"It’s garbage!" I protest. "Luke, back me up here."
Luke shakes his head, reaching for a napkin. "Sorry, Jax. I’m with Max. Pineapple belongs on pizza."
I look at Preston for sanity. "Preston. You have taste. You wear silk. Tell them they are monsters."
Preston adjusts his kimono. He looks me in the eye with absolute seriousness.
"I will have a slice of the Hawaiian," Preston says calmly.
"YOU TOO?" I scream. "Is this genetic? Is this a York thing? Do you all have broken taste buds?"
"It is a refined palate," Preston sniffs. "The acidity of the pineapple cuts through the fat of the cheese. It is culinary genius."
He pauses, picking a piece of lint off his trench coat. Then, a wicked smirk curls his lip.
"Besides," Preston adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "There are...secondarybenefits to a diet rich in pineapple. As I’m sure Luke can attest."
Luke chokes on his soda. He turns a violent shade of red that matches the pepperoni.
"Oh my god," I whisper, putting my head in my hands. "You did not just say that. In a pizza shop. In front of your brother."
I look at Max, expecting him to be horrified. I expect the Ice King to shut this down with a lecture on inappropriate social discourse.
Instead, Max looks at Preston. He tilts his head, considering the statement.
Then, he looks at me.
His eyes aren't clinical. They are dark, amused, and terrifyingly focused.
"He is correct, Jackson," Max says, his voice steady but carrying a weight that hits me right in the chest. "While the clinical data is largely anecdotal, the sample size in our household suggests a direct correlation."
My jaw drops. "Max!"
"I am merely ensuring the honeymoon is optimized," Maxsays, taking a sip of my water. "I thought you appreciated efficiency."
"I— I—" I stutter. My face is burning. "I cannot believe this is happening. You’re ganging up on me. The York brothers are sexually harassing me over pizza."
"It’s not harassment," Preston corrects, high-fiving Max across the table. "It’s bonding. Welcome to the family, Jax. Eat your fruit."
"I hate you both," I squeak, my voice an octave higher than usual.
"You love us," Max says, leaning over to kiss my burning cheek. "Now eat. We have the Rehearsal Dinner on Monday."
My stomach drops. The blush vanishes, replaced by cold dread.
"Oh god," I whisper. "The boat. I forgot about the boat."
"Mother has rented theS.S. Sovereign," Max confirms, handing me a slice of pineapple pizza. "You have forty-eight hours to calibrate your inner ear. I suggest you start carb-loading now."
"I’m going to be sick," I say.
"That," Preston says cheerfully, "is a problem for Monday. Tonight, we feast."
I eat the pizza. It’s terrible.
Outside, the sidewalk is cold and I am still deeply, spiritually violated.
Luke and Preston are walking twenty feet ahead of us, just out of hearing distance.
