Endurance

The bridal suite at Lincoln Park Church is the size of a Manhattan apartment, with sunlight striping the parquet floor and everything—mirrors, crystal vases, even the pale blue couch—casting a soft, reflective glow. The air smells faintly of gardenias and last-minute nerves. Monica stands closest to Abby, all platinum hair and sharp, white teeth, her gold satin dress so tight it squeaks when she moves. She’s already on her second glass of prosecco, because “if you don’t start now, what’s the point?” Carla flanks the other side, shorter, slicker, her laugh echoing off the marble tile as she toggles between taking selfies and holding court about the champagne.

Abby sits at the antique vanity, blizzard-white gown fanned around her. The dress is perfect: bespoke silk, hand-beaded in three countries, bodice tight enough to squeeze out all doubt, train so long that it threatens to swallow her whole. She stares at her own reflection, fingers trembling as she attempts—again—to pin down the filmy veil without stabbing herself. A small, angry scab blooms above her right ear where she’s missed before.

The room is a gold rush: Monica, Carla, Becky, Shelly, Jamie—each bridesmaid encased in a metallic sheath, some more willingly than others. The color is less “subtle elegance” than “award show disaster,” but Abby wanted gold, and so gold it is.

Monica leans in, her perfume a punch of citrus and expensive anxiety. “That neckline is gorgeous on you,” she coos, adjusting the fold of Abby’s dress with surgical precision. Her hands linger, then retreat as if afraid of catching failure by contact.

Carla, phone raised, snaps three pictures in under two seconds. “Absolutely stunning,” she says, not looking up from the screen. “You’re, like, the definition of ‘main character energy’ right now.” She thumbs out a quick post—#blessed, #bridevibes—before tilting her head to study Abby’s face.

Becky stands by the window, arms folded, gaze somewhere beyond the sycamores that edge the churchyard. Her gold dress suits her more than the others, but she wears it like a costume, the fabric an armor against the day’s bullshit. “Good luck, Abby,” she says at last, voice steady, kind. It carries a weight that no one else seems to notice.

Jamie occupies the far end of the couch. Her brown hair is wound into a flawless chignon, glasses gleaming in the sun. She says nothing. Just watches Abby, eyes fixed and unreadable, like she’s waiting for a car crash she knows is coming.

The room buzzes with activity: Monica smoothing her own dress, Carla arguing with Shelly about bouquet order, Becky texting updates to the outside world. But it all fades for Abby. The mirror shows a pale, sharp-edged face; her makeup is flawless but the shadows under her eyes are unhideable, a purple watermark of a sleepless night. Every sound—cough, giggle, click of a champagne glass—makes her jump. She expects, at any moment, for someone to burst through the door and shout what she did at Euphoria. That she’s a fraud, a joke, a whore. That she doesn’t deserve Michael.

She screws her eyes shut, counts to five, then opens them to find Shelly’s reflection looming over her shoulder.

Shelly’s gold gown is the only one altered for combat: hem hitched for easy movement, sleeves trimmed to expose the tattoos snaking up her arms. Her hair is purple, wild, and she’s wearing combat boots instead of heels. She offers Abby a half-smile in the mirror, all teeth and history.

“You want help with that?” Shelly asks, already reaching for the veil.

Abby tries to smile. “I think I’m beyond help,” she says, voice wavering.

Shelly’s hands are gentle, almost maternal, as she pins the gauzy mess in place. “You’re not,” she says. “No one’s ever really beyond help.” Their eyes meet in the glass, and the softness is gone—replaced with something cold and directive.

The noise in the room drops by half as Jamie stands and moves for the door. She pauses by Abby, looks down at her, lips pressed into a thin line, and she leaves without a word.

For a full ten seconds, nobody breathes. The absence is like a vacuum.

Monica is first to break it. “She is so weird,” she whispers, then shrugs. “Probably just nervous.”

Becky joins Monica at the makeup table, dabbing a tissue under her eye. “You look great, Abs,” she says, voice softer now. “You really do.” The “good luck” hangs, unsaid, between them.

Carla surveys the scene, brow furrowed. “Can we just not have any more drama today?” she says. “Like, can we just… not?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Monica says, and does.

Abby nods, mute. Every muscle in her body is wound tight. She feels more prop than person—a mannequin dressed in someone else’s life, posed for a perfect photo she will never inhabit.

The bridesmaids file out in a slow, metallic procession, leaving Abby alone at the vanity. For one brief, hopeful moment, she thinks maybe she can do this. Maybe she can get through the next three hours, say “I do,” and then, somehow, make it all okay.

Shelly stands with her back to the door, arms crossed over her chest, blocking any hope of escape. “You need to tell him.”

Abby’s hands clamp to the arms of the chair. “Please,” she whispers. “Not today.”

“Why not?” Shelly’s voice is low, but there’s steel in it. “You fucked up, Abs. You know you did.”

Abby shakes her head, fighting tears. “It was a mistake. It meant nothing. I didn’t even—” She bites down, hard, on the lie.

Shelly steps forward, eyes locked on Abby’s. “Either you tell him before the ceremony, or I will.”

Abby’s mascara, already strained by the heat and nerves, lets go. Black streaks run down her cheeks. “Shelly, please. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll ruin Mom, you’ll ruin me—”

“Don’t.” Shelly holds up a hand. “Don’t make this about Mom. Don’t make it about anyone but you and Michael.” She leans in, voice even quieter. “He deserves to know who he’s marrying.”

Abby looks away, vision blurred by tears. “Can I just… can I tell him after the honeymoon? Please. Just give me one week.”

Shelly shakes her head. “He deserves better. And you know it.”

Silence settles in, thick and unmoving. Abby slumps in the chair, the dress ballooning out around her like a life raft that’s already sinking. She’s sobbing now, loud and wet, face buried in her hands.

Shelly doesn’t move. She stands at the door, arms still crossed, gaze fixed on the woman she used to build blanket forts with, the woman she’s about to destroy for her own good.

After a long moment, she says: “You have until officiant begins with the vows.”

Then she opens the door, steps out, and is gone.

Abby is left with her own reflection: ruined makeup, red-rimmed eyes, a trembling child in a wedding gown. She wipes at her face, but the mascara just smears, a shadow across her cheekbones.

She gazes into the mirror, a mix of doubt and determination swirling within her. How does anyone manage to get this part right, she wonders, her thoughts teetering between giving up and pressing on. With a sigh, she hesitantly picks up her makeup brush, re-applying it with a blend of frustration and hope.

In the Groom’s Lounge, everything is beige and calm and sterile, a room designed by people who think men can’t handle color. The old building tries its best to muffle the sound of organ practice, but it seeps through the drywall anyway, a dull, echoing chord that stretches across the silence.

Michael stands in front of the small mirror above a fake marble sink, adjusting his bow tie for the seventh time. He’s gotten the knot perfect, but lets his hands hover there anyway—holding, fixing, controlling. His hair is combed flat, shoes shined to a blinding gloss. The black tux is classic, no nonsense, the kind that says I am a man about to make the right decision.

Behind him, Doug and Steven have claimed the battered armchairs, legs splayed, jackets already unbuttoned. Doug’s red hair glows against the tan upholstery; he keeps talking at triple speed, as if sheer volume will drown out the waiting. Steven, hands folded on his lap, offers a steady stream of “you got this, man” and “it’s just another day,” both meant as reassurance, neither quite landing.

Mitchell, Michael’s father, perches on the couch, knees together, hands folded as if in prayer. He watches his son with an expression that’s equal parts pride and worry, the lines around his eyes deeper than Michael remembers.

“Hey, check it out,” Doug says, tossing a flat silver flask through the air. “Single malt, imported. For courage.”

Michael catches it by reflex, fingers cool against the metal. He turns it over, reading the inscription: Best Man, Doug. “Thanks,” he says, but hands it back untouched. “Maybe after.”

Doug shrugs, takes a pull, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Suit yourself, champ. You know you’re the first of us to do the whole ceremony, right?”

Steven grins. “Thirty more minutes and you’ll be a married man. How’s it feel?”

Michael forces a smile, but the movement cracks at the edges. “Surreal,” he says. “Like I’m still waiting to wake up.”

Doug barks a laugh. “If you’re dreaming, it’s not the worst one you’ve had.”

Michael nods, grateful.

Mitchell rises, crosses to Michael in three slow steps. He lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder, squeezes it just once. “You ready?”

Michael nods. “Yeah. I think so.”

His father fusses with the tie, which is already perfect. “You’ll make her happy,” he says. “Your mother would be proud.” The words sting, more than Michael expects. He wonders what Mitchell would say if he knew about Marsha and Lawrence, if he knew that the foundation of their family is built on half-truths and buried shame.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s a church staffer—mid-fifties, sweat stains under his arms, headset clamped over thinning hair. “Ten minutes, gentlemen,” he says. “Time to line up.”

Doug stands, stretches, smacks Steven on the back. “Let’s do this.”

Michael checks his watch: 11:51. He realizes he hasn’t eaten anything since last night, stomach coiled tight and hollow.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out, thumb already moving. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, a string of digits with no name attached. For a second, he considers ignoring it, but something makes him swipe.

There’s a message: *Congrats on your big day. Hope you enjoy the show.*

A video attachment loads. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, but there’s no mistaking the inside of Club Euphoria—the neon, the mirrors, the tight huddle of bodies on stage. Michael’s pulse slows to a crawl as he hits play.

The clip lasts half a minute at most. There's Abby, "BRIDE-TO-BE" stretched across her white sash, perched on some stranger's nearly naked lap. Her laughter is unhinged, hair a tangled mess, lipstick bleeding past the borders of her mouth. The man—all oiled muscles and a ridiculous bow tie—rocks beneath her while she grips his shoulders for balance. Offscreen voices cheer; dollar bills flutter through the frame. When the camera pushes closer, Michael can see everything: her unfocused eyes, that too-wide smile, the way her head tips backward as liquor disappears down her throat.

Then the moment that breaks him: Abby's mouth finding the stranger's, her tongue visible in the exchange.

Michael watches the video three times. The first is confusion. The second, horror. By the third, his vision blurs and he’s not sure if he’s breathing.

The phone nearly slips from his hand. He braces against the wall, air sucked from his chest.

Steven notices first. “Mike? You okay?”

Doug moves to help, but Michael shakes him off, the motion abrupt and jagged.

Mitchell’s voice is calm, but there’s panic in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Michael stares at the floor, at his perfectly shined shoes, at the scuff where he caught the door earlier. He looks at the phone, reads the message again.

Michael shakes his head, already moving toward the door. He steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The sound inside is instantly swallowed by the high, cold ceilings and the endless rows of tile and wood and stained glass. Michael stands there, the video still running in his head, a loop he can’t switch off.

He thinks of the past three years—every night spent piecing himself back together, every time he told himself that Abby was different, that he was done with disappointment and secrets. He thinks of his father, waiting in the next room, of the weight that will drop the second he opens his mouth.

From the chapel, the bells begin to ring: slow, deliberate, each one tolling like a countdown. Michael turns toward the nearest exit, the phone still clenched in his fist. He doesn’t know if he’s going outside or to the basement or if he’ll ever come back.

Inside the Groom’s Lounge, the others stare at the closed door, confusion and worry etched into their faces.

Doug is the first to speak. “He’ll be fine,” he says, voice softer than usual. “He always comes back.”

But none of them really believe it, not anymore.

Outside, Michael walks the perimeter of the church, breaths coming hard and fast. The sun is too bright, the air too clean. He finds a bench behind the rectory, sits, and tries to still his hands.

He opens the video one last time. Watches it. Makes himself see every second.

Then, and only then, does he let himself cry.