Endurance

There’s a particular shade of light in Shelly’s Pub, the kind that never shows up in photos, only in memory—liquid, dense, somewhere between amber and the last hour before sunset. The woodwork wears a patina of a hundred thousand spilled drinks and the bar stools tilt at odd, familiar angles, already half-mapped to the regulars’ hips. On a Thursday at half-past seven, the crowd is local: a few construction guys with cement still under their nails, a pack of grad students orbiting the trivia screen, and in the southeast corner, a round table commandeered by five women who look like they’ve come for a meeting but will not, under any circumstances, refer to it as such.

The current of conversation at the table is low and tight as a drum, words skipping between them like pebbles off a frozen pond. Abby is there, in an eggshell blouse and gold hoops, tracing the condensation on her gin and tonic with one finger as she pitches her voice upward every time she wants to grab the air back from Monica or Carla. Monica, full makeup and a pashmina that threatens to eclipse her actual body, sits with her chair pushed back, one leg crossed over the other so forcefully it looks like she’s trying to cut off her own circulation. Carla’s in a sleeveless turtleneck, a contradiction she pulls off by pure attitude, with her phone face-up on the table at all times. Becky and Jamie hold down the far side: Becky’s hair in its usual free-fall, arms crossed in skepticism but with a barely concealed grin; Jamie with a legal pad she’s not really using, occasionally writing down things that only she can read.

Shelly makes her entrance the way she always does, not with a bang but with a glance to the corner, an exchange of nods with her bartender, and then a straight-line walk to the table. She’s wearing her favorite dark-wash jeans and a Ramones tee under a black moto jacket, the purple in her hair catching fire under the overhead fixtures. She brings her own pint, already sweating, and she doesn’t ask if there’s room before she pulls out the only empty chair. She sets her glass down, plants her elbows, and grins around the table with the expectation of trouble.

“Karen’s got the bar,” Shelly says, her eyes scanning the perimeter like a bouncer who’s also the event planner. “Who’s ready to get real?”

“We were just talking about the venue,” Abby says, too bright. “Monica has a strong lead.”

“Shocker,” Shelly says. She sips her beer, watching Monica with a gaze that is ninety percent challenge, ten percent resigned affection.

Monica meets her, chin up. “I have the spreadsheets, babe. If you want an open bar, a dance floor, and a cake that doesn’t taste like drywall, we need to book by this weekend.”

Carla is first to laugh. “Like you’re going to settle for a cake, Moni. You want a three-tiered Champagne tower and an edible disco ball.”

“You’re jealous because I have vision,” Monica fires back, flipping her hair like she’s in a contest with the air.

“I’m just here for the shots and the afterparty,” Carla says.

“Which brings me to the next point,” Monica says, turning deliberately to Shelly. “We voted. Abby’s bachelorette is going to be legendary, and it’s not happening at a bowling alley.”

Shelly’s jaw goes rigid, then resets. “We voted? Without me? I’m the maid of honor—what’s the point if you all do this without me?”

“You get the toast,” Monica says, and this time even Jamie looks up from her notes. “You’re the best at speeches. But come on, Shell—you know you hate group activities.”

Shelly rolls her eyes, but it’s practiced. “I don’t hate group activities, I hate things that suck. Like expensive clubs with velvet ropes and… whatever it is you’re about to say.”

“Bowling was your last three birthdays,” Carla says. “It’s retro-chic, but for a bachelorette? You want Abby in rental shoes and a polyester league shirt?”

“Could be cute,” Jamie offers, voice sly and dry as the bar’s best vermouth.

Monica waves her off. “You don’t get to comment, Jamie. The only bachelorette party you’d ever go to would be one where everyone just sits in different rooms and texts each other instead of talking.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jamie asks.

“Let’s just hear the other options,” Becky says, referee by inclination, if not by choice.

Shelly takes a breath, recalibrating. “Axe throwing,” she says. “It’s badass, it’s new, nobody has to wear heels, and you can actually hear each other talk. I already called the place near Damen and they can do it on a Friday night for less than what you’d pay for bottle service at—”

Monica holds up a hand. “Stop. Are you hearing yourself? We’re not a bachelor party for retired Marines. We want glitz, Shelly.”

Becky leans in, tapping the table. “What about a wine-and-paint night? Or like, a karaoke bus? Those can be wild.”

“Or a trip to the casino,” Carla adds, “but not the Horseshoe. The one up in Milwaukee, where you get free drinks if you gamble long enough.”

“Is this really about what Abby wants?” Shelly says, pointedly. “Or about whose Instagram story gets the most views?”

The shot lands. Monica’s mouth flattens, but she recovers fast. “Okay, let’s ask the bride.”

All eyes swivel to Abby, who seems less like a participant and more like a subject under a microscope. She shrugs, smiling in a way that tries to please everybody. “I just want to have fun. And for all of us to be together. If that means bowling, fine. If that means dancing somewhere wild, also fine.”

Jamie raises a hand, like she’s in a city council meeting. “I nominate that we pick the option least likely to involve police intervention.”

Becky claps her hands once, decisive. “Great, so we’re all open to ideas. Monica, what was your pick?”

Monica produces her phone, already cued to a series of photos. “Club Euphoria,” she announces, rotating the phone to display a slideshow of neon-lit interiors, crowded dance floors, and cocktails that look more like science experiments than beverages. “It’s in River North, it’s super private, and they do theme nights. Also—” she pauses for effect, “—the Saturday we want is ‘Men of Euphoria’ night. Think Magic Mike, but with less risk of herpes.”

Carla’s face lights up. “I’m in,” she says, almost before the phone is passed to her.

Jamie actually leans forward, intrigued. “Wait, is this a burlesque place or a strip club?”

“Neither,” Monica says. “It’s a ‘sensual experience lounge.’ The men are in, like, tight pants. They serve you drinks and dance. You can buy beads to give to your favorites. It’s all very above board.”

Becky looks skeptical, but not entirely opposed. “Is it safe?”

“Safe as houses,” Monica assures her. “They have a no-touch policy and a security staff bigger than most Cubs home games.”

Shelly’s expression sours, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table. “So, a Chippendales rip-off. With drinks that cost $20 and a line to the bathroom that’s longer than the actual entertainment.”

Monica shrugs. “That’s Chicago nightlife, darling.”

Abby hesitates. “I mean, it could be funny?”

Jamie, in the corner, grins wide. “I think it sounds like a sociological experiment. I’ll go.”

Carla’s already texting someone, probably Monica, though they’re a foot apart. “We can make custom sashes,” she says. “Bride, Maid of Honor, etcetera.”

Shelly looks to Becky for support, but Becky just gives her a helpless, I tried, look. “If Abby wants it, we do it,” Becky says, though her tone is gentler than before. “But I still say axe throwing could be a solid pregame.”

“Can we combine them?” Jamie asks. “Like, start with sharp objects and end with men in banana hammocks?”

The table laughs, even Monica, who’s already won and knows it.

Shelly lifts her pint and gulps, a little too much at once. “Fine,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “But if I end up with glitter in my beer, I will end you, Monica.”

“Deal,” Monica says, not the least bit cowed. “I’ll put you on the VIP list.”

Karen floats by, dropping off another round and giving Shelly a look: You okay? Shelly manages a tight smile and a nod.

“So what’s the actual draw?” Jamie asks. “I need to know how hard I’m going to have to pregame to survive this thing.”

Carla grins, warming to the pitch. “Picture this: velvet booths, wall-to-wall sound system, champagne served by six-packs in G-strings.”

“It’s an experience,” adds Monica. “And if you book a table, they do this thing where you get a personalized show with choreography.”

“Can you buy a package that just skips the show?” Becky asks, deadpan.

Abby laughs, but it’s nervous. “I don’t know, you guys. Do we have to do the whole... performance?”

Carla’s eyes go wide. “You can’t go and not see the show! It’s the entire reason to book Euphoria on a Saturday.”

Shelly’s jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists under the table. “What if we went bowling first. Or literally anything else. Is that not a thing anymore?”

“It’s a thing,” Jamie says, surprising everyone by offering Shelly a faint lifeline. “But maybe not the thing for this group. Unless you want Monica to start a fight with the bowling alley bartender, which, now that I think about it, could be more entertaining than Euphoria.”

“I’ve never been thrown out of a bowling alley,” Monica says. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

Shelly’s voice is flat. “You’re missing out.”

Jamie’s gaze shifts, calculating. “You’re really not into this idea, are you?”

“I’m really not into men in banana hammocks and frat dudes trying to get selfies with us,” Shelly says. “I like my meat market with a side of actual meat, preferably in sandwich form.”

Monica rolls her eyes. “It’s not that serious. It’s one night.”

“And yet I’ll be finding glitter on the bar for the next month,” Shelly says, her tone sliding from mock-annoyed to genuinely weary.

Abby’s voice is small. “Please come, Shell. It won’t be the same without you.” She’s twisting a cocktail napkin so tightly it threatens to rip down the middle. “You’re my sister.”

Shelly’s resistance wavers—just a microsecond, but Jamie sees it and files it away. “Fine,” Shelly says at last. “But I’m there as the chaperone. I will physically remove any guy who tries to lap-dance Abby.”

Monica’s lips curl, and she drops her phone on the table with a little clack. “Abby’s not in daycare, you know. She can handle herself.”

A silence knifes down the center of the table. Even Carla blinks, caught off guard.

“Don’t start with me, Bukowski,” Shelly says, voice dropping a register. She leans forward, both hands planted on the table’s battered surface, and fixes Monica with a stare cold enough to flash-freeze vodka. “Step out of line, and I’ll staple your extensions to your face.”

Monica opens her mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to escalate—but she sees something in Shelly’s expression and thinks better of it. Instead, she just picks up her phone and starts tapping, her jawline sharpening with each silent second.

Jamie sits back, arms crossed, watching the fallout with a half-smile. “Well,” she says, “I think we’re done voting.”

Becky gives Shelly’s shoulder a little squeeze, solidarity disguised as a casual gesture. “I’ll bring the pepper spray. You bring the attitude.”

“Always do,” Shelly mutters, but her hands unclench. She drains the last of her beer, then signals to Karen for another round.

As the group’s conversation bleeds away from party logistics into safer topics—work complaints, the Cubs’ season, whose dog had the worst separation anxiety—Jamie stays silent, weighing the evening’s revelations.

When the next round arrives, Jamie lifts her glass to her lips, sips slow and deliberate, and surveys the table. The calculations behind her eyes tick upward, a little spark of satisfaction lighting her gaze as she marks the new power lines running through the group.

If anyone notices, they’re too busy bracing for the night to come.