Endurance

Shelly wakes in the blue predawn, alone, tangled in sheets that still smell like Michael’s skin and her own sweat. The apartment is too quiet, the old pipes humming, the bar below dead until noon. Every detail—her bra on the floor, a black sock peeking from under the chair, the ghost of Michael’s handprint on her hip—seems like evidence in a trial that’s just begun.

She pads into the bathroom, stares down the girl in the medicine cabinet mirror. Mascara smudged, hair like a storm cloud, lips bitten and bruised. She tries to laugh it off, but the sound dies in her throat. The memory of last night returns, all heat and ache, and then, right behind it, a wave of guilt so raw her fingers actually tremble.

It’s not the sex she regrets. Not the way Michael kissed her like she was a real person, not a joke. Not the part where she let herself want him—let herself be wanted. What guts her is the betrayal. She thinks about Abby, about all the years they tried and failed to be a real family, about the night at the club, the fight, the fallout. She thinks about Franky, sweet, hopeful, never-gets-the-joke Franky, who still hasn’t called this week but somehow that makes it worse.

She picks up her phone and scrolls through the missed texts. One from Becky at 2:13 a.m.: “U alive?” No one else. Michael’s number is still pinned at the top, but the thread is blank.

She spends the morning in her favorite distraction loop: coffee, laundry, rearrange the liquor bottles, alphabetize the takeout menus. Nothing helps. At 10 a.m. she caves and dials Becky. Three rings, then the familiar voice, bright and bossy: “Hey trouble.”

“Can you come over?” Shelly says, and she hates how shaky she sounds. “Like, now?”

“You okay?”

“No,” Shelly says. “Just… come. Please.”

“Be there in twenty.” Click.

Shelly sets the phone down and pours herself another coffee, this time with a heavy hand of whiskey. She drinks it black, scalding, standing at the window as Saturday creeps onto Wells Street. Delivery trucks hiss by, and the sun pokes through, turning the empty beer garden across the street gold. Shelly tries to imagine what Michael’s doing right now. Is he regretting it? Has he already texted Abby? Is he telling Doug or Steven or, god forbid, Jamie? The thought makes her stomach twist.

By the time Becky arrives, Shelly has had at least two cups of coffee. She barely hears the knock—Becky just lets herself in, calling up the stairwell, “Shelly? Where are you?”

“In here,” Shelly croaks. She’s back on the couch, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. The blanket she and Michael used last night is still bunched at her feet, and she has to stop herself from kicking it aside.

Becky enters, hair in a messy bun, wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans. She looks fresh, alive, like she hasn’t spent the night reliving every mistake she’s ever made. She gives Shelly a once-over, eyebrows shooting up. “Yikes. That bad?”

Shelly tries to smirk. “I’m about to set a new world record for self-loathing.”

“Good thing I brought sugar.” Becky holds up a bakery box. She plops down beside Shelly, grabs two donuts, and hands one over. “You wanna tell me, or should I just guess?”

Shelly rips the donut in half. “You’ll never guess.”

“Try me.”

They migrate to the kitchen table, where Shelly sets out two mugs and the battered box of donuts. Becky takes hers with cream, no sugar, and watches as Shelly busies herself with the French press, her hands clumsy but determined. The sun has burned through the morning haze, painting stripes of light across the battered wooden table. A lazy dust mote floats in the beam, and for a second Becky just watches, cataloging details: the faint outline of a handprint on the table, the whiskey bottle from last night’s emergency spillover, Shelly’s nervous jitter.

“You know,” Becky says, “it’s not even noon and you’re making me worry about you. That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

Shelly sets the mugs down with a shaky hand. She pulls her knees up onto the chair, hugging them. She picks at the crust of her donut, not meeting Becky’s eyes. “Michael came by. He was wrecked.”

“About Abby,” Becky says, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah. He looked like someone ran him over and backed up to check the body.”

Becky nods. “And?”

Shelly takes a breath. “And I let him upstairs. Told Karen to close out.”

“Classic.” Becky smirks. “So far, so normal.”

“We talked. We drank. I tried to—” Shelly hesitates, then shrugs, “—I tried to tell him it would get better. You know, the usual post-apocalyptic pep talk. And then he kissed me.”

Becky’s eyebrows go up. “He kissed you?”

“He made the first move, and I kissed him back.” Shelly’s voice is small. “And I didn’t want to stop. I should have, but I didn’t.”

Becky’s lips twitch, not sure whether to smile or frown. “Well, he always did have a thing for you.”

“That’s bullshit.” Shelly shoves a bite of donut in her mouth, talks around it. “He was with Abby for three years.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been pining like a Victorian ghost the whole time. Don’t act like this is some big shock.”

Shelly’s cheeks flush. “I am not a ghost.”

“You’re certainly not see-through,” Becky says, then gives her a gentle nudge. “So, was it good?”

Shelly can’t help it: she smiles, a real one, teeth and all. “It was… the best sex of my life. Like, I didn’t know it could be like that.”

Becky raises her mug. “To sexual breakthroughs, then.”

They clink. Shelly drinks deep, letting the heat settle in her chest. “He was gentle at first. Like he thought I might break. And then it was—” She stops herself, shakes her head, embarrassed. “I don’t even know if it meant anything to him, or if it was just the grief talking.”

“Does it matter?” Becky asks, softer now.

“Yeah. It does.” Shelly’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Because I wanted him before. And now I want him more.”

Becky watches her, weighing the words. “Are you gonna tell him that?”

Shelly shrugs. “He’s probably already regretting it. He left before I woke up.”

“You know he does that, right? Runs away from good things.”

“Don’t we all?” Shelly says, and they both laugh, sharp and sad.

A beat of quiet. Becky toys with the lid of her mug. “You want advice, or just empathy?”

“Both, please. Extra empathy, hold the judgment.”

Becky leans in, elbows on the table. “Okay. One: you’re not a monster. Two: if you want Michael, you should go for it, but maybe don’t nuke your whole life for one night.”

Shelly nods, serious. “I hear you. But what if he doesn’t want me back?”

“Then we’ll drink our way through every bar on Wells until you forget his name.”

“Deal,” Shelly says.

Another pause. Then Becky, hesitant: “What about Franky?”

Shelly winces. “I don’t know. He’s sweet. He makes me laugh. But last night—last night made me realize I’ve been holding back. I thought it was about not wanting to get hurt, but I think I was just waiting for Michael.”

“That’s rough,” Becky says, but she doesn’t sound angry, just tired. “For what it’s worth, I think Franky would understand. He’s not stupid.”

“Yeah. But it still feels like shit.”

“They’re your feelings, Shell. You don’t have to justify them to anyone.”

They sit in silence, letting the sounds of the city drift in. Downstairs, a delivery truck slams its doors. Somewhere on the street, a dog barks.

Becky stands, stretches. “Okay. Here’s the plan: you shower, get dressed like a human, and text Michael. If he doesn’t answer, we’ll start drinking at four.”

“Why four?”

“Because three is too desperate and five is too sad.” Becky grins, and for the first time in days, Shelly grins back.

As Becky heads out, she stops at the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad it was you.”

Shelly blinks, not following.

“With Michael,” Becky clarifies. “You’re good for him. Even if you don’t always believe it.”

Shelly wants to argue, but the words won’t come. Instead, she watches Becky disappear down the stairs, and when the door clicks shut, she lets herself hope—just a little—that maybe things will turn out okay.

The apartment is quiet again, but the silence doesn’t feel quite so heavy. Shelly clears the table, sets the mugs in the sink, and heads to the shower. Under the hot water, she lets the memories of last night run through her, not flinching, not turning away.