"Right," Carmy says, gratitude sweeping through his stomach. "The fruit thing, of course, yeah." He doesn't even bother with an apologetic smile for the woman, has zero customer service ability right now. All he needed was an excuse to get the fuck out of there. Carmy is always more flee than fight.

He crosses the pool party, winds up over near the bar and busies himself there, emptying a new bag of ice into a sink with an angry clatter. Sticks his hand in among the cold cubes just for the sensory shock of it, taking a slow deep breath, and that's how she'll find him, trying to get his head straight.

When he sees her approaching again he pulls his cold hand out and presses it to his own jaw. "Thanks," he says, trying to keep residual curtness out of his voice.