Maxed Out (9 page)

We have engagement sex at Max’s. It’s a bit strained, but
after a week of not having any it seems like the best I’ve ever had (which was
with Max under not too-different conditions, so I suppose it’s not too much of
a stretch). He got the size wrong on the ring, which disappoints me more than
I’d like to admit, but he says it’s guaranteed so he can return it. How he
managed that I’ll never know. I convince him to swap it for a cheaper fake rock
and use the extra cash on something we’ll enjoy, but again, this is just me
being shallow since I know that cubic zirconium is basically free and I can
gain 20 carats easily while cutting the overall cost in half. Nobody will ever
know.

“I suppose I’m not really surprised you don’t care about the
diamond,” Max says. “Still, I thought it was an important symbol of love or
whatever.”

“That’s a load of crap,” I say. “DeBeers bought millions of
dollars worth of advertising in every form of media they could for about a
decade so they could actually sell diamonds. Even now they stockpile most of
their production and only release a small amount to be sold to keep profits
high. The markup on the stone alone in a ring like this is probably ten
thousand percent if you include the cost of everything.”

Max looks at me strangely, like there’s something he really
needs to say but he doesn’t want to.

“It’s like medicine where there’s a generic brand. Or
bottled water. Or vodka,” I say. “You don’t buy name brand, since it’s all
chemically identical.”

“Vodka is totally different,” Max says.

“Vodka is
legally defined
as an odorless, tasteless
alcoholic beverage,” I say.

“It tastes like alcohol,” he says.

“My point exactly,” I say.

“You’re not going to go all crazy vegan when we’re married,
are you?” he asks.

“God I hope not,” I say.

This leads into a serious chat about what we expect out of
married life, which is incredibly productive. We haven’t actually sat down and
talked about things like this in a while. I’m a bit uncomfortable settling back
into it at first, but after an hour or so when we’ve ironed out all of the
kinks again, it really seems like Max and I are going to work out well long
term.

“I’m glad we’re back together,” I say, snuggling up against
him.

“Me too,” he says.

We can’t lie here on the couch forever, as much as I might
want to. Max has to look over some tapes for work and I need to pick up a few
things from Renee’s, most importantly my work computer. Phil will be expecting
some sort of article about a local band on Monday and it’s hard to do that
without my notes, so I disentangle myself and make the drive to Renee’s.

She greets me at the door, still in her pajamas. “How did it
go?” she asks.

“We haven’t decided on a date,” I say.

“So you’re getting married?”

“Yes,” I say. The reality of the situation hasn’t hit me
yet. It still feels like a half remembered dream.

“Congratulations!” she says, hugging me.

“It’s not really what I expected,” I say.

“That’s the way life works,” Renee says. “Everything’s kind
of informal and messy and spontaneous. None of the big moments feel big as
they’re happening.

I don’t really have a response to that, just a shrug. “I’ll
be moving back in with Max,” I say. “I’m just here to pick up my stuff.”

“I’ll miss you,” she says.

“Me too,” I say. I’m being somewhat honest: I’ll miss
Renee’s company even though I’m glad to be off of her couch.

We have a goodbye hug as I gather my thing. Renee ducks out
of the room for a second and returns with a stack of paper. “Your list,” she
says, handing it to me.

“What?” I ask.

“Whatever your laptop was running. It’s a list of places in
Europe. Brian wanted to go to number two for our honeymoon,” she says.

I had forgotten. “Oh, thanks,” I say.

“Are you planning on travelling soon?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Brian really wanted to go there,” she says. “Seemed like it
could be a nice trip. Keep it in mind I guess.”

I do. Boy, what a mistake that turned out to be.