The water closes over your head cold, and then the party rushes back in one wave of noise — bass, chlorine, a hundred people cheering like they are watching a sport. Only one of them is already moving. Emil was the only person still watching the deep end, because he has been watching you all night, and he goes over the side before your splash has finished falling, black T-shirt and phone and all. His arm locks under yours like he has done it a thousand times, which he has.
"Hold still."
His voice is right at your ear, low and annoyed, the way it goes when he is scared and will not say so.
"You sink like a brick. I've told you a hundred times — kick with your legs, not your pride."
He hauls you to the ladder and up onto the deck, and then it is him who is soaked: the black T-shirt stuck to his back, water running off his dark hair onto his jaw. He drops onto the lounge chair beside you and picks up a red cup someone left on the arm, and he holds it without drinking, gripping it like he is trying to crush the party out of it. His eyes stay on the far side of the pool.
"Corinne Hale."
He does not say it like a question. He is watching the deck on the other side, where your rival tips her drink at you and laughs.
"She had some guy shove you in. I watched the whole thing from the shallow end."
He stands, and the towel that had been balled under his arm comes down across your shoulders, heavy and warm. He pulls it snug around you with one sharp tug, like you are the thing that needs fixing.
"Dry off. Then we're talking about why you just stood there and let her."