, and for a split second, her eyes look straight through him, the way Marsha’s had when she was caught, the moment her mask dropped and the only thing left was guilt and necessity. The perfume, the forced intimacy, the eyes—it all collapses at once, and Michael’s body goes rigid.

There’s a snap of memory so sharp it could split him. The porch, the red leaf, Lawrence’s voice telling him it’s not his concern. He’s back there, a child and a man at the same time, and the world shrinks to a pinhole.

He bolts upright, not violently, just with the clear, practiced efficiency of someone who’s run thousands of miles and knows when to cut his losses.

“Excuse me,” he says, and sidesteps around Cindy. He is already halfway to the kitchen before anyone can process it.

Cindy recovers without a blink. She finishes the routine for the audience that remains—Doug, who is now openly cackling, and Steven, who watches her with something almost like gratitude. Mitchell watches the closed door to the kitchen, lips pressed together.

Cindy stands, bows with a flourish, and collects her props, resetting her expression to neutral. “Thank you, gentlemen. I hope the groom enjoyed himself.”

Doug is already recounting every detail, embellishing with each retelling. “Did you see his face? He looked like he’d just seen a ghost!”

Steven cuts in, quiet but firm. “Give him a minute.”

Cindy is zipping her bag, but she pauses when Doug spots her and calls out, “Wait, wait—if the groom’s not up for it, can I take his turn?”

Cindy’s smile is pure professionalism. “If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, it’s what I’ve always wanted,” Doug says, vaulting over the arm of the couch with theatrical clumsiness. He plants himself in the chair, strikes a pose worthy of a low-rent Chippendales audition, and fans himself with a plastic plate.

Cindy sets her duffel down and hits play on her speaker. The beat comes in heavy—something with a pounding bass and a knowing, tongue-in-cheek sax line. This time, the performance is less seduction and more vaudeville. She twirls the boa, drapes it over Doug, musses his ginger hair, and grinds an imaginary cigarette into his lap with comic exaggeration. Doug plays along, moaning dramatically, rolling his head back, and yelling “Oh, baby!” at every turn.

The group explodes with laughter. Steven shakes his head and points at Doug: “This is what happens when you deprive a man of human touch for three years straight.”

Doug flips him off, never breaking character. “Don’t be jealous, Page. You could never handle this much woman.”

“Man, please!” Steven responds.

Cindy rides the line between mockery and charm, leaning into the role of “bad decision in human form.” She picks up the tiara, crowns Doug with it, and then stands behind him, hands on his shoulders, eyes meeting Michael’s over the top of Doug’s head. She holds the gaze for a full beat, something like understanding passing between them, before she gives Doug a parting pat on the cheek and bows to her invisible audience.

Applause all around. Even Mitchell claps, the smile breaking through his stoic mask.

In the kitchen, Michael braces his hands against the sink and tries to steady his breathing. He looks up, catches his own reflection in the microwave, and doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him. He rips the tiara off and sets it gently on the counter, then splashes water on his face and waits for the trembling to stop.

Mitchell quietly enters, placing a steady hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son,” he says, giving a couple of gentle pats. Michael, his head bowed, wrestles with the turmoil inside him. The truth about his mother claws at his conscience, and he fears the hurt it might cause his father. Yet, he is torn, as he knows he cannot carry the burden of silence forever. For now, he remains silent, the weight of his choice pressing heavily on him.