Endurance

If Michael’s apartment were any warmer, the wine would be sweating through the glass before you got it to your mouth. Everyone is already seated, pressed shoulder to shoulder around the battered walnut dining table that doubles as his only real piece of grown-up furniture. A lazy ceiling fan rotates overhead, struggling against the stubborn June heat. Michael stands at the head of the table in a charcoal blazer crisp enough to reflect light, the cuffs of his shirt peeking out at the wrists, his jaw squared like he’s bracing for a finish line.

Abby is beside him, their hands joined under the table, but she’s the opposite of nervous—she’s got a radiance that’s almost reckless, pale-yellow sundress aglow in the dying daylight, lace skimming her knees, the ring on her finger broadcasting its own private signal. There’s no fidgeting, no shy glances. She wants this, wants it seen, wants it remembered.

To Michael’s right: Steven Page, who somehow always looks overdressed for the occasion despite wearing a simple maroon short-sleeve and black jeans. Six foot four, built like he could lift the table, with a coffee-brown complexion and a calm that soaks into the room. Steven’s arm rests next to Becky Kingsley’s, and he glances at her for a beat, making sure she’s ready before the fireworks start.

Becky, curls spilling across her shoulders, is sipping her drink with measured grace. The sharp brown of her eyes softens when she sees Michael looking at her, and she tips her glass slightly in his direction—an unspoken “I’m here.” Even in summer, Becky dresses for winter, but tonight she’s relaxed in a soft gray tee, sleeves rolled above the elbow, dark jeans cut perfectly, toes bare against the wood floor. Her laugh, when it comes, is a low, unbreakable thing.

Across the table, Jamie Kingsley is already sizing up the situation. She’s perched at the edge of her seat, long wavy hair swept to one side, stylish glasses catching the afternoon light and turning her eyes into polished walnut. She wears a navy skirt and a white sleeveless blouse—business casual, but with enough edge to signal she’s not here for small talk. She watches Abby with a skeptical tilt to her head, arms crossed, fingers drumming a syncopated beat on her bicep.

Doug Williams dominates the far end of the table, a ginger scarecrow of a man whose limbs always seem an inch too long for his body. Curly red hair, blue eyes sharp with mirth, he's in a Cubs jersey—predictable, but endearing—and leans back in his chair like he's holding court at a dive bar. His fingers trace the rim of his glass with the same careful attention he's given to every major decision in Michael's life since freshman year. "Well, let's get it over with," he says to no one in particular, but he's grinning as he says it.

Flanking Doug, Shelly Beeks is a study in contrasts. Almost as tall as Michael, she’s got the posture of a reluctant soldier about to get a medal she never wanted. Her purple pixie cut is a beacon in the room, but her eyes are piercing, almost blue-white, and her mouth is drawn tight with emotion she doesn’t want to show. She wears black jeans and a threadbare band t-shirt under a leather vest, tattoos climbing her forearm, and sits with her arms folded so tightly her knuckles blanch.

Rounding out the crew: Carla Ricci and Monica Bukowski, who could have been cast as the “before” and “after” in a high-end salon commercial. Carla’s olive skin and dark hair are set off by a gold chain, her makeup on point even for a house party. She watches the proceedings with a practiced air, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap.

Monica, with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail accented by sun-kissed highlights, sports a summer dress that's noticeably tight, accentuating her bronzed limbs. She brings her hands together in a soft clap, the gesture appearing slightly practiced.

The tension is surgical, ready for Michael to cut.

He clears his throat, and it’s as if the room inhales as one. “Thanks for coming,” he says, voice cracking with a humor that gets a quick giggle from Steven and a smirk from Jamie. “I know it’s hot. And I know I’m not the best host, but—”

“Understatement,” Doug says, raising his beer. Laughter fills the room, and even Michael can't contain a slight chuckle.

“—but this matters,” Michael continues. He squeezes Abby’s hand, and she stands, pale yellow like a sunrise next to his sober black. “We wanted you all here because—well, because you’re the people who matter to us. The ones who’ve seen it all, or at least enough to blackmail us if needed.”

He gets a laugh with that, a ripple of relief, but Becky leans in, her voice warm and close: “Just say it, Mikey.”

He does. “We’re getting married,” Michael says, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if he can’t believe them himself.

The room fractures into a tableau of reactions. Steven's fist punches skyward while Becky's hands fly to her mouth. Shelly freezes, mouth hanging open like she's been struck. Monica and Carla exchange a look of theatrical surprise, their inhales audible. Across the table, Doug's face contracts into a single word—"Really?"—that never quite escapes his lips. Only Jamie remains perfectly still, her posture rigid as marble, eyes fixed on Abby's radiant face with the quiet intensity of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

Steven is the first to respond, jumping up to give Michael a bear hug. "It's about time, man," he remarks, patting Michael's back as he holds him tightly. Then, Steven turns to Abby, embraces her, and joyfully spins her around, exclaiming, "Congrats, Abby!"

Next, Becky greets Michael with a heartfelt hug. "Congratulations, Mikey," she whispers softly. She steps back and clasps both of Michael's hands, her smile reflecting a mix of nostalgia and genuine happiness. "Don't mess this up," she warns playfully, but her eyes show her confidence in him.

Becky then embraces Abby, her long curls brushing against Abby's bare shoulder. "You're in for it now," she murmurs, her tone half-serious but filled with pride.

Doug rises next, clapping Michael on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you, buddy," he says, his smile genuine even as something flickers behind his eyes. Michael catches it—that split-second of hesitation—but Doug pulls him into a bear hug before he can analyze it further.

"Thanks, man," Michael mumbles into Doug's shoulder. They break apart, and Doug pivots toward Steven while Michael turns to face the others.

"Told you he'd fold," Doug whispers to Steven, palm outstretched. Steven rolls his eyes, fishing his wallet from his back pocket with theatrical reluctance. He extracts a crisp fifty and slaps it into Doug's waiting hand.

"Worth every penny," Doug says with a wink, tucking the bill away. He gives Steven's shoulder a consolatory squeeze.

Shelly's response is delayed, as if her thoughts are weaving through a complex maze to find the right words. She stands, enveloping Michael in a warm embrace. “Welcome to the circus,” she whispers, her voice a mix of warmth and hesitation. As she steps back, her hands remain on his shoulders, offering a firm yet gentle squeeze, her eyes searching his.

“Thank you,” Michael replies, his voice steady.

“I truly mean it,” Shelly insists, though a shadow of uncertainty lingers in her tone. She finally lets go and turns away, catching sight of Abby's enthusiastic interaction with Monica and Carla. Becky approaches Shelly cautiously.

“Well, what do you think?” Becky inquires quietly. Shelly watches Abby, her expression unreadable, and exhales softly through her nose, lips pressed together.

“I think I need a drink,” Shelly responds, a hint of inner turmoil in her voice, before making her way toward the kitchen.

Monica lunges for Abby's hand, yanking it into the light. "Oh my God, look at that rock!" Her voice rises above the party noise.

Carla's eyes narrow as she examines the diamond. "Not bad, Lewis. Not bad at all." She glances at Michael across the room before turning back to Abby. "So, you've got him locked down now, huh?"

"Somebody had to do it," Abby replies, raising her glass in Jamie's direction with a smile that's all teeth.

Jamie remains statue-still, watching Abby like a scientist observing a curious specimen. "Congratulations," she finally says, each syllable crisp as fresh linen. Her lips curve upward, but her eyes remain winter-cold.

She lifts her drink in a mechanical toast. "Think you can handle him?" The question floats between them, deceptively light.

"I know I can," Abby says, fingers digging into Michael's side. "I've always known exactly what I want."

Jamie's gaze lingers on Abby before sliding to Michael, who laughs at something Doug just said, oblivious to the silent duel happening across the room.

An hour later, the champagne is gone, replaced by a rotating cast of microbrews and White Claws lining the coffee table like bowling pins. The party has migrated from the rigid geometry of the dining table to the gentle sprawl of the sectional, everyone arranging themselves by loyalty, history, or shared taste in snacks. The overhead fan hums louder, working overtime against the tide of body heat and cheap alcohol.

Michael is wedged into the deep corner of the sectional, legs stretched, shoes off, dark socks already collecting dog hair from the previous tenant. He’s holding court with Steven and Doug, but his attention keeps drifting to the kitchen alcove, where Jamie has posted up next to the fridge, arms crossed, foot tapping a silent, angry rhythm.

Jamie’s gaze never fully leaves Michael. Every time he glances over, she’s watching him with that same steady intensity, like she’s waiting for him to crack. She looks less professor and more chess player in this light, her hair now tucked behind one ear, face sharpened by the shadows cast from the hanging lamp above.

Eventually, she makes her move, striding across the wood floor, her heels muted by the rug. She stops in front of Michael, leans down, and in a voice pitched for his ears alone: “Can we talk?”

He nods, stands, and follows her to the balcony, the sliding door closing behind them with a soft, pneumatic sigh. The sounds of the party fade, replaced by the whoosh of traffic and the occasional bark from the alley below.

Jamie leans against the railing, city lights behind her, trembling slightly. "Are you sure about this?" she asks, not quite meeting Michael's eyes.

Michael mirrors her stance. "You need to be more specific."

Jamie lets out a small laugh. "This. Abby. Marriage. I know when you’re genuine and when you’re not."

He tilts his head, slightly amused. "I’m not forcing anything."

"You could have told me," Jamie says. "Finding out with everyone else after three years—" She stops, looking away. "It's your call."

Michael studies her. "What difference would it make, Jamie?"

"I just want you happy," she says, effort evident in her expression. "Not just settled."

The city hums around them. Michael watches her, noting her jaw and twitching hands.

He shrugs, softer. "I am happy."

Jamie searches his face for deceit. "Okay," she finally nods. "Okay."

Inside, the living room erupts with laughter, and Jamie flinches as though the noise has struck her like a solid blow.

Michael observes her quietly, then leans in, lowering his voice. “What’s really going on?”

Jamie looks at the skyline, then at him, her gaze wavering. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she finally says, her voice laced with hesitation. “That’s all.” She hesitates, caught between leaving and staying, before she turns abruptly, leaving the unresolved question lingering in the night air, and slips back inside before he can respond.

Michael lets out a deep sigh, his eyes following Jamie as she retreats into the bustling room. His gaze sweeps over to where Jamie is approaching Becky, the two sisters engaged in an animated chat. Nearby, Steven and Doug are exchanging words with Shelly, whose laughter rings out like a melody as she responds to something Doug has said, playfully punching his shoulder in jest.

Meanwhile, across the room, Abby is deep in conversation with Carla and Monica. Amid their lively exchange, she catches sight of Michael standing by himself, a solitary figure in the lively gathering. Her eyes light up with a playful glint, and she flashes him a warm, teasing smile.

Michael can't help but smile back, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken camaraderie, before he turns to leave the kitchen, the soft hum of continued conversations fading behind him.