Endurance

On Thursday nights, Shelly’s Pub always smells of lemon oil and ambition. The regulars cluster around the long, battered oak bar, watching the Bears game on silent while arguing about everything except football. The only noise louder than the jukebox is the pool table in the back, where Frankie and his gang have staked out territory for the evening.

Karen Hutchinson leans into the bar, boots dangling from the rung of her stool, heavy black eyeliner never out of place even under the jaundiced light of the amber pendants. Her gaze tracks Frankie’s lean form as he lines up a shot, hips cocked and smile sharp, a pack of howling idiots at his back.

“I don’t get it,” Karen says, voice flat as the bar rail. “How is it possible for someone that good-looking to be that much of a moron?”

“God’s little joke,” Shelly answers, snapping a bar towel in a quick, practiced twist. She stacks a row of pint glasses, each one catching the light like a miniature, soiled cathedral window. “Or maybe just a numbers game. Law of averages and all that.”

Frankie bends over the felt, tongue caught between his teeth, aiming for a tricky corner pocket. He ignores the catcalls, the sarcastic bets. The cue ball clacks with precision; the eight-ball drops. His victory whoop cuts through the bar like a starter pistol.

Karen lifts her glass in a lazy salute. “You know you could do better.”

Shelly smiles, tight and toothy. “So could you.”

Karen shrugs. “Not interested. My therapist says I’m not allowed to date anyone who names their own biceps.”

“Wise,” Shelly says, and pops the cap off a fresh High Life for her.

They watch Frankie celebrate. He’s all swagger and cheap cologne, spinning his pool cue like a baton, then dipping his head to let one of his goons muss his hair. Frankie’s leather jacket is at least a decade out of fashion, patched at the elbow with a clashing shade of black. It only makes him look more like the kind of boy mothers warn their daughters about.

“Have you told him?” Karen asks, quiet now, tilting her head just enough to keep the question casual.

Shelly’s hands freeze on the glass she’s drying. “Told him what?”

“You know.” Karen lowers her voice another notch. “That thing with Michael?”

Shelly stares at the glass, sees her own face warped in its curved reflection. “No,” she says finally. “I didn’t.”

Karen waits, unblinking.

“It was a week before,” Shelly continues. “Frankie asked me out right after. I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It matters,” Karen says, eyes cold and clear. “Not to you, maybe, but to him? He’s gonna find out, and then you’ll have a real mess.”

Shelly puts the glass down with more force than necessary, the sound ringing above the bar’s din. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not lying awake every night waiting for the shoe to drop?” She scoops a lemon wedge from the garnish tray and shreds it into pulp with her thumbnail. “It was one night. It didn’t mean anything.”

Karen arches a brow. “Didn’t mean anything to you, or to Michael?”

“Both,” Shelly lies, and Karen lets it hang.

There’s a fresh explosion of noise from the pool table. Frankie’s run the table again, and his victory lap now involves a conga line of grown men with shots balanced on their heads. A few of them spill tequila onto the old carpet, which soaks it up like an altar cloth.

“Obnoxious,” Karen mutters.

“Yeah,” Shelly says, but she’s smiling despite herself. There’s something about Frankie’s joy that’s impossible to ignore, like a puppy wrecking your best shoes and then looking up with big, dumb eyes that almost make you forgive him.

Frankie leaves his buddies to their chaos and heads for the bar. He’s still grinning, flush with adrenaline, the sweat on his brow catching the low light. He hooks an arm around Shelly from behind, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug that squeaks a laugh out of her. “Did you see that?” he crows. “I’m a fucking genius.”

“I saw it,” Shelly says, swatting his arm. “You’re also two games behind on your tab.”

Frankie obliges, not even pretending to mind. He gestures to Karen with a practiced finger-gun and then slaps a crumpled twenty on the bar. “Give the lady whatever she wants.”

Karen looks at the bill, then at Shelly, then at Frankie. “Make it two,” she says.

Frankie kisses the top of Shelly’s head before he returns to his friends, who are already setting up the next game. Shelly watches him go, her face softening for a split second.

Karen catches it. “You actually like him,” she says.

Shelly snorts but doesn’t deny it. “He’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot. For now.”

Karen sips her beer. “Just be careful.”

Shelly leans in, dropping her voice to a whisper meant for Karen’s ears alone. “You really think I should tell him?”

Karen doesn’t answer right away. She looks past Shelly, to the shelf of whiskey bottles backlit by neon, and then back at the bartender. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

Shelly lets the words settle, heavy as a hangover. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I know.”

They lapse into silence, each nursing a drink and their own private math of guilt and loyalty.

At the pool table, Frankie sinks the eight-ball with a flourish and a bow, then turns to the bar to catch Shelly’s eye. He gives her a lopsided grin and a thumbs-up, as if he’s just saved the world.

Shelly grins back, but there’s a tremor in her hand as she wipes down the bar, and a knot in her stomach that won’t go away, no matter how many times she tells herself it’s all under control.

Moments later, Frankie only lasts two more games before the restlessness gets to him. The final shot barely drops before he’s striding back to the bar, black boots thudding on the warped floorboards, eyes fixed on Shelly like she’s the next prize to win.

He slides behind the bar with the casual entitlement of a regular who’s outlasted three bartenders and at least as many health inspections. His arms wrap around Shelly’s waist from behind, and he lifts her half a foot off the ground. “Best view in the house,” he declares, burying his chin in her purple hair. The leather of his jacket creaks, cold and slick against her bare forearms.

“Put me down, asshole,” Shelly says, but there’s no heat in it, only laughter. Frankie obliges, but keeps his arms slung around her shoulders, his hands overlapping at her collarbone. She can smell him—a mix of sweat, tobacco, and that cheap department store cologne he wears too much of. The scent settles in the back of her throat, familiar as the old neon clock above the bar.

Karen watches with an expression somewhere between amusement and horror. She drains the last of her beer, then slides the glass toward Shelly. “He’s like a golden retriever in human form,” she says under her breath. “If golden retrievers were into body shots and felony trespass.”

Frankie grins at her. “Only the fun felonies, babe.” He plants a wet kiss on Shelly’s cheek, then leans back, hands still on her shoulders.

“You heading out?” Shelly asks, keeping her voice neutral. She’s already noticed the twitch in Frankie’s jaw, the subtle signs he’s itching for the next thing.

“Gotta hit the road,” he says. “Me and the boys got a gig up in Milwaukee tomorrow. Two days, tops.” He taps her nose with a finger. “Try not to burn the place down without me.”

Shelly rolls her eyes. “No promises.”

Frankie squeezes her once, then lets go, grabbing his jacket off the back of a barstool. He hollers for his crew, slaps a couple of them on the back, and heads for the door in a cloud of bravado. His friends trail after him, a ragtag mob of denim and flannel, loud enough to rattle the glassware overhead.

Just before the door closes, Frankie turns. He gives Shelly a look—sly, hungry, full of something she doesn’t dare name—and blows her a kiss. It’s ridiculous and corny and completely Frankie, and she can’t help but smile.

Then he’s gone, the winter air sucking the heat out of the doorway in an instant. The pub is quieter for it, the boozy chatter dropping an octave. Shelly’s arms feel suddenly empty. She stands for a moment, listening to the soft clink of Karen’s glass as her friend lines up the next round.

Karen breaks the silence. “You could do worse,” she says, softer than before.

Shelly wipes at the spot where Frankie kissed her, smudging her foundation but not caring. “I have,” she replies, and then pours herself a shot, letting the whiskey burn away the chill Frankie left behind.

The next hour drags by slow. Without Frankie’s pack, the bar reverts to its usual Thursday night pace: a table of office drones arguing about NBA trades, a pair of grad students studying the drink specials harder than their law notes, and the one guy at the end who orders water and pretends he’s waiting for a friend.

Karen perches on her stool, swirling her second beer. She watches Shelly work—watches her lean into the speed rail, refill ketchup bottles, swipe the POS screen with the flat of her palm. “You know,” Karen finally says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this rattled over a man before.”

Shelly laughs, short and brittle. “He’s got that effect. I call him my teddy bear, but really he’s a pit bull with boundary issues.”

“Pit bulls are nice,” Karen says. “It’s the humans you gotta worry about.”

Shelly smiles, then turns it into a smirk. She picks up an empty rocks glass, polishes it for the third time, and looks down the bar. “You ever been in love, Karen?”

Karen’s expression doesn’t change. “I tried once in college. The guy ended up transferring to Oberlin and never answered my DMs. Now I just settle for literary crushes.”

“Fucking poetry major,” Shelly teases, but it’s gentle.

Karen sips her beer. “So. You love him?”

Shelly shrugs, glass twisting in her hands. “I don’t know about love. I like him a lot. Maybe too much.” She sets the glass down, only to pick it up again. “He’s probably out screwing some waitress in different cities every weekend.”

Karen raises her brow. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me.” Shelly’s voice cracks, surprising even herself. “But I’m not gonna change him. Frankie's gonna be Frankie, you know?”

Karen nods, and for a while the only sound is the hush of the ice machine and the soft bump of chairs being stacked in the back.

“I want something real,” Shelly says, almost whispering. “But I don’t think I get to have that. I run this bar, work sixty hours a week, and every guy I meet wants me for the wrong reasons.” She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “I could drop dead behind this counter, and they’d step over me to order a round.”

Her purple hair falls forward as she lowers her head, voice getting rougher. “Nobody wants the real thing. They just want a body to get drunk with.”

Karen watches her, dark blue eyes calm. “What about Michael?”

The name lands like a cold slap. Shelly’s fingers tense on the rim of the glass, knuckles paling.

“Michael is…” She bites her lip. “It’s complicated.”

Karen doesn’t push. She just nods, finishing her beer in three slow swallows. She leaves a five on the bar and slides off the stool, boots hitting the floor with authority.

“Night, Shelly,” Karen says.

Shelly forces a smile. “Night.”

She turns away, wipes the glass with more force than it deserves, then sets it neatly in line with the others. There are customers to serve, orders to pull, and a hundred little tasks to keep her busy, but none of it is enough to crowd out the ache in her chest.

She catches her reflection in the bar’s mirror: mascara holding on for dear life, hair wild from Frankie’s last squeeze, mouth set in a line of stubborn pride. She looks like she always does—tough, unbothered, untouchable.

But inside, she’s just another girl who can’t quite believe she deserves more.

A pair of hands waves for her at the end of the bar. She lifts her chin, paints on a smile, and gets to work, burying the truth under another round of drinks and the bright, bitter laughter of people who have nowhere better to be.