Author: Kristan Higgins

In a Benadryl fog, I soaked in an oatmeal soap bath, and it was as disgusting as it sounds. Now I was slimy, itchy and welt-covered. The steroids would take a day or two to work, and by Sunday evening, I’d only had four doses. I changed into a roomy old Notre Dame T-shirt that Sam had sent me a thousand years ago and some scrub bottoms. Digger was very sympathetic, wagging gently and looking at me with his sweet brown eyes. It was one of those times when animals prove vastly superior to humans. I stroked his pretty head and gazed back.

“Good puppy,” I said, grateful for his presence.

The itching began in full strength. Little razor-sharp flashes of hurt, followed by almost psychotic itching, raced up and down my back and arms. Thank God my nether regions were unaffected, or I truly would have been suicidal. I rubbed my arms gently, then a little harder. Oooh. The itch flashed into a blaze of heat. “Distract yourself,” I said, pacing around my small home. Flash! Youch! Don’t scratch. “Don’t scratch,” I repeated out loud, reciting the instructions I gave at least twice daily at the clinic. “Scratching will inflame the area and just make it feel worse.”

Standing between the dining room and kitchen, I leaned against the door frame. I rubbed—gently, gently—back and forth. The flames of itch leaped in exhilaration. Oh, man, that felt good! Just one scratch to make the itching go away. The skin on my back sang in searing joy. I stopped, satisfied for two entire seconds, and then my entire torso crawled in a wave of fresh, stronger itchiness. Oh, screw it. Don’t scratch, be damned. This was agony.

I stomped into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. Knife? No, too sharp. Didn’t want to draw blood. Spatula? No. Whisk? Ineffective. Aha! Pasta fork! A plastic pasta fork, with those lovely little prongs for grabbing spaghetti. Blessed utensil! I grabbed it and slammed the drawer shut, then reached back and went to work. Ooooh. Aaahhh. Oh, Mommy. I scratched maniacally, the razor flashes subdued by the hurt-so-good reaming. Leaning my hot, blotchy, swollen face against the coolness of the fridge, I raked my back in a delirium of Benadryl to near orgasmic satisfaction.

So deeply satisfying was this activity that I didn’t notice the noise of a truck pulling into my driveway. Luckily, my dog did and began his frenzied barking. Jumping away from the fridge, I dashed to the window to peek out.

Shit! It was Joe! He got out of his truck with a bouquet of flowers and headed for my door.

It was still bright enough outside that I hadn’t turned on the lights. Pretend you’re not home! Before my mind had even formulated that thought, I was crouched on my living-room floor in front of the wing chair. Joe knocked. Digger’s barking became joyful as he jumped up on the back door.

“Millie?” Joe’s voice came to me easily through the open windows.

Please, God, let the door be locked. My car was in the driveway, so he obviously assumed (correctly) that I was home.

“Mil?” Joe knocked again. “Digger, where’s Millie?”

Digger didn’t answer but began to whine and tremble. My legs, too, began to tremble as I squatted. I eased into the kneeling position. My back, now thoroughly ravaged, convulsed in a massive itch-pain, and I couldn’t help a little gasp.

“Millie? You home?”

Go away! But no. Joe’s work boots thumped on the back deck as he went to peer in the kitchen window. I inched around the chair slightly, trying to keep it between us. If Joe saw me like this—

He left. I waited to hear his truck door open and close, but I wasn’t that lucky. Couldn’t the guy take a hint? I crawled frantically into the dining room to sneak a peak out the window. He was walking around to the front door, causing Digger to have a brand-new fit. Lurking in the safety of the dining room, I pressed my throbbing back against the wall like a POW escaping from an enemy camp, waiting for the searchlight to pass over.

“Millie?”

Go home! My arms, jealous of the attention my back had received, cried out for the pasta fork. I rubbed them gingerly. Thump, thump, thump went the work boots. Joe, not easily deterred, was coming to the kitchen door again! Damn it! I power-crawled back into the living room and crouched again in front of my chair. Digger, now tired of barking at Joe, thought I was playing a game. Wagging, his ears pricked, he trotted over and licked my inflamed face vigorously.

“No,” I whispered. The hall carpet called to me seductively, inviting me to take off my shirt and writhe around on its scratchy nubbiness. Digger barked once.

“Guess she’s not home, hey, Digger?” Joe said. There was a rustle, then, finally, blessedly, his footsteps sounded off the deck. His truck started a minute later, and he was gone.

“Thank God!” I exclaimed, clambering up from the floor. Now, what had I done with that lovely pasta fork?

Not a minute later, I heard the truck pull into the driveway. “Jesus! What is wrong with him?” I hissed over Digger’s barking. I catapulted into the bathroom before Joe could reach the back door. The window in there was frosted, so I would be safe. It was also getting darker, so that was in my favor, too.

“Millie?”

Not Joe! Sam! I didn’t have to hide from Sam. I walked into the kitchen. Sam stood in the doorway, holding a bag.

“Hey, Millie. I stopped by the clinic and they said you were sick.”

“Look at me!” I flicked on the light and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Oh, Millie…Oh, Mil.”

“It’s poison ivy.”

He did try not to laugh, for a minute, anyway. And then he couldn’t help himself. His laughs progressed to wheezes, and he leaned in the doorway, helpless, tears running down his face. As I stood there watching him, finally the humor of my situation hit me, and I joined in.

“I hope you’re here to scratch me,” I said finally, wiping my eyes.

“Uh, no,” he answered. “But I did bring you some ice cream. And a movie.”

Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, my favorite. And a nice romantic comedy. Sweet Sam.

“There are flowers on your porch, you know,” Sam said, sticking the ice cream in the freezer.

“Right. Would you grab them?” I asked, retrieving the Ben & Jerry’s and prying off the lid. Sam picked up the flowers. I watched, shoveling in cool, deep, dark deliciousness right from the carton, as he put them in a vase.

“Want some ice cream?” I asked around a spoonful.

“No, it’s all for you. What I want is to know how you, of all people, got poison ivy.”

“The gods are punishing me for making fun of the tourists all summer,” I answered, sitting gingerly at the counter. “Mmm. This ice cream is so good, I might bathe in it.”

“So, how did you get the poison ivy?” Sam helped himself to a beer and sat down with me.

“Oh, I really couldn’t tell you.”

“Come on, kiddo.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“Never.”

“Well, then,” Sam said, grinning, “I’ll have to use my police training and guess. Someone brought you flowers, and I’m guessing it was Joe. An apology, perhaps? You. Joe. Poison ivy. I’d have to guess you were fooling around outside. Millie, Millie.” He shook his head regretfully.

“You’re wrong,” I said through another mouthful of ice cream. “The flowers are from the grateful parents of a lost child I rescued today, who, unfortunately, was wandering in poison ivy. The police were involved in urgent business at the Donut Shack, so I had to do their work.”

“You wish, kiddo. Next time, watch where you’re rolling.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TRUE TO MY PROMISE to Danny, I went to a baseball game.

The poison ivy had cleared up, just a couple of pale patches not readily visible to the naked eye. On a beautiful sunny evening, Katie, the boys and I went over to the high school to watch the big boys play. We sat on the bleachers while Corey and Mike played in the sand underneath, where Tripod was lying per Joe’s instruction. The dog was incredibly well-behaved, wagging agreeably if approached, waiting patiently for his master. Maybe Joe could give me some tips on how to get Digger to stop humping legs.

Despite having a dad who could name every player in every sport and a brother-in-law who had been as close to an athlete god as they come, I didn’t really enjoy sports. Too much of a good thing, I guess, since all my memories of childhood weekends involved some sporting event, on TV or live. But with Danny involved, I was excited. And of course, there was my boyfriend, looking rather magnificent in his Bluebeard’s Bait and Tackle uniform.

Joe and Danny were on the same team, Joe the pitcher, Danny the shortstop. Very prestigious positions, Katie informed me. Her twin brother, Trevor, was on the same team, in right field, so it was clear where our allegiance lay. Poor Sam. He played first base for the opposing team, Sleet’s Hardware. But my parents were here, so they could cheer for him. Not that they would, with their only grandchild playing for Bluebeard’s…

Katie and I chatted, not really paying attention that much, clapping when other people clapped. It was a beautiful night, a breeze just strong enough to keep the bugs away (that and the Deep Woods OFF! we had liberally bathed in). Watching Joe pitch was lovely, however. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, for an appreciative murmur went up each time he wound up. There were plenty of high-school girls here, some to watch Danny, who had recently and suddenly gone from awkwardly cute to damn good-looking. Plenty of summer people wandered into the field to enjoy this most American of pastimes.

The game was pretty dull, and not just by my standards. Only one or two players made it to base. Sam hit a fly ball his first time up, caught by Katie’s brother. Danny struck out on his first time up, and Joe made it to first but no farther. The fun part was watching the easy grace of the men, throwing, catching, leaning on their knees. Danny looked so…adult out there. He adeptly fielded the balls that came his way and was rewarded with a good bit of applause and appreciative bellowing from my dad.

With two men on in the fourth inning, Sam stepped up to the plate.

“Easy out, easy out,” called a woman in the first row. It was Carol, Sam’s date from my birthday party. Sam heard her and turned around to grin. He tapped his cleats with his bat and took a practice swing. On the pitcher’s mound, Joe squinted at the catcher.

“Carol!” I called. “Come sit with us!”

She turned and shielded her eyes and waved. “Oh, hi, Millie! I’m with my neighbors, but thanks,” she answered.

“Oh, okay,” I said. “We’re going to the Barnacle later. Can you come?”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

“Hey, batter, batter,” someone else called. “Three pitches, Joe.” It was my dad.

Joe grinned and waved the infield in a few steps. Sam laughed easily—ever the good sport—and stepped up to the plate. Joe threw the pitch. Strike one.

“Two more, Joe,” called Carol, laughing. Sam smiled again.

“You got the stuff, Joe,” a woman called. Might have been my mom.

Another pitch. Sam swung and missed. The crowd clapped, a few feminine voices calling more support for my boyfriend. Poor old Sam! I stood up. “Come on, Sam!” I yelled. “Knock it out of the park!”

Katie and a few other people laughed, and Joe looked at me in surprise. Well, too bad. His fan club was big enough. I gave him a cheeky smile. He grinned back and wound up for the next pitch. Ball one.

“Good eye, good eye, Sam!” I yelled, still standing and clapping.

Katie stood up, too. “Take your time, Sam.”

Sam tipped his helmet to us. “Thank you, ladies,” he called. Joe wound up again and threw, high and outside. Ball two.

“Got him on the ropes now, buddy!” I yelled.

On the mound, Joe motioned for a time-out. He loped off the field toward us and climbed right up onto the bleachers where I was standing. “You’re my girlfriend,” he said, planting a big kiss on my mouth. “You’re supposed to be cheering for me.” With that, he turned around and trotted back to the mound as the crowd laughed.