Endurance

There is a certain gravity in the Beeks living room, the kind that draws eyes upward to the crown molding and out again toward the garden, where late-spring sunlight slants through the glass with surgical precision. Every surface gleams, the air humming faintly with the blend of lemon polish, orchid, and something more expensive: the expectation of perfection. The rug—cream, hand-tufted, no visible stains—seems spun out of air, refusing to acknowledge the row of shoes lined at the threshold, as if the dirt of the world could not possibly invade this room.

Abby stands at the center; arms spread in a pantomime of embrace. She wears a pale pink blouse, chiffon so thin that her shape flickers against the window light, and tailored white trousers that fall just above a pair of blush-heeled mules. Her hair is clipped with surgical neatness, not a flyaway in sight. She is a statue unveiled, waiting for applause.

Arrayed around her: Shelly, perched on the edge of a velvet ottoman, legs splayed and arms crossed so tightly the leather of her jacket groans at the seams; Monica and Carla, each occupying a corner of the sofa, their bodies angled away from each other but their eyes fused in a kind of desperate coalition; Becky, tucked into an armchair, feet curled beneath her, every inch of her posture radiating, I’m just here to watch.

Jamie is present in the way that a draft is present; leaning against the bay window, arms folded, head bent to study her phone but eyes darting up whenever Abby’s voice sharpens.

“I want swags of silk flowers,” Abby says, sweeping her hands overhead as if she might conjure them out of the ether. “Huge arrangements, everywhere. Not that plastic garland stuff from a craft store, but like, proper peonies and garden roses. The whole place should feel like Versailles.”

Carla arches an eyebrow. “Versailles was tacky, babe. Gold leaf everywhere. Also, people died there.”

“Don’t be gauche, Carla,” Monica mutters, not looking up from her own phone. “Nobody cares about the French Revolution at a wedding.”

“Daddy has agreed to pay for everything,” Abby says, ramping her voice up a notch. “So I feel more like a princess marrying a prince, and less like… whatever.” She shrugs, then spins toward the windows as if expecting her father to materialize in a shower of cash.

Shelly lets out a sound halfway between a snort and a sigh. “You do realize Versailles ended up bankrupt, right?”

“Ha,” Abby says, with no amusement. “I don’t need your Wikipedia sarcasm right now.”

“I’m just saying,” Shelly replies, eyes narrowing, “don’t let the cake have more tiers than your marriage has years.”

Monica and Carla shoot each other a look—something tight-lipped and barbed, their mutual disapproval too synchronized to be accidental. Monica smooths her dress, a fuchsia sheath that looks like it could survive nuclear fallout, and says, “I still think white is overrated. It washes you out.”

“I’m not wearing white,” Abby says. “It’s going to be blush with nude underlay, so it’s more—”

“On trend,” Carla finishes, nodding with the smugness of someone who’s recently scrolled a dozen wedding influencer accounts. “You always did have a thing for soft pink.”

“I was a ballerina for nine years, Carla,” Abby says. “It’s called personal branding.”

“Was,” Shelly says, but softly, and only Becky seems to catch it.

The talk moves quickly—color palettes, linen options, whether or not to have a donut wall (Shelly: “Absolutely not, unless you want Michael to OD before the vows”), the guest list ballooning with every sentence until even Jamie looks up, lips tight with the effort of holding back commentary.

“You haven’t said anything,” Abby throws across the room, finally targeting Jamie. “Aren’t you going to judge my seating chart?”

Jamie slides her phone into her pocket, the action slow and deliberate. “If it keeps your friends and family from killing each other, I say go for it.”

There is a pause, a vacuum that everyone feels but no one fills. Becky, sensing the edge, leans forward and says, “I think your ideas are beautiful, Abs. Maybe keep it simple for the centerpieces, so people can see across the table?”

Abby beams, as if the suggestion were the last ingredient in a complicated cocktail. “Exactly. I want people to actually talk to each other. No weird topiary or… like, whatever those things are called—“

“Obelisks,” Shelly supplies.

“Yeah, those. So tacky.” Abby shivers, then drops into a chair, the chiffon fluttering around her knees.

Jamie’s gaze lingers on Shelly, measuring the distance between them. “Are you planning on having a wedding party?”

The question drops like a pebble in a pond. For a moment, all movement in the room freezes. Monica and Carla sit up straighter, the air between them a live wire. Becky’s hand drifts to her necklace, twisting the chain in a nervous loop.

Abby looks at Shelly, then back to the room. “I am,” she says, and her voice is suddenly shy, the volume dialed back to something almost real. “And—well, this is awkward, but I want Shelly to be my maid of honor.”

The room explodes in protest. Monica actually puts her phone down. “Are you kidding me?” she says, the vowels lengthening in disbelief. “She’s not even into weddings!”

Carla’s jaw drops, lips outlined in a crimson so aggressive it borders on weaponry. “Abby, I’m literally your oldest friend.”

Monica cuts in: “We talked about this at brunch last month. We literally made a list—”

“We made a list,” Carla says, “and I was top of it.”

“No, you were second, I was—”

Shelly raises a hand, palm out. “You guys, it’s fine. I’m not—it’s not like I’m dying to do it. Let Monica have it.”

“No, let me have it,” Carla says. “You’ll just wear Doc Martens and ruin the aesthetic.”

“Also, you hate pink,” Monica adds.

“Shut up, Monica,” Carla hisses, then turns to Abby. “Seriously. You know I’m better at this than anyone.”

The pitch rises, the kind of squabbling that only happens between people who have known each other long enough to weaponize each other’s insecurities. Abby lets it roll for a minute, watching with an almost clinical detachment. Her eyes flick from Monica’s gold hoop earrings to Carla’s aggressively curated nails, to Shelly’s battered boots and back to her own cuticles, which are flawless.

Finally, Abby slams her palm down on the glass coffee table. “This is exactly why I didn’t choose either of you.”

Silence. For a full second, the world holds its breath.

Monica bites her tongue so hard her lips blanch. Carla folds her arms, fingers digging into her biceps, nostrils flaring.

Becky exhales. “Well, that settles it.”

Jamie, from the window: “Democracy in action.”

Abby takes a long, slow breath, then looks at Shelly again, her expression opens in a way that makes her almost unrecognizable. “I know it’s weird, but I want you there with me. You’re my sister.”

Shelly’s smirk crumples. For a moment, the old fortress falls, and she looks like a kid being offered something she’s not sure how to refuse. “You realize this means I’ll have to wear a dress.”

“And heels,” Monica says, voice flat with defeat.

“I can live with that,” Shelly says. But her tone suggests that this is not at all a given.

Carla isn’t ready to cede the field. “Wait, so what do the rest of us get? Are we just, like, randoms in the procession?”

Abby turns, calculating. “You’re bridesmaids, obviously. Both of you. And Becky, if you’ll do it?”

Becky smiles, shoulders relaxing for the first time. “Of course.”

Monica and Carla nod in perfect sync, but the truce is uneasy.

Abby leans back, face radiant again. “Okay. So now that the drama’s sorted, can we actually talk about the color palette?”

Shelly looks at Becky, voice lowered to a private register. “You owe me for this. Big.”

Becky pats her hand, grateful. “I’ll make sure you get first pick of the groomsmen.”

They both laugh, a genuine sound that manages to unfreeze the room for a heartbeat.

At the window, Jamie stares into the garden, hands pressed to the glass, as if already watching for escape routes.

And in the garden, a shadow moves—a mother, tending the roses in the same way Abby is trying to tend this unruly bouquet of friendships. The late sunlight presses harder through the window, making silhouettes of everyone.

The Beeks living room holds its shape. The wedding will be perfect, or at least, it will be perfectly theirs.

There’s a lull after the big decisions, a hush like the moment after a snowball finally shatters against a door. The wedding party is settled in theory, but the theory doesn’t hold much water. The five of them orbit the room in a pattern of increasing entropy: Abby standing at the end of the grand piano, arms folded so tight her collarbone threatens to snap; Becky balanced on the arm of the cream sofa, curls tied into a loose bun, expression wary and bright; Jamie, spined against the window frame, watching the garden like it’s a map out of here; Shelly, a sullen satellite, still parked by the marble-topped coffee table, the chipped nail on her thumb scraping slow circles into the lacquer.

Monica and Carla have retreated to the far edge of the sectional, sharing the world’s most silent group chat with their eyes. Monica texts furiously, thumbs a blur, but never breaks her poker face.

Becky is the first to break the silence. “So, Abs,” she says, “are you really not going to have Jamie in the bridal party?”

Abby doesn’t look at her. “It would be weird.”

“Why?” Becky’s voice is light, but the question sits there, heavier than it should be. “If Jamie is out, I’m out.”

A beat. Monica’s head snaps up from her phone. Even Carla stops scrolling.

Shelly whistles, low. “Damn, Kingsley. Playing hardball.”

Becky shrugs, not breaking eye contact with Abby. “She’s my sister. If she doesn’t get a seat at the table, neither do I.”

Abby’s voice goes cold. “If you’re trying to guilt me—”

“I’m not,” Becky says. “It’s just a package deal.”

Shelly snorts. “So that means if Jamie’s out, I’m not maid of honor, right? Because you’re not in the wedding?”

Abby bristles. “I’ll find a new maid of honor, Shelly. It’s not a hostage situation.”

Monica leans in, voice syrup-sweet: “That’s what you get for trying to force a family narrative, babe.”

Carla lets her arms unfold, says to the ceiling, “We’re literally doing Game of Thrones for a brunch wedding.”

For a second, it’s unclear whether Abby will explode or implode. Her jaw works side to side, then she uncrosses her arms and says, “Fine. Becky, you and Jamie can both be in, but only if she actually wants to.”

All eyes land on Jamie. The sunlight has shifted, slicing a stripe of gold across her forehead. She lets it stay there, blinking once, slow.

Jamie doesn’t look at Abby. “Don’t bother—I don’t even want to be at the wedding.”

The words land so cleanly they don’t need a follow-up. Abby turns, not moving from her spot at the piano. “Is this about Michael?”

Jamie laughs, but it’s all teeth. “No, Abby. I just don’t like you.”

There’s a moment when everyone wonders if Abby will cry, or maybe start throwing things, but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks right up to Jamie, stops just out of reach, and says, “The offer is on the table if you change your mind.”

Jamie lifts her chin. “I won’t.”

Abby nods, once, sharp. “Suit yourself.”

Before the standoff can spiral, the door from the kitchen swings open and in step the mothers: Melanie Beeks, auburn hair twisted up and streaked with silver, wearing a floral sundress that brushes the knees of her navy gardening boots; and, beside her, Marsha Lewis, broad-hipped in denim overalls and a pastel blue shirt, the sleeves rolled to show forearms flecked with damp earth, silver-framed glasses perched low on her nose.

Both women wear gloves—Melanie’s are green with sunflower prints, Marsha’s plain canvas stained brown at the fingertips—and both carry with them a smell of roses, mulch, and sun.

“Ladies,” Melanie says, voice bright and a little breathless, “did we miss the fireworks?”

Marsha follows, smiling the way only someone who’s just been in the dirt and wants to show off about it can. “I brought cuttings for the bouquet, but if you’re all fighting, I can come back later.”

Shelly grins at her mother, “No blood drawn. Yet.”

Jamie slides away from the window, brushing past Abby without touching her.

Melanie surveys the room, then drops the gloves into her purse and smooths her skirt. “If we’re talking flowers, I want final say,” she says. “It’s the only thing that matters in the photos.”

Carla sniffs, “Some of us care about the dresses, too.”

“Noted,” Melanie says, then looks to Abby, who is for once at a loss for words. “Do you have a vision, sweetheart?”

Abby finds her voice, small but steady: “I just want everything to be perfect.”

Marsha sets her gloves on the table, glancing at Shelly with a shared eye roll. “Perfection is overrated.”

The living room holds its breath. Abby, stationed by the grand piano, tugs at the lace sleeve of her blouse and scans the others as if tallying them for an invisible ledger. Her voice is lower now, every phrase precision-cut for efficiency. “So—Shelly is maid of honor, Becky and Monica and Carla are bridesmaids, Jamie is a maybe, and the groomsmen don’t matter until Michael picks them. Does that sound right?” She’s talking to the room, but her eyes are fixed on Shelly, who hovers near the wall sconce with her arms folded so deep they threaten to fuse to her ribcage.

Shelly shrugs, then glances at Jamie, who hasn’t moved from her post by the window. “If Jamie’s a maybe, that makes Becky a maybe, and I’m still not sure if I’m a yes. So it’s all theoretical, Abs.”

“Just say you’ll do it,” Abby says, the words brittle but edged with hope. “Please.”

“I’ll do it,” Shelly says, but the tone is flat—like she’s agreeing to serve a weekend in county lockup, not to walk an aisle in a designer dress.

Becky drapes herself over the arm of the sofa, ankles crossed, and lets the silence spool out. Carla and Monica, unified now that they’re on the same side of a demotion, exchange darkly amused glances but keep their mouths shut. Jamie continues her silent protest, watching the garden, lost to the world.

The scene is still as a posed photograph when the door from the foyer swings open and in strides Lawrence Beeks. He fills the threshold before he even speaks: six-two, broad-shouldered, in a charcoal-gray suit that could have been tailored this morning. His hair is salt-and-pepper, every strand slicked back with the ruthlessness of a man who never once let time sneak up on him. The knot of his burgundy tie is immaculate, set off by a gold tie clip that flashes with the foyer’s light. He moves like an apex predator who has long since learned to conceal his fangs behind an easy smile.

With one hand he sets a leather briefcase—deep brown, perfectly broken-in—on the antique credenza. His other hand, ringed with the heavy wedding band, finds Melanie’s waist as she meets him at the door. He kisses her, swift and practiced, landing just above the corner of her mouth. The gesture is quick, nothing showy, but the way Melanie leans into it suggests a choreography years in the making.

Trailing behind Melanie, Marsha Lewis follows with a quiet step, wiping damp soil from her hands with a floral-print kerchief. Marsha looks up just as Lawrence releases his wife, and for a heartbeat, her eyes meet his. She smiles, but it’s all in the muscles—her gaze wavers, then drops, and she moves to join the group by the window. The moment is nothing, and yet the room seems to notice it all the same.

“Girls,” Lawrence says, voice equal parts silk and steel, “what’s the verdict on the wedding party?”

Abby brightens, the effect immediate and dazzling. “Dad, it’s set! Shelly is going to be my maid of honor. And Becky and Monica and Carla are bridesmaids. Jamie… might be a wild card, but I’m optimistic.”

Lawrence surveys the lineup, lingering on Shelly. “When was the last time you wore a dress, Michelle?”

Shelly snorts. “Don’t get used to it.”

He smiles, sharp and satisfied. “You clean up well, when you have to.”

Abby is alight with the approval. She pushes on: “And we’re thinking blush tones for the dresses, nothing too fussy. Just… chic, but comfortable.”

Lawrence nods, as if he has a direct line to the Pantone Institute. “Sounds expensive.”

“Your daughter has taste,” Monica says, trying for ingratiation. Carla nudges her, lips pressed into a private joke.

“Never doubted it,” Lawrence says. He gives Marsha a nod, acknowledging her with a kind of professional warmth. “Afternoon, Marsha.”

She returns it, her smile barely there. “Afternoon, Lawrence.”

The attention drifts from the parents to the kids and back, a tennis match of micro-expressions. Melanie floats between the groups, her own smile steady and bright, like she is willing the energy to stay buoyant.

Marsha checks her watch, the motion subtle but not lost on Melanie. “I should get going,” she says. “Still have to prep the order for tomorrow’s brunch.” She brushes a stray leaf from her sleeve and gathers her bag from the floor.

Melanie intercepts her by the door. “Let me know if you need help with the delivery,” she says, voice soft but persistent. “I can drive the station wagon.”

Marsha hesitates, then pulls Melanie into a hug, the two women holding on just a second longer than necessary. “Thanks, Mel,” she says. “You’re the only one I trust with the lilies.”

Lawrence watches this, his expression unreadable. As Marsha starts to turn away, he clears his throat. “Good seeing you, Marsha.”

Marsha stops, half-turned, and meets his gaze full-on this time. “You too, Lawrence,” she says, her voice level. For just a moment, the rest of the room drops away.

Then Marsha is out the door, the glass pane rattling gently in her wake. The smell of roses and earth lingers behind.

Lawrence exhales, a soft almost-whistle, then looks at Melanie. “I’ll be in the office for a bit. Need to prep for tomorrow’s hearing.” He lifts the briefcase, and with a parting nod to the girls, he disappears down the hall.

Melanie, left behind, fluffs her hair with both hands and marches into the kitchen, muttering something about coffee and chocolate chips for everyone. The girls are alone again, the temperature of the room rising and then falling like a weather front just passed through.

Shelly lets her arms drop, stretches her shoulders with a cat-like shrug, and says to no one in particular, “That was fucking weird.”

“Language,” Becky says, but she’s smiling. She waits until the others are distracted, then sidles up to Shelly and leans in, voice barely above a whisper: “Seriously, though. Something is definitely off with Marsha.”

Shelly nods, eyes tracking the closed door where Marsha had just disappeared. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

At the piano, Abby presses one ivory key, then another, the notes soft but certain. “She’ll be fine,” Abby says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “She always is.”

Becky crosses her arms, mirroring Shelly’s old stance. “You’re not worried?”

Abby shakes her head, but she doesn’t stop playing, fingers dancing over the keys in a slow, unresolved melody. “Nope,” she says, too bright. “Not at all.”

Jamie, still by the window, doesn’t look back. But her reflection in the glass—outlined in the afternoon glare—smiles, small and sharp, as if she is the only one who knows exactly what comes next.