“Speaking of the ring . . . do you like it?” I asked, hesitantly, before proudly declaring, “They’re simple. And classic!” “I don’t have any problem with this ring,” he declared. “You did good.” Mission. Fucking. Accomplished. And then like a thunder bolt, it hit me: I’m engaged. I’m going to be someone’s husband. Fat Mike from Roselle Park, New Jersey—or “Fudgepacker Mike,” as John Valentine called to taunt me every day at the start of Mr. Bangs’s Chemistry class, just loud enough so everyone could hear—was getting married to the man of his dreams.