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I’ve got more than one itch that I’d like scratched.
“This is going to sting,” he says, dousing a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol. “But it’ll get the rest of the oil off your skin.”
Anything is better than the itching, I think, and I take a deep breath.
Levi locks eyes with me.
“I’ll be fast,” he promises, his voice suddenly soft.
I just nod, turn away, and close my eyes.
He’s right. It stings. Everything it doesn’t sting it itches and I inhale sharply, my toes curling in my shoes.
“Remember to breathe,” he says as the cold stinging itch makes its way along my back. “Try to distract yourself.”
I think of him again. Naked. Waterfall pool. Red hair clip.
I bite my lip and imagine that I hadn’t turned around and averted my eyes, that I’d just watched him as he’d gotten out of that pool.
I could take my shirt off right now, I think over the din of pain and itching. See what he does then.
See whether I’m still the kid sister.
It’s a bad distraction, but it’s a distraction nonetheless.Chapter ElevenLevi“Done,” I say. “Part one is over.”
“Nnngguh,” June offers, taking a deep breath, her back expanding and contracting, her ribs visible under the surface of her skin for that moment. “Okay. Okay.”
She shakes her head, her back arching and I grit my teeth even harder, reminding myself first aid, first aid.
It’s a hard reminder because despite this — despite the fact that she’s got welts on her back the width of my finger, and despite the fact that I know this stings and itches like the dickens — it’s hypnotic. She’s hypnotic and she’s barely wearing a shirt.
Gasp. She gets goosebumps every time I touch her, and I know it’s just the coldness of the rubbing alcohol, but I can’t help but watch them peak and fade and think what if.
Namely, what if I went against every rational, logical argument I’ve made to myself regarding June? What if I ignored my friendship with Silas and her surely-imminent departure from Sprucevale?
I can’t. I know I can’t, but what if?
I cap the alcohol, take off the gloves, reach for a jar.
“This shouldn’t be so bad,” I say.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Aloe vera,” I tell her, opening the jar and taking a big glob on one finger.
“I thought that was for sunburn,” she says, and I touch it to the topmost welt, smooth it down diagonally over the ugly bumps and bright red rash.
“Works on poison ivy too,” I say, grabbing another fingerful. “It’s a very useful—”
She jerks suddenly, her muscles tensing, and without thinking I grab her hip on my hand, my thumb on her lower back.
“Sorry,” she says. “That spot stung.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, leaning in. I rub my thumb along her lower back, the skin warm and soft, the tiny hairs tickling at me. It sends a shiver down my own spine and I shouldn’t be touching her like this. I should be soothing her wounds and sending her on her way, but it feels normal, natural.
Touching her like this — even in this tiny way — feels good.
June just breathes. She breathes and I tend to her poison ivy, quickly but certainly, feeling the way her back expands with each breath, feeling her warm skin beneath my fingers, memorizing every time she tenses or moves or arches, every small gasp she takes.
I finish. I take my hand from her hip, put the cap back on the jar, resist the urge to lean forward and plant my lips on the back of her neck.
“Done,” I tell her. “Let that dry for a minute, and you should be…”
“Slightly less itchy?” she teases, her chin resting on her forearms.
“Something like that,” I agree, and she turns her head, looks at me over her shoulder. I put everything back into the box, close the lid as June watches me.
Her eyes on me feel like sunlight. A bright streak, blinding if I look directly back at her.
“I’ll be right back, I’m going to put this away,” I tell her, and I stand. I walk into my house, through the living room, back into the bathroom even though I’m feeling slightly dazed, slightly unsure of exactly where the floor is beneath my feet.
The way June makes me feel.
In the bathroom I open the closet, slide the box back into its place between Sunburn and Insect Bites. Then I stand there, just staring into my bathroom closet.
It’s an organized closet, with built in shelves and a space for a hamper. Silas occasionally makes fun of me and calls me Martha Stewart, but he’s also never failed to find fresh toilet paper or a clean towel.
I like organization. I like it when things have labels. I like knowing where I stand and what to expect, what’s coming down the pike.
I close the closet, then stand there and lean my forehead against the door, because I have never felt more disorganized in my life. I’ve never felt so much chaos. I’ve never decided on one course of action despite so desperately wanting to take another.
