Endurance

Brewed Awakening is not the best coffee shop in Chicago, but it is, arguably, the most committed to the bit. The “Grand Opening” banner on the door is faded from three winters of north-facing wind, the tip jar by the register rotates weekly between “Help Me Buy New Sneakers” and “Our Cat Needs a Dental Plan,” and the tables wobble unless you seat yourself with a practiced hand. Inside, it’s a stew of old couches and misfit chairs, the air thick with the sweet-burnt smell of espresso and that background jazz every neighborhood café think will make people linger.

Jamie gets there early, sporting a comfortable green shirt and blue jeans. She always does—old habit, probably genetic, the same thing that makes her set five alarms even when she has nowhere to be before noon. She chooses the corner booth by the window, the one with the view of the mural across the street and the strategic line of sight to both the entrance and the register. She spreads out her portfolio on the chipped table and opens her laptop, just for show, then sits back and lets herself watch the street.

Michael is late, but only by six minutes. She sees him through the glass before he even opens the door: black track jacket, jeans, running shoes scuffed at the toes. He pauses outside, checking his phone with the concentration of someone trying not to appear nervous, then steps in, scanning the room.

When he spots her, there’s a flicker—relief, or maybe gratitude that she beat him here. He raises a hand, then jogs the last few steps, awkward in the way tall people always seem to be when negotiating tight spaces.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat across from her. “Sorry, traffic was a disaster on Fullerton.”

She glances at the window. “I walked.”

He laughs, and she wonders if it’s genuine or just the default setting. “Yeah, that tracks.”

The first minute is all logistics. Michael’s jacket off, set on the booth beside him. Jamie closes her laptop and slides her portfolio to the side, pretending to clear space but actually fencing off her side of the table. Neither of them knows what to do with their hands.

“You look good,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets the phrasing. “You know, like… healthy. Happy.”

She cocks her head. “Did I not look healthy last time?”

He shrugs. “You were running on Red Bull and student loans. I remember.”

This gets her, and she smiles, just a little. “You look the same as ever, Michael. If you told me you slept in that jacket since college, I’d believe it.”

He nods, accepting the jab. “I almost did, last week. Abby grilled me for it.”

The mention of Abby lands soft but undeniable. Jamie looks down at her hands, which are now folded on the tabletop with a precision bordering on defensive.

“How’s she doing?” Jamie asks. “I haven’t seen her since—well, the bridesmaid meeting, right?”

Michael leans back, runs a thumb along the seam of the seat. “She’s good. Busy. You know Abby—if she’s not working, she’s inventing projects. We’re… I don’t know, it’s going.”

Jamie lifts her eyes. “Is it weird? Us meeting up, I mean. I don’t want this to be weird.”

He meets her gaze, steady. “It’s only weird if we let it be.”

She lets the silence hang, not quite sure if she wants to agree.

A barista with blue hair and a “Strong Opinions, Weak Coffee” t-shirt interrupts with a refilled mug for Jamie and a fresh Americano for Michael. Michael thanks her by name, which is probably the only reason Jamie agreed to meet here—he always knows the staff. Even in college, he’d walk into a campus dining hall and get high-fived by the guy cleaning the salad bar.

Michael sips his coffee, then sets it down. “So, how’s architecture? You building the next Hancock?”

Jamie laughs, quick and genuine. “Not even close. I’m still on renderings for city projects. Most of my time goes to revisions—zoning board, committee approvals, the usual bureaucratic nonsense. I did get to lead my own site visit last week, though. I bossed around a guy who looked exactly like my uncle Tony. Felt powerful.”

He grins. “That’s awesome. Do you still get to sketch anything, or is it all just spreadsheets now?”

“I do some sketches. Mostly for myself.” She shrugs. “Nobody wants to pay for blue-sky thinking anymore. It’s all about cost per square foot.”

Michael leans in, interested. “You remember that portfolio you showed me junior year? The one with the floating staircase and the glass wall? I still think about that sometimes. Like, actual dreams.”

She looks surprised. “Really?”

He shrugs, self-effacing. “Yeah. Maybe it’s because I could never wrap my brain around how you made that perspective work. Or maybe it’s because I imagined living in a place like that. With the sunlight and everything.”

Jamie softens, just a little. “Well, I appreciate that someone remembers it. Even if my boss doesn’t.”

He gestures to her portfolio, now closed but still occupying half the table. “What’s this one? Can I see?”

She hesitates, then slides it over. “It’s nothing groundbreaking. A proposal for a new library in Humboldt Park. Community space, green roof, all the boxes checked.”

He opens it and flips through. His attention is real—he’s not just flipping, he’s reading, tracing the plans with his finger. “This is good,” he says after a minute. “Like, really good.”

She shrugs. “I hope the committee agrees. Otherwise, it’s back to converting abandoned warehouses into overpriced condos.”

Michael laughs, but it’s brief. He closes the portfolio gently and hands it back. “I always thought you’d be the one to change the city, not just renovate it.”

She rolls her eyes, but the compliment lands. “That’s sweet. A little naive, but sweet.”

He shrugs. “I’m full of naive. It’s my main source of calories.”

There’s a pause, but not an uncomfortable one. Jamie looks out the window; Michael watches her, taking the moment to study her face—the way her hair falls just over her cheek, the faint indent of glasses on her nose even though she isn’t wearing them today.

“So, really,” Jamie says after a moment, “how’s wedding planning? Is it all cake tastings and floral arrangements, or are you guys already fighting about the playlist?”

He laughs, which comes out more relieved than amused. “Abby wants the reception to be at that new place on Kinzie, the one with the wall of succulents and the glass ceiling. She’s got opinions about the food, but I’m just trying to get my suit to fit. Apparently there are like, fifteen pre-wedding events before the actual thing?”

Jamie smiles, but it’s distant. “That tracks. Abby never does anything halfway.”

Michael nods, swirling his coffee. “Her friends are already planning the bachelorette. I think it involves matching T-shirts and maybe a scavenger hunt, if you can believe that.”

Jamie sips her coffee. “I can.”

He grins, then lets it fade. “It’s been a little crazy. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even planning a marriage, or just this huge party everyone expects us to throw.”

Jamie tilts her head. “Do you want it, though?”

He frowns, caught off guard. “The party?”

“No—the marriage. Do you actually want to marry Abby?”

He’s not sure what to say. For a minute, he tries to play it off—smile, look away, tap the table in that old runner’s rhythm—but the question sits there, heavy as a finish line you can’t run past.

He looks at her, then says, “Yeah. I do.”

Jamie waits, silent.

He tries again. “She gets me, you know? She’s all-in. Never half measures with Abby. I think that’s what I need.”

Jamie is quiet, processing. She looks down, traces the lip of her mug with her thumb.

“I believe you,” she says, softly.

He wants to ask what she means. He wants to ask if she ever thinks about what might have happened if they’d gotten together, really tried, instead of just orbiting each other for years. But he doesn’t.

They sit like that for a few minutes, not talking, just drinking coffee and letting the city move past the window. The mural across the street—the one Jamie always liked—has been painted over with something new, but the ghost of the old lines is still there if you squint.

The mood is different now. The air between them is taut, almost clinical, like the waiting room before a test you can’t study for. Michael pushes his Americano away. Jamie sips her coffee and watches him over the rim, eyes sharp behind her half-smile.

“Are you really happy?” she asks again, this time with a weight that nearly buries the word.

He leans forward. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at the condensation threading down her mug, then wipes it away with her thumb, slow and deliberate.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she says.

He rubs his eyes, then drops his hands to the table. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just—what’s the right answer?”

Jamie’s lips twitch, like she’s trying to suppress a joke. “There isn’t one. That’s why it’s a question.”

He looks away, watching a pair of students debate over a laptop two tables down. “I don’t know, Jamie. I think so. Abby’s a lot sometimes, but she’s… she’s always there. She shows up.”

Jamie’s jaw tightens. “You make it sound like a job interview.”

He bristles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Jamie pushes on, voice barely above a whisper. “I just want you to be sure. Because if you’re not—if you’re doing it for the wrong reasons—”

He cuts her off, sharper than he means. “What’s the right reason, then? Because I want to build a life with her? Because she’s not going to leave me for a job in Boston, or blow off my birthday for a conference?”

The shot lands, and Jamie flinches. She opens her mouth, then closes it, as if weighing every possible reply.

“Abby’s good to you,” she says finally. “I know that. I just—”

Michael holds up a hand. “Let’s not pretend you like her.”

“I never said I didn’t—”

“You don’t have to.”

Jamie sighs, folding her arms tight across her chest. “I just think you could do better.”

He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Who? You?”

She looks at him, and her eyes are wider than before, suddenly fragile. “No. Not me.”

He shakes his head. “You know, sometimes it feels like you want me miserable.”

“That’s not fair,” Jamie whispers. “I want you to be yourself.”

He raps his knuckles on the table, finding a rhythm. “You ever think maybe this is me being myself? Maybe the version of me who’s not pining after people he can’t have, or wasting years on what-if?”

She sits very still. “I don’t want you to regret this,” she says, each syllable brittle.

He smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re worried I’ll regret marrying Abby, or that I’ll regret not waiting for you?”

Jamie is silent.

Michael waits for her to respond, then says, “You know, I’d give you rides home from studio, bring you ice cream when you had a bad day, even drove you to the airport that one time for that architecture internship. Thought maybe if I did enough, you’d pick me.”

Jamie shakes her head. “You were my best friend. I didn’t want to screw that up.”

He grins, but his voice is acid. “You did anyway.”

She winces, but then her voice is hard. “You never said anything, Michael. You could have just told me.”

He shrugs. “You made it pretty clear what we were. Like it was this cute, harmless thing.”

Jamie’s eyes are wet now, but she blinks hard and keeps her chin up.

He goes on, quieter. “It’s fine. You weren’t obligated. But don’t sit here and act like you’re worried for me when the truth is, you just don’t want me to be with someone else.”

She sets her latte down, hands in her lap, and for a moment the only sound is the scrape of a chair leg across the wood floor.

“You’re right,” she says finally. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like that.”

He looks at her, and for the first time, she seems unguarded, almost young.

“It’s too late,” he says, not cruel but just true.

Jamie nods, one sharp motion.

Michael glances at the door, then at his phone, and stands.

“I should go,” he says, voice flat. “I promised Abby I’d help with dinner.”

Jamie doesn’t move to hug him this time. She just looks up, her face pale and stripped of all the usual angles.

“Bye, Michael,” she says.

He walks out, not looking back. She watches him disappear into the sidewalk traffic, the sunlight glancing off his hair, and lets the chill settle around her shoulders.

She sits like that a long time, the coffee cooling, the city shifting past the window, everything outside moving and changing except for her.