Free The Balance Thing by Margaret Dumas Page A

stunned.
    â€œWhy would I sleep with them?”
    â€œI think I may cry,” Max said hollowly. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
    â€œBecks, are you honestly saying that you don’t see the point of sleeping with a cute guy?”
    â€œOf course I see the point! Geez, I have been known to have a good time in bed now and then!” I thought about it. “I have. Several times.”
    â€œAll right then,” Max said. “So what was stopping you with Chad?”
    I gave them a blank look. “He didn’t want sex.”
    Howls of derisive laughter.
    â€œSeriously! I could tell he wanted to get all involved,” I explained. “Besides, he had a Vladima thing—how creepy is that?”
    â€œHoney, if I were a sexy cartoon vampire, I would play that card for all it was worth,” Max assured me.
    â€œBecks”—Vida got her giggles under control—“have you ever considered whether you might be a lesbian?”
    â€œSister!” Max threw open his arms. “Welcome to the family!”
    â€œI’d love to be a lesbian,” I told him. “Except they have to sleep with women.”
    â€œThat is a definite downside,” Max agreed.
    â€œAnd despite what you may have gathered from this conversation, I enjoy sleeping with men. Usually. In the right circumstances.” Really.
    â€œSo do I,” Vida said wistfully. “If memory serves.”
    â€œBeen a while, sweetie?” Max inquired.
    â€œPlease. If I uncrossed my legs, moths would fly out.”
    The French door opened behind us, sending out party noises and Connie’s voice. “There you are—get back in here!”
    Â 
    AFTER WHAT FELT like several years, the party was over. Connie sent her future husband home and dragged Vida and me up to her old bedroom, which her parents had kept as a sort of living museum dedicated to their daughter. She was using the space as a staging area for the vast wardrobe she was taking to England.
    Max had once again cited the Y chromosome and gotten out of the dirty work, so it was just the three of us girls. We decided to attack the problem by peeling off our party dresses in favor of some comfy pajamas of Connie’s and sprawling on her fluffy pink bed.
    Vida summed up the situation. “That’s one shitload of clothes, Miss Bride.”
    We regarded the clothes rack Connie’s mother had provided for the assortment of evening dresses, cocktail dresses, tea dresses, and brunch outfits that Connie had meticulously planned out for each event leading up to the wedding.
    â€œWhat are those?” I nodded in the general direction of what looked like a clear box full of photos placed on top of a stack of many, many shoeboxes.
    â€œPolaroids,” Connie said. “I laid out every outfit I’m goingto wear—complete with accessories, jewelry, and shoes—and took a picture of it. Then I listed the event and the date I’d wear it on the back. The pictures are arranged by date and cross-indexed on a spreadsheet I’ve got on my laptop.”
    She saw the looks on our faces. “What? I didn’t want to repeat an outfit.”
    â€œWow,” I said.
    Connie got a little huffy. “It’s very complicated. Different people are going to be at different parties, so I had to figure out who I was going to see where and make sure that, for example, Ian’s Great Aunt Penelope wouldn’t see me at three different things wearing the same earrings.”
    â€œBecause that would be grounds for calling off the wedding?” Vida asked.
    I headed Connie off before she could respond. “It must be hard to get everything right,” I said sympathetically. “I guess men have it a lot easier than we do.”
    Connie gave me a puzzled look. “I did the same thing for Ian.”
    Their relationship was starting to become a little clearer to me.
    â€œYou laid out his