His bed.
His sheets.
The vintage headboard. I had absolutely no trouble falling asleep last night, after lying on my stomach at the foot of his bed, watching him throw the last of his things into a suitcase.
We snuggled on the couch after that.
Took a hot shower.
Climbed into bed and passed out.
The fresh mountain air will do that to a person ...
I scratch at my arm—then my thigh—then the back of my knee, huffing out my frustration.
Beside me, there’s a rustling of sheets. He better be awake.
“Please tell me you’re scratching too,” I mutter, clawing at my ankle like a lunatic. “I want to scratch my skin off.”
Harris moans from his pillow. “I didn’t want to say anything, but yes. I think my ass is on fire.”
I turn my head to see him dragging his foot up and down the mattress, trying to get relief without using his hands. It’s both ridiculous and endearing—and erotic, because we’re both completely naked.
And covered in poison ivy.
“Oh no,” I say, smothering a laugh. “You’ve got it too.” I roll toward him, tugging the sheets around me. “Do you think there’s any calamine lotion here? Or, say—an entire tub of hydrocortisone?”
“Bathroom cabinet,” he says. “I’m going first.”
He bolts out of bed, scratching his abs on the way, another hand on his butt cheek, itching.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to actually claw one’s skin off and if I would, at this point, welcome the relief.
My entire body is on fire.
Every inch of me—from the delicate arch of my foot to places I really shouldn’t admit out loud (vagina, cough cough)—is consumed by an inferno of itch!
I whimper louder. Impromptu forest sex was supposed to be romantic! Woodsy! Sexy!
Instead, I’m a human petri dish with welts in places no welts should exist.
I hear Harris’s expletive from the bathroom.A thud.More curses. The medicine cabinet doors opening and slamming.
“Are you okay in there?” I call weakly, nails biting into my elbow for relief.
“I hate this!” he complains. “It itches so fucking bad!”
Tell me about it.
More banging, followed by “How am I supposed to sit on a plane like this?”
Don’t know. Don’t care.
I have problems of my own!
My butt itches. My stomach itches. My rib cage itches. What fresh hell is this?
Glancing at the nightstand, I grapple for my phone. I reach for it, unlock it, and google:Can you die from poison ivy?
