"You high-fived him," I say.
"I acknowledged a valid data point," Max says.
"It wasn't a data point, Max. It was a comment about my—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "About thesituation. And you high-fived it. Like he scored a goal."
"He did score a goal," Max says. "It was accurate."
"We are not discussing the accuracy!"
Max tilts his head. "What are we discussing?"
"The BETRAYAL," I hiss. "The casual, pineapple-flavouredbetrayal."
"I didn't realize solidarity with my brother required dishonesty," Max says, entirely too calm. "Would you have preferred I disputed the data?"
I open my mouth.
I close it.
The worst part — theabsolute worst part— is that I wouldn't.
"I hate you," I inform him.
"You're marrying me on Saturday," Max says. "So that seems unlikely."
He takes my hand. He starts walking. I follow, because I always follow, because the man could lead me directly off a cliff and I'd ask about the view.
"For the record," Max says, after approximately ten steps, "the honeymoon suite we booked in Bora Bora has concrete walls. Twenty-two inch. Reinforced."
I stop walking.
"You checked?"
"I optimized," Max says simply.
I stare at the back of his head.
This man. Thisabsoluteman.
"Eat the pineapple," I tell him. "Every day. Starting now."
Max reaches into his coat pocket and produces, without ceremony, a single chunk of pineapple wrapped in a napkin.
I stare at it.
"From the pizza," he says. "I planned ahead."
"...You planned ahead."
"I'm efficient," he says.
I take the pineapple. I eat it on a New York sidewalk at 4 AM in a blood-stained tuxedo shirt.
Honestly? Best night of my life.
Chapter 9
The Rehearsal
