He's shouting, but they've still got the counter between them, so Alex can ignore the impulse she feels to cringe away from him the moment he raises his voice. She lets her anger fuel her, lets herself stay angry because, in that moment, it's better than feeling like she wants to curl up and die. What he says hits her like a blow to her solar plexus, her hands physically tightening on the edge of the counter so that she doesn't reel back a step. She doesn't smash his shit. She just feels every part of her body go cold. She ignores the mention of Spain for now, because that is a yawning chasm, a pit that she doesn't want to fall into. That's a trap, and she's not falling for it.

"You didn't want it to be anything," she snaps. "It could have been, and you didn't want it enough, so you manufactured fucking excuses and here we are."