Endurance

Outside, the church parking lot has transformed into a battlefield. Splinters of rice and shredded petals dot the pavement, like wedding shrapnel, while clusters of guests loiter in uneasy, gossipy knots. A single limo idles by the curb, its door half open, engine whining in the humid June air, waiting for a bride and groom that will never appear.

Shelly Beeks stands at the edge of the lot, fists curled so tight her knuckles whiten. Her combat boots scrape at the blacktop, grinding stray bits of confetti into dust. She’s breathing hard, ragged, her shoulders tense to the breaking point under the absurd gold dress—the same one she’d intended to drench in champagne after a toast but now dreams of setting ablaze with a roadside flare.

Lawrence Beeks is less than ten feet away, framed by the side of the church and a half-circle of stunned onlookers. He’s abandoned the proud-father act; now he just looks old and off-balance, the spring drained from his step. His jaw works side to side, seeking words and finding only empty air.

“Unbelievable,” Shelly spits, her voice pitched to slice through the murmurs. “You fucking lied to all of us. Years—years—you pretended you were better, that you protected us. And this whole time you’re just a coward with a zipper problem.”

Lawrence sets his jaw. “This is neither the time nor the place, Michelle.”

Shelly laughs, ugly and sharp. “What? The time isn’t right? The place isn’t dignified enough?” She sweeps her arm at the church, the cars, the crowd. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you started fucking Michael’s mom. Or is adultery only a sin if it ruins your photo op?”

Gasps ripple through the knot of distant relatives and family friends—words like “disgraceful” and “scene” float on the muggy air. Lawrence’s face flushes. He steps forward, lowering his voice in a last bid for authority. “Enough, Shelly. Let’s not do this here.”

“Why? Afraid someone might see the real you?” She rounds on him, hands trembling, purple hair wild around her face. “You spent your whole life lecturing us about loyalty and decency. And now you stand here, what, hoping we’ll all just—forget it? Move on?” Her voice cracks. “You humiliated Mom. You humiliated us.”

Lawrence’s reply dies in his throat. For a moment, he looks very small.

The church doors burst open. Abby stumbles out, veil crumpled in one hand, mascara streaked down her face like battle paint. Monica and Carla hover behind her, talking urgently, but Abby barrels forward, eyes bright and feral.

Shelly turns on her instantly. “And you. Jesus, Abs. You couldn’t keep it together for one fucking week?”

Abby’s lip quivers. “You don’t know what happened—”

“I know enough. I know you let everyone here believe you were a saint, while you were grinding on strippers like it was a job interview.” Shelly stalks forward, nose-to-nose with her sister. “Michael deserved better. We all deserved better.”

“Shelly, please—” Abby’s voice is thin, desperate.

“Don’t. Don’t ‘please’ me.” Shelly’s whole body is shaking now, the rage and grief finally eating through the last of her composure. “I warned you. I begged you to tell him before it got to this. But you just lied and lied and let him walk into that church like a goddamn lamb. For what? A fucking party?”

Abby’s hands clutch at her ruined veil. Her face crumples. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. There’s a flicker in her eyes—not just shame, but the sick realization that she’s become the villain in someone else’s story.

From the sidelines, Becky approaches—quiet, steady, her gold dress somehow dignified even now. She closes the distance, puts a gentle hand on Shelly’s bared shoulder. “Let it go,” she says, voice as soft as a lullaby. “You’re shaking.”

Shelly jerks away at first, but Becky holds firm, grounding her, letting the hurt flow out and down.

Lawrence takes a step forward. “Girls, let’s just get in the car—”

Lawrence reaches for Shelly’s shoulder, but his hand falters mid-air, as if even gravity won’t let him touch her. Becky flashes him a look of pure ice.

“You’ve done enough, Lawrence,” she says.

Lawrence hesitates, then turns away, scanning the lot for Melanie, but she’s already gone, vanished into the anonymity of a passing Uber.

The crowd disperses by slow degrees, people migrating toward cars or the ghost of a reception at the country club. Even Monica and Carla slink off, arms tight around Abby, leaving Shelly and Becky alone by the curb.

Shelly stands there, chest heaving, as the last of her anger dissipates. In its wake, only devastation remains. The tears come, hot and fast, streaking through her careful makeup. Becky turns her in, pulls her close, and for a minute they just stand together, breath synced, as if they’re the only two people left in the city.

“It’s okay,” Becky whispers. “You did what you had to.” Becky’s hand trembles slightly as she touches Shelly’s shoulder. She’s seen this kind of ruin before—just not in a wedding dress.

Shelly shakes her head. “No. I didn’t. I should’ve done something sooner.”

“You couldn’t have. None of us could.” Becky runs her hand gently through the tangled mess of Shelly’s purple hair. “But it’s over now. You can breathe.”

Shelly tries, but it comes out as a wet, broken noise. “I just wanted one nice day.”

Becky laughs softly. “That was never in the cards.”

They linger in the fading sunlight, dresses gleaming and mascara wrecked, watching as the shattered wedding party peels away, one battered car at a time. A breeze rolls in from the lake, and for the first time all afternoon, it feels clean, new, almost possible.

Shelly lets herself cry, for Michael, for her mother, for everything that’s been lost and everything that has yet to be rebuilt. Becky stays with her the whole time, arms around her, saying nothing more. Sometimes, that’s all a person needs.

Inside, the bridal suite is a scene from a failed movie: vases toppled, bouquets wilting on the floor, an overturned tray of champagne flutes puddling into the carpet. The room’s mirrors reflect and multiply the disaster, turning every ruined angle of Abby Beeks into a thousand others: hunched on a pale blue chaise, dress bunched above her knees, veil limp and ragged in her fist. The gold heels are gone. She’s barefoot, toes digging into the runner, as if she could claw her way back to before.

Monica and Carla orbit her in shifting, fidgety patterns. Monica plucks tissues from a silver box, dabbing at Abby’s face with the precision of someone cleaning a wound. Carla paces, phone clutched in her palm, firing off texts to God-knows-who, voice pitched low as she mutters damage assessments to herself.

“He’s a monster,” Monica says, voice syrupy and insistent. “You don’t deserve this. No one deserves this kind of humiliation.”

“Yeah,” Carla echoes, dropping to her haunches beside the chaise. “He’s a psycho. I mean, you made a mistake—everyone does. But who blows up a wedding like that?” She hands Abby a fresh tissue. “You’re going to be okay. You’re better off.”

Abby’s shoulders shake, but the tears have slowed, replaced by a throb of anger. She blots at her eyes, smearing the black into a crude mask. “He was supposed to love me. No matter what.”

Monica’s face hardens. “He never did, honey. Not really. He just wanted you to be perfect.”

A humorless laugh rattles out of Abby. “You think I wanted to be this?” She waves at her ruined dress, the mess, the tissue flakes on her lap. “You think I wanted to be the fucking town joke?”

Carla stands, crossing her arms. “We tried to warn you. We said he was—”

Abby cuts her off, voice suddenly sharp. “You let me do it. Both of you. You stood there at Euphoria, watched it happen, laughed, and then you let me walk down that aisle with a time bomb in my pocket. A fucking video!”

Monica steps back, eyes wide. “We didn’t know there was a video—”

“You did!” Abby explodes, standing now, fists balled. “You filmed half of it yourselves, remember? Hashtag BrideLife?” She whirls on Carla, who shrinks a step. “Did you send it to him? Was that your idea of a joke?”

Carla’s face goes flat, indignant. “Are you out of your mind? I didn’t send him anything! Why would I? I was trying to protect you!”

Monica steps forward. “Besides, we couldn’t even film anything! That was the rule!”

“Bullshit,” Abby snarls. “You don’t care about me. You just wanted a front-row seat to the crash.”

Monica’s jaw is set, lips tight. “If we were going to leak it, don’t you think we would’ve warned you first? We’re not monsters, Abby.”

“Then who?” Abby’s voice cracks, wild and high. “Who hated me enough to ruin my life?”

The room is silent, the only noise the hum of the central air and the distant rumble of church doors slamming below.

Carla looks at Monica, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt creeps into her voice. “Maybe it was one of the guys? Maybe Doug? He’s always hated you.” Her phone buzzes again. She doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t want to see the unknown number she’s been avoiding all afternoon.

Monica glances at her phone. One unread message. No name. She reads cautiously and shakes her head. “He’s not smart enough for this.”

Abby lets the tissue fall, bits of it clinging to her face. She looks at the mirror and doesn’t seem to recognize the person in it. She turns back, trembling, but there’s a new clarity in her eyes, a focal point behind the tears. “I’m going to find Jamie,” she says, voice suddenly calm. “She’s the only one who wasn’t there. The only one who’d want to see me suffer.”

“She was there, Abby. You really think it was her?” asks Carla.

Monica tries to catch her arm. “Abs, you’re not thinking straight.”

Abby shrugs her off, shaking, but every movement more deliberate than the last. “For once, I am.”

She stalks to the door, heels forgotten, and leaves the suite, white dress sweeping behind her like the tail of a ghost. Carla and Monica are left blinking at each other, the question hanging in the air: what if she’s right?

They listen to her footsteps vanish down the hall, and in the silent aftermath, Monica pours herself a glass of flat champagne. “Well,” she says, knocking it back, “there goes brunch.”

Carla laughs, high and nervous, and they both stare at the door, waiting for the next detonation.

Back in the parking lot, twilight settles over the scattered debris of the day: a heel left stranded near the curb, a sodden clutch purse, the edges of a paper RSVP dissolving in the condensation pooled by a Camry’s tire. The limo is gone. Most of the guests have retreated to their cars, the gossips headed for afterparties or the safety of suburban homes, leaving only the diehards—those with too many feelings and nowhere else to go.

Shelly leans against the side of Becky’s Subaru, her face streaked with the ruins of mascara and grief. She wipes her nose on the inside of her gold gown, then glances up at Becky, whose composure is as neat as her chignon.

“Thanks for, you know, not letting me throat-punch my dad,” Shelly mutters, voice rough.

Becky smiles, tired but fond. “That’s what sisters-in-arms are for.”

Shelly draws a shaky breath, eyes tracking the last sliver of sun over the Walgreens down the block. “You think it’s over? Or is he gonna show up at Christmas with some—like—apology fruit basket?”

Becky tilts her head. “If he does, I’ll spike it with rat poison.”

That earns a wet, real laugh from Shelly. For a second, they just stand together, the air growing cooler as night moves in, the rage finally burned out, leaving only the ache.

Shelly straightens, checking her phone. “Guess I should make sure Mom’s not dead in a ditch.”

Becky gives her a quick, tight hug. “She’ll be okay. She’s got you.”

Shelly nods, wipes the last tear from her cheek, and heads off down the lot, the train of her dress sweeping broken glass and discarded petals in her wake.

Becky stands for a moment, hands tucked under her arms, gaze fixed on nothing. She turns back toward the church steps, ready to leave herself, when the doors bang open and Abby barrels out, hair loose, face set with new intent. She’s barefoot, wedding dress dark with streaks of dirt and sidewalk grit. She’s breathing like she just ran the mile.

Abby spots Becky, makes a beeline, and grabs her by the arm, voice wild and ragged. “Where is she? Where the fuck is Jamie?”

Becky doesn’t flinch. “Why do you care?”

Abby shakes her hard enough to sting. “Because she’s the only one who could’ve sent it. The video. Michael would never have found out if she didn’t—”

Becky shrugs her off, the movement calm, almost cold. “You don’t get to blame anyone but yourself. Jamie’s not your problem. You are.”

Abby’s eyes go glassy. “You don’t understand. I have to fix this.”

Becky softens, just a fraction. “You can’t. Not now. You need to calm down, or you’ll regret what comes next.”

Abby opens her mouth, but nothing comes out except a weak, helpless squeak. She lets go of Becky’s arm and staggers back, wiping at her cheeks with frantic, dirty hands. For a heartbeat, it seems she might collapse right there in the lot, another piece of broken wedding detritus.

But instead, she squares her shoulders and pushes past Becky, stumbling toward the church entrance.

Becky watches her go, a storm of pity and fury swirling behind her eyes. She wants to shout something after Abby, some final word, but the moment passes and she lets it die.

Her gaze drifts across the lot, searching for a sign of Jamie. Instead, she spots Michael: hunched against the limestone wall at the far end of the church, shoulders drawn up to his ears, hands wrapped around his head. The suit is wrinkled and sweat-stained, bow tie gone, one cufflink missing.

Michael looks less like a groom and more like a man waiting out a hurricane. His fingers are wrapped around a torn RSVP card. He’s folded it into a tight square, over and over, until the paper is soft as cloth.

Becky stares for a long time. Then, with a last look at the empty church doors, she crosses the lot, steps careful and quiet, and settles onto the curb across from Michael. She doesn’t speak, just sits there in the hush, letting the space fill up with everything neither of them can say.

She’ll wait until he’s ready. Sometimes, that’s the only thing you can do.