Endurance

It’s the early edge of happy hour at Shelly’s Pub, which means two dozen people all talking over each other, four TV screens tuned to games no one’s really watching, and an undercurrent of beer-fueled anticipation that thickens the air. The lights have been adjusted for “golden hour” according to Shelly’s careful ritual: low enough to hide flaws, bright enough to make everyone think they’re in on something. The tap lines hiss and the lowball glasses clink and, somewhere at the end of the bar, Michael slips in with the anxiety of someone who both belongs and very much does not.

He does the scan—door, corners, side booths—looking for Abby before he even takes his first breath. No sign of her. Instead he sees Shelly, who spots him instantly and lifts a hand in a half-salute, then jerks her chin toward the quieter end of the bar where the regulars don’t like to sit. Michael moves that way, his phone already out and bright with a series of unsent texts and three missed calls to the same number.

“Didn’t expect to see you this early,” Shelly says, her voice equal parts barkeep and bouncer. She slides a pint toward him with a practiced flick of the wrist. It’s the house lager, his usual, poured to the exact point where the foam cap crowns but doesn’t spill.

“Didn’t expect to be here,” Michael says, forcing a smile. He takes the beer, nods thanks, but doesn’t drink.

Shelly raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lie. You always come here when you’re weird.”

Michael leans in, lowering his voice. “Is Abby around?”

Shelly wipes the bar with a motion so precise it could be a nervous tic, except nothing about Shelly is ever nervous. “She’s upstairs in my apartment. Still recovering from last night.” Her words are measured, careful not to betray more than she intends.

Michael checks his phone again, taps the screen, and sighs. “She hasn’t answered. I’ve called, like, five times. Nothing.”

Shelly shrugs, not unkindly. “She’ll surface. That hangover was an act of God.” Her face is flat, eyes skimming the bar for other needs, but her focus keeps circling back to him.

He tries to settle, pulls at the pint, then sets it down untouched. “Can you let her know I stopped by? Or, if you see her, just tell her I…” He doesn’t finish.

Shelly allows herself a faint, tight-lipped smile. “I’ll tell her. She’ll call.”

Michael’s shoulders drop a centimeter, the relief visible and a little sad. “Thanks, Shell. Seriously.”

She moves to restock a row of tumblers, each one set down with a little more force than necessary. “You okay?” Shelly asks, keeping her gaze on the glasses. “You’ve been on edge all week.”

Michael hesitates, then laughs without humor. “Is it that obvious?”

Shelly glances up, and for a split second, the sarcasm drops out of her voice. “It’s obvious to me.” She wipes the bar again, as if prepping the surface for a more serious conversation. “If you’re having second thoughts, this is the time to talk about it. Not a week from now with a pastor and a ten-piece string quartet staring you down.”

Michael stiffens, then shakes his head, almost violently. “No. It’s not that. I’m—” He closes his eyes, opens them again, as if he can reset the world with a blink. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The words hang there, weighty and absolute, and for a moment the bar noise seems to dip around them, like the universe is giving him space to be believed.

Shelly leans back, arms crossed, studying him the way she studies the lineup after a slow night: calculating, skeptical, but still rooting for something to sell. “Okay,” she says. “If you say so.”

He wants to smile, to let her see he means it, but the muscle memory isn’t there. Instead, he takes a long pull from the pint, wipes his mouth, and finally looks Shelly in the eyes.

“Really. I’m just…” He gestures at the phone, the air, the whole room. “I just want to see her. Make sure she’s okay.”

Shelly slides a coaster toward him—a move so reflexive it almost seems accidental.

“She’ll call,” Shelly says, and this time, the voice is softer.

Michael nods, pocketing the phone.

“Wanna talk?” Shelly asks.

It takes less than three minutes for Michael and Shelly to end up in the only place quieter than the bar: the storage room, wedged behind a corridor of battered metal shelves and stacked cases of cheap whiskey.

The light here is sickly and uneven, and the air tastes like cardboard and mop water and, faintly, lemon. Shelly appears at the doorway without a sound, a tray of empties balanced on her shoulder. She sets it down, flicks the bare bulb on with an elbow, and props herself on a crate with the resignation of someone who’s sat here a thousand times.

Michael is pacing in the narrow lane between boxes, thumb spinning his phone in a restless circuit. He glances at Shelly, then at the cinderblock wall, then back at the phone.

“Nice place for a confessional,” Shelly says. Her lips twitch, but the humor doesn’t make it to her eyes.

Michael tucks the phone away, folds his arms. Shelly leans forward, elbows to knees, hands clasped. The silence is heavy, interrupted only by the occasional thud of a keg shifting in the bar cooler beyond the door.

Shelly lets him stew in it. She’s good at that, at waiting people out. When she speaks again, it’s softer. “Talk to me. What’s wrong? How are your parents? Your mom? She seemed a little off when I last saw her at my parents’ house with my mom.”

He stiffens. “Yeah, she’s… not herself lately.”

Shelly studies him, picking up the change in posture, the hard edge to his voice. “You never were a great liar, Michael.”

He snorts. “Neither were you.”

They sit with that for a minute. Michael finally slouches against a wall, lets out a slow, grinding breath. “I just want to see her, Shell. I want to know she’s okay.”

Shelly’s voice goes quiet. “She’s okay. She always is.”

He nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “I know she’s not perfect. Hell, neither am I. But with her…” His jaw works. “It’s like, when I’m with her, I know what I’m supposed to be doing. Where I’m supposed to be. It’s not like any of the other stuff matters.”

Shelly taps a rhythm on the crate, a syncopated staccato. “You ever get scared you’re just… substituting one mess for another?”

He grins, genuine this time. “Every day.”

She smiles, but her eyes flick away, finding some imperfection in the floor to study. “You think you can make it work? Even after—” She stops herself, shrugs, restarts: “Even after all of it?”

Michael’s face goes blank for a second. “I have to. I want to. That’s the point, right? You stick around for the hard parts.”

Shelly’s knuckles whiten on the edge of the crate. “Not everyone does.”

He hears that, and it makes him pause. “You think she’s the one for me, right?”

The question echoes in the tiny room, bounces off the concrete and comes back twice as loud.

Shelly doesn’t answer at first. She looks at the space between her boots, then at the dent in the wall behind Michael’s shoulder, then at his face—really looks at it, as if cataloguing every scar, every line. Her fingers start drumming again, faster.

“She’s…” Shelly starts, voice catching. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Michael’s mouth opens, then closes. The answer doesn’t quite satisfy, but he nods anyway, a soft thank you in the motion.

The silence returns, this time thick enough to chew. After a beat, Michael checks his phone again, then shoves it deep into his jacket.

“I should get home,” Michael says, thumb flicking over his phone again. “Doug and Steven are coming by early. We have to finish the wedding seating chart and probably end up at Lenny’s Lanes, because Doug can’t do anything sober.”

Shelly stands, suddenly restless, and hugs him, arms tight around his ribs. He’s surprised, but then hugs back, just as hard.

“Go,” she says, voice rough. “You’ll do great.”

He squeezes her shoulder one more time, then ducks out, footsteps receding down the hallway.

When she’s sure he’s gone, Shelly sits back on the crate. The room is colder now, or maybe she’s just feeling it. She counts her breaths, then digs in her pocket for her phone.

She scrolls through the contacts until she lands on Becky’s name. Her thumb hovers, then she presses “call.” The ring is barely two seconds before Becky picks up.

“We really need to talk,” Shelly says, words clear and certain. “My place or yours?”

She waits for the answer, the silence stretching, and with it, the shape of whatever comes next.