Endurance

Michael adjusted his tie in the mirror, catching Doug's reflection as his best man lounged on the hotel suite's sofa, nursing a whiskey.

"You know you've fixed that thing like eight times, right?" Doug said, raising his glass. "The rehearsal's over, man. You can breathe."

Steven emerged from the bathroom, his dress shirt still crisp despite the long evening. "Leave him alone. Pre-wedding jitters are normal."

"It's not jitters," Michael said, finally turning away from the mirror. He reached for his own barely-touched drink, took a sip, and winced at the burn. The rehearsal had gone smoothly—too smoothly. Everyone had played their parts perfectly, smiling and laughing in all the right places. Only Michael knew what a house of cards it all was.

"Then what's eating you?" Doug pressed. "You've been off all night."

Michael shook his head. "Just tired. Let's head down to the dinner."

The private dining room at Gibson's Steakhouse hummed with conversation when they arrived. The long table gleamed with polished silverware and flickering candles, creating a warm glow that belied the undercurrents running through the assembled guests.

Abby was already there, radiant in a cream-colored cocktail dress, her bridesmaids clustered around her like protective satellites. She caught Michael's eye and smiled, but he noticed how it didn't quite reach her eyes. Had he always been able to read her so well, or was he just looking for signs now?

"There's my boy," Mitchell called, clapping Michael on the shoulder as he approached. His father's familiar cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—enveloped him in memories of childhood guidance and unwavering support. The guilt that had been gnawing at Michael's insides twisted sharply.

"Dad," he managed, returning the embrace. Over Mitchell's shoulder, he saw his mother, Marsha, watching them. When their eyes met, she quickly looked away, busying herself with her napkin.

"Everything alright?" Mitchell asked, pulling back to study his son's face.

"Just wedding nerves," Michael lied, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Across the room, Lawrence Beeks was holding court, one arm draped possessively around his wife Melanie's shoulders as he regaled a small group with some anecdote. Michael's jaw tightened. The man had the audacity to stand there, playing the devoted husband, when just days ago...

"Earth to Michael," Doug's voice cut through his thoughts. "Your future father-in-law is about to make a toast."

Lawrence raised his glass, his voice carrying easily across the room. "When Abby first brought Michael home, I'll admit I was skeptical. What father isn't?" A ripple of polite laughter. "But it didn't take long to see that this young man had not only captured my daughter's heart but had earned her trust and respect—two things not easily given by any Beeks woman."

Michael felt Shelly's eyes on him then, sharp and knowing. Of all Abby's bridesmaids, her sister was the hardest to read. She stood slightly apart from the others, her purple hair a stark contrast to the pastel dresses of Monica and Carla, who flanked Abby like fashion-conscious bodyguards.

"So please join me in raising a glass," Lawrence continued, "to Michael and Abby. May your marriage be blessed with happiness, honesty, and enduring love."

"Honesty," Michael echoed under his breath as glasses clinked around him. He took a mechanical sip, avoiding Marsha's gaze from across the table.

Dinner progressed with forced normalcy. Conversations ebbed and flowed, carefully navigating around the shoals of unspoken truths. Michael found himself seated between Abby and Becky Kingsley, with Jamie directly across from him. Jamie's smile seemed genuine, but there was something in her eyes—concern, perhaps, or pity.

"You've barely touched your steak," Abby murmured, her hand finding his under the table. Her touch, once electric, now felt like an accusation.

"Just savoring the moment," he replied, squeezing her hand before withdrawing his own to reach for his water glass.

Nearby, Carla was describing her latest vacation to Monica in theatrical detail, while Steven engaged Becky in conversation about a new restaurant in Lincoln Park. The normalcy of it all felt surreal to Michael, like watching actors perform a play where he alone had a different script.

"So, Michael," Jamie said suddenly, leaning forward. "Nervous about the big day?"

Before he could answer, Shelly cut in from further down the table. "Please. Michael doesn't get nervous. Remember that time at the Cubs game when that foul ball was heading straight for that little kid, and he just reached out and caught it like it was nothing?"

"That was different," Michael said, grateful for the distraction. "Instinct, not courage."

"Sometimes they're the same thing," Shelly replied, her gaze steady. "Doing the right thing without overthinking it."

Was she trying to tell him something? Michael wondered if she knew about her father and his mother. The thought made him glance involuntarily at Lawrence, who was deep in conversation with Mitchell. The sight of them together—one man betrayed, the other the betrayer—made Michael's stomach turn.

"More wine?" Doug offered, appearing at his elbow with a bottle.

"I'm good," Michael said. What he needed was air, not alcohol.

As dessert was served—a decadent chocolate cake that no one seemed particularly enthusiastic about—Michael excused himself to use the restroom. In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, loosening his tie and taking deep breaths.

"You look like you could use this more than me," said a voice, and he turned to find Shelly holding out a flask. "Don't worry, it's not poison. Just good bourbon."

Michael hesitated, then took it. "Thanks."

"Want to tell me what's really going on?" she asked as he took a swig. "And don't say 'wedding jitters.' I've known you too long for that bullshit."

"It's complicated," he said, handing back the flask.

"Isn't it always?" Shelly took her own drink before tucking the flask away. "Look, I don't know what's eating you, but I know my sister. And something's off with her too."

Michael's heart rate picked up. "What do you mean?"

Shelly studied him for a long moment. "Just... keep your eyes open, okay? And remember that whatever happens, you deserve the truth. We all do."

Before he could press her further, the restroom door opened, and Carla emerged, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of them together.

"There you are, Shelly," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Abby's looking for you. Something about the seating arrangement for the reception."

"Duty calls," Shelly said to Michael with a wry smile. As she walked away, she added over her shoulder, "Think about what I said."

Carla lingered, her gaze calculating. "Everything okay with the groom?"

"Fine," Michael said shortly. "Just needed some air."

"Hmm," Carla hummed, unconvinced. "Well, don't stay away too long. People might talk."

As she sashayed back toward the dining room, Michael couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something important. What did Shelly know? And why did Carla seem almost... pleased by his discomfort?

When he returned to the table, the atmosphere had shifted subtly. Abby was deep in conversation with Monica, their heads close together. She glanced up as he sat down, offering a smile that seemed forced.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Just needed a minute," he replied. "It's getting warm in here."

Across the table, Jamie was watching them, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Becky seemed to be monitoring the interaction with unusual intensity.

As the evening wound down, Mitchell stood to offer the final toast of the night. "To my son and his beautiful bride-to-be," he said, his voice warm with genuine affection. "May your life together be built on trust, respect, and unwavering honesty."

Michael felt the weight of those words like a physical burden. He raised his glass mechanically, his eyes finding his mother's across the table. Marsha looked away quickly, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

Beside him, Abby squeezed his hand again, her grip almost desperate. When he turned to her, the guilt in her eyes mirrored what he imagined was visible in his own.

"To honesty," she whispered, so quietly that only he could hear.

In that moment, Michael knew with absolute certainty that whatever foundation they were building their marriage on, honesty wasn't part of it. The realization settled over him like a shroud as glasses clinked around them one final time.

Two more days until the wedding. Two more days of secrets and lies, of knowing glances and unspoken accusations. Two more days until everything would either be confessed—or explode in ways none of them could predict.

Michael drained his glass in one swallow, welcoming the burn.