Sunny’s bedroom is decorated for her. The walls are painted a soft, pale yellow. The comforter is covered in sunflowers. It’s a girly room. It gives me a better understanding of how close Sunny and her brother are.

“I need a shower; my hair smells like campfire,” Sunny says once she closes the door.

I wrap my arms around her from behind and shove my nose in her blond waves. “You smell like toasted marshmallows. I like it.”

“I smell like smoke and bug spray. And I’m itchy.”

“I’ll give you a hand, then, eh?”

She turns around, her grin sloppy and her eyes glassy from all the mojitos. “I love it; my Canadianness is rubbing off on you.”

“I like it when you rub your Canadianness all over me.”

I kiss her. Even her lips taste smoky. Easing my hands down her sides, I squeeze her ass. On the way back up, I pull her shirt over her head. She’s not wearing a bra. I’m about to take full advantage of that fact, until I notice the rash. Streaks of red cover her chest. I move her hair out of the way and note the same rash around the back of her neck, as if it’s followed the line of her bikini.

“Do you have any allergies?”

She looks down and screams, then brings her hands up to touch her boobs. I grab her wrists before she can make contact.

“Sweets, are you sure that was Virginia Creeper in the forest today?”

Her eyes shoot up to mine, tears already brimming. “Oh my God! I have poison ivy on my boobs?” It’s a question, like she doesn’t want to believe it’s possible.

I can’t lie to her. The evidence is splashed across her chest in a red, blistering rash. It’s even on her poor little nipples.

“Are you itchy anywhere else?” I just hope it hasn’t spread.

“No. I showered as soon as we got back from our walk in the forest.” She goes for the button on my shorts.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your lightning rod.”

“I think I’d notice if I had poison ivy on my dick, Sunny. Remember I told you I’m immune?”

“What if you’re wrong? Why aren’t I immune?”

I move her hands away, unbutton my pants, and drop my shorts, along with my underwear—to humor her. My balls are almost back to their regular size, and I’ve got a semi. “See? No rash.”

The door bursts open. “Is everything okay? I heard Sunny sc—” Lily stops short. “Holy geez! You weren’t lying.” Her eyes are fixed on my half-mast lightning rod.

Randy’s right behind her. He’s in a pair of boxers, and Lily is wearing his shirt, I realize now. That didn’t take long. I pull the underwear back up, but leave the shorts where they are, wrapped around my ankles, and put my hands up to shield Sunny’s boobs. Randy’s already turned away.

“Nice tightie-whities, Butterson.”

“Nice patch of chest hairs, Ballistic. What are you up to now, three or four? And my underwear is red. Not white.”

“Would you two stop it! What am I going to do, Miller? I have poison ivy on my boobs, and it’s itchy!”

Lily closes the door on Randy and elbows me out of the way. She pulls Sunny into the bathroom and flips on the light. I’d be all over the girl-on-girl action if my girlfriend—I’m calling her that now—wasn’t crying and didn’t have a rash on her boobs. Also, I don’t want to share her. With anyone. Not even her bestie.

Lily sticks her head out. “Get me baking soda, please.”

“You got it.” Baking soda is one of the few things that can take the itch out of poison ivy. I learned that in Boy Scouts.

I hunt down the baking soda in the kitchen while Lily calms Sunny. It takes forever to find it. By the time I get back, the shower is running and Lily is standing in the hall with Randy. They’re close-talking and so absorbed they don’t even notice me ease past them into the bedroom. I rifle through my bag until I find the box of condoms. I toss it to Randy. “I’ve got Sunny from here. You two play safe.” Then I shut the door and lock it.

I make a paste out of the baking soda, and when Sunny gets out of the shower I slather it all over her chest while she lays on the bed and sniffles.

Then I eat her cookie to make her forget about the itch.

It works. Twice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PORNO CAR WASH PROBLEMS

The distractions worked well enough last night, but they’re not so effective this morning. Overnight the rash has gotten worse.

“What am I going to do? This looks awful!” Sunny gestures to her bare chest.

“It’s not that bad, baby.” I’m sort of lying. It doesn’t look great.

She can tell. “Are you serious? I have to teach yoga in three days. I can’t do that like this!”

“You’ll be wearing a shirt, though. Won’t that cover it?”

“I wear tank tops. It won’t cover this!” She motions to her neck and collarbones.

It wasn’t until Randy knocked on the door and reminded me we had to get a move on that I remembered the charity car wash this afternoon. It’s already eleven forty-five. I need to shower and get dressed, but first I need to calm Sunny down again.

She wouldn’t have sex this morning without a shirt on no matter how much I assured her that I don’t care, and the rash isn’t contagious. She’s self-conscious. Overnight it’s crept up her throat, blossoming into blisters that nearly reach her face.