Endurance

Club Euphoria smells like sugar and ozone, like a birthday cake left out in the rain and then struck by lightning. The club’s double-doors open and shut like a humidifier set to maximum, belching chemical fog into River North’s damp summer air. Inside, everything is backlit by bruised purple and electric blue, a visual conspiracy of LEDs designed to convince you that time, and possibly dignity, have been suspended for the duration.

VIP is a laughable term—the “reserved” sign on the corner booth is held down by a bottle of strawberry vodka the size of an infant—but the six women at the table are unmistakably marked. Most of them wear sashes that say “Bride Tribe,” which is a running joke for the table’s two cynics (Shelly and Jamie) but the source of real, beaming pride for Abby, the bride-to-be and current mayor of the moment.

Abby’s shoulder-length blonde hair is flowing tonight, tamed by product and ambition, and her makeup glows under the club’s black light so her skin seems edged in platinum. She sits dead center, on the crackling vinyl banquette, flanked by Monica and Carla, both of whom are dressed for the occasion in a way that suggests “eventual mugshot.” Monica, always with the high ponytail and the extra inch of heels, is decked out in a mesh bodycon that leaves very little to the imagination; Carla’s glittery spaghetti-strap number is even more aggressive, especially once she’s two vodka Red Bulls deep and her accent gets three times louder.

Becky, all soft curls and actual decency, has planted herself at the far end of the booth and is sipping her drink with the deliberation of someone who knows their tolerance, which is more than can be said for Monica, who keeps pouring shots and losing track of which glass belongs to whom.

Jamie has done her best to vanish into the leather, but she’s no less striking—tall, with a tailored navy blazer over a slinky blouse, and a gaze that flashes in the direction of any action without ever quite focusing. She spends as much time staring into her club soda as she does making quiet observations to Becky, who’s the only one who’ll listen when the decibels drop below 85.

Then there’s Shelly: six feet of purple hair, Doc Martens, and a face set in a default expression of “don’t fuck with me.” She’s stone-cold sober, icy blue eyes flicking to every new arrival, every glint of a camera flash, every subtle shift in security’s orbit around the floor. Shelly has not smiled all night, but she has—just once—snorted with laughter at Carla’s expense, when the latter tried to seduce the DJ and was summarily ignored.

Their booth is already sticky with spilled fruit punch, and half the bead necklaces Abby insisted on have snapped and are bleeding neon plastic across the table. There is a pile of tiaras in the center—Monica’s idea, which she’s since abandoned in favor of getting bartenders to comp them “just one more round, it’s a bachelorette.”

Every five minutes or so, Monica leads a round of toasts, each more slurred than the last. “To the last night of freedom!” she shouts, and then “to good sex, great friends, and even better blackmail!” Carla shrieks every time, the kind of sound that would set off a car alarm if it were any higher-pitched.

Abby soaks it up, face split in a wild, perpetual grin, cheeks already pink from the drinks and from the kind of attention she’d deny craving, but has always secretly wanted. She wears the “Bride” sash like it’s a mayoral ribbon. Every so often, she glances at her phone—not to check texts (she already swore off Michael for the night) but to take videos and selfies for Instagram, chronicling the evening’s steady decay.

A beefy bouncer swings by to refill the bottle bucket with fresh ice, and Shelly tenses immediately. He’s not looking at them, but her eyes are sharp, tracing his path as if he might suddenly announce a fire drill.

Carla shoves a Jello shot in Abby’s face, smearing a streak of neon green down the bride’s chin. “Take it, babe. Take it like you’re taking his last name!” she screams, and Abby howls, then slurps the Jello off her own skin before giving Carla a dramatic finger lick, which nearly topples the both of them.

Monica and Becky are in hysterics, but Jamie just sips her drink, barely suppressing a smirk.

“This is tame compared to my cousin’s party in Miami,” Monica says, dabbing a napkin across her cleavage. “She ended up on a yacht with three male models and woke up in another state.”

“Which state?” Jamie asks, deadpan.

Monica snorts. “Confused.”

Shelly stares at her hands, then at Abby. “Just don’t let them drag you onto the stage, okay? I’m not bailing you out if you get up there.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “You’re such a grandma, Shell.”

“I’m not the one in pearls,” Shelly mutters, gesturing at Monica’s necklace, but her voice is affectionate.

A blast of subwoofer announces the arrival of the first dancer. Chad. The club emcee—male, absurdly overdressed, with a voice that sounds like a Monster Energy commercial—introduces him over the PA: “Ladies, please welcome to the stage… the one, the only, the Chadillac!”

The entire club erupts, but no one louder than Carla, who slams both hands on the table and yells, “THIS IS WHAT WE PAID FOR!” Monica echoes her, and for a moment even Becky is on her feet, hands cupped around her mouth.

Jamie’s eyebrow arches, but she stays seated, crossing her legs and leaning into the table to get a better look. Shelly just sighs and shakes her head.

Chad, in a twist of pure American spectacle, enters on a pair of rollerblades and nothing else but a gold lamé thong and a vest covered in fake police patches. He is hairless, tanned to the consistency of toffee, and he winks at every woman on the rail before zeroing in on the VIP booth.

The music is “Pony,” because of course it is.

Monica and Carla have their phones out instantly, but a bouncer appears as if conjured, holding up a palm: “No photos, ladies. Club policy.”

Monica pouts. “That’s discriminatory!”

The bouncer grins. “Discriminately enforced, too.” Then he gives Shelly a nod, as if recognizing another sentry at work.

Chad skates up to the booth, makes a show of picking Abby out of the lineup, and kneels before her with practiced, almost bored precision. He glances at Shelly, clocking her “fuck off” aura, but then reverts to full charm for Abby, who is clutching her drink so hard the glass threatens to shatter.

He pulls her to her feet. Abby feigns resistance, laughing and squirming, but she is already surrendering to the performance.

Monica and Carla chant “Abby! Abby!” and soon the entire side of the club joins in, stamping their feet and clapping to the beat.

Becky’s eyes are wide, but she gives a little “woo!” for moral support.

Jamie leans back, watching the tableau with arms folded, making mental notes for some future story, or maybe just collecting ammunition for the next girls’ night.

Shelly, though, is on high alert. She scans the room, taking in the security, the other tables, the bar staff. She’s seen clubs like this go sideways—seen what happens when alcohol and ego and testosterone mix at just the wrong time. Her jaw is tight, and she’s sitting on her hands so she doesn’t have to grip anything else.

Abby is ushered to a small round platform in front of the main stage. The crowd parts like a school of fish at feeding time. Monica and Carla elbow their way through, phones up and ready, until the bouncer taps their shoulders again and points to the “NO CAMERAS” sign projected on the ceiling.

“I swear, this is a violation of free speech!” Monica says, but backs off, sliding her phone into her bra.

Shelly glances at Jamie, who shrugs and says, “Let her have it.”

“She’ll regret it,” Shelly mutters, and Jamie nods, but then says, “That’s half the point.”

The club drops into a lower gear—lights dim, the music shifts from ironic 2000s R&B to a subsonic drone that’s less about melody and more about what it does to the room’s molecular structure. Everything seems to vibrate, even the plastic ice in the drinks.

The crowd surges forward as Chad returns to the main floor, this time trailing a leash of glow sticks and a dangerous grin. Abby can’t stop giggling. She has left the booth behind entirely, arms windmilling as she lets Monica and Carla herd her to the edge of the platform.

“Get up there, Abs!” Monica shouts, practically shoving her.

Carla chimes in, “You only get one last night of freedom! If you don’t do it, I will!” She winks at Chad, who’s already in motion, skating up to the stage and launching into a series of pelvis-popping moves that make half the room shriek and the other half just blink in awe.

Becky tries to hang back, but Abby tugs her along, pulling her up onto the small stage. Becky stands frozen, unsure whether to cheer or run. She glances behind her, desperate for a lifeline, but Jamie is locked into the booth, hunched over her glass. If Jamie is drinking at all, she’s hiding it.

Shelly is halfway to the stage when a bouncer steps in front of her, blocking her path with a blank, professional smile. “She’s fine,” the bouncer says. “It’s all part of the package.”

“She’s not fine,” Shelly mutters, voice flat as linoleum.

Chad straddles the edge of the platform and grabs Abby’s hands, spinning her into a low dip. She yelps, then lands squarely on his lap, braced by one huge arm at her lower back. Chad runs his other hand up her thigh, all theater, never quite crossing a line, but coming close enough that Abby’s laughter turns to gasps.

Monica and Carla are in hysterics. Carla starts a chant: “Abby! Abby! Abby!” and the name catches, rippling through the club until even the next table over is yelling it.

The club’s strobes flash in a seizure of blue and magenta, turning everything to jump cuts. Abby’s hair, tangled and wild, whips side to side as Chad grinds her against him to the beat. The dance is so synchronized it feels rehearsed, and for a moment Abby is the star of her own music video, audience and future be damned.

Chad stands, lifting Abby with him. She’s weightless, held up by his arms, her legs flailing until he sets her gently down. She’s breathless, sweat blooming at her collar.

Then, as the beat drops, Chad leans in, lips brushing her ear. He says something that nobody at the table can hear. Abby tilts her head back and laughs, sharp and clear. Chad tips her chin up and, before anyone can process what’s happening, kisses her square on the mouth.

For a full two seconds, time slows: Abby doesn’t pull away, she presses forward. The club howls in approval.

Becky’s hand flies to her mouth. Monica and Carla lose their minds, hooting and stomping until the table rattles.

Jamie, never one to waste a quiet moment, slips from the booth and beelines for the bar. She presses a crisp bill into the bartender’s palm and murmurs, “Give the bride another ‘special.’” The bartender nods, pouring a clear shot from a hidden bottle behind the rail.

Shelly, still caged by the bouncer, shouts, “That’s enough! Let her go!” Her voice barely registers over the bass.

Chad finally releases Abby, bows, and skates away. Abby stands on the platform, dazed, lips parted, hands out to steady herself. Carla and Monica rush to her, Monica fanning her with both hands. “Oh my God, you did it!” she screams, “You’re a legend!”

Shelly breaks free and is at the stage in two steps. She pulls Abby down, holding her upright with one arm, and glares after Chad, who’s already taking bows at the next table.

Abby wipes her mouth, then grins. “Best night ever,” she says, slurring the “ever” into two syllables.

Jamie glances at her phone, thumbs a message, then puts it away. Across the table, Monica pours out the last of the vodka and proposes one final toast. Carla, voice raw from yelling, lifts her glass and screams, “To Abby, the baddest bitch alive!”

Abby smiles, holds up her glass, and for a moment, she is untouchable.

Shelly is at her side the instant they sit down, looming with a parental gravity that would have pissed Abby off even if she were sober. “What the fuck was that, Abbs?” Shelly hisses, knuckles white on the edge of the table.

Abby shrugs and grins, leaning into the accusation. “It was fun? I had fun, Shell. Isn’t that the point?”

“You kissed him,” Shelly says. “With tongue. Half the club saw it.”

“Yeah, and?” Abby’s tone is brittle, flipping between a giggle and something meaner. “It’s not like I’m married yet. Michael is probably at some strip club right now with his Neanderthal buddies.”

Shelly pulls back, blinking, as if she’s just been slapped. “You think that’s the same?”

“I think it’s not the end of the world,” Abby says, voice rising. “No one will ever know what I did.”

Carla, always quick with an assist, pipes up: “Honestly, I’m proud. You out-partied every other bride in here.”

Monica laughs, “If Michael can’t handle it, he’s not worth your time, babe.”

Becky watches the exchange, silent, swirling the dregs of her drink. Her eyes drift to Jamie, who’s halfway checked out—scrolling her phone, face composed and unbothered.

Chad returns, fresh from his encore, hair slicked and torso gleaming under the club’s LED halo. He’s in street clothes now—tight jeans, still shirtless, and a cologne that smells like confidence and chemical warfare. He slides in beside Abby, one arm draping her shoulders with the proprietary ease of a man who’s done this hundreds of times. “You killed it out there,” he says, voice syrup-thick. “We’re doing a little afterparty upstairs. You ladies in?”

Monica and Carla are instantly down, high-fiving each other and Chad.

Shelly’s jaw sets. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” she tells Chad, icy. “The party is over.”

Abby twists away from her sister, eyes hard. “You’re not my mom, Shelly. You don’t get to decide.”

Shelly, stung, glances at Jamie for backup but gets nothing. “Abby, think for two seconds. Michael loves you.”

Abby rolls her eyes, then laughs sharp. “Maybe he should try harder. Maybe I want to see how it feels to have someone actually pay attention to me for once.”

It’s quiet for a beat. Monica and Carla exchange a look, both more sober now that drama has replaced alcohol as the main intoxicant.

Chad senses the friction, raises his hands in a peace offering. “It’s just an afterparty, girls. Nothing weird.”

Shelly glares. “That’s what guys always say right before something goes weird.”

Abby stands, shaky but determined. “I’m going, Shell. You can come if you want, or you can leave. But you don’t get to embarrass me anymore. Not tonight.”

Shelly’s face crumples at the edges, but she rallies: “If you go, you can find your own way home.”

“Fine,” Abby spits, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Monica is already up, linking arms with Abby. Carla grabs her purse and gives Shelly a parting glare, as if this is all Shelly’s fault.

Becky slides out behind Shelly, putting a hand on her arm. “Let’s go, Shell,” Becky says, voice gentle. “We can get an Uber.”

Jamie surprises everyone by saying, “I’ll keep a close eye on Abby.” She gets up, tugs her jacket straight, and adds, “But I can’t promise anything.”

For a second, Shelly considers violence—her hand twitches at her side—but instead she turns, eyes burning, and storms out with Becky in tow.

Chad smiles wide, corralling the rest of the group toward the roped-off stairs. Monica skips ahead, Carla close behind, and Abby throws one triumphant look over her shoulder, as if to say, Who’s the fuckup now?

At the bar, Jamie pauses to thank the bartender. He gives her a knowing look, then glances toward the darkened end of the club, where a red-haired, blue-eyed woman in a tight black dress sits alone, her phone in one hand and a club soda in the other. The woman tips her head, acknowledges the bartender, then resumes whatever business has her scrolling through screen after screen with forensic intent.

A male stripper approaches the woman with a charming smile. "What's a gorgeous woman like you-"

"Fuck off," she coldly interrupts.

The woman stands, checks her phone, then walks over to the bar. She slides a fat envelope—cash, probably—to the bartender, and murmurs something too low to be caught over the music. He nods, pockets the envelope, and walks away.

The woman turns to the bouncer, whispers a quick instruction, then drops a thick roll of bills into his hand. “Keep it quiet,” she says, and leaves through a side door, not looking back.