“Fine.”
I rub my forehead as I run to the window where she pointed, and it’s true—Lucas is outside, mowing my mother’s lawn in the buff. Well, he has low-slung workout shorts on, but no shirt, and I run back to the sink. I pretend I’m going to throw up from the sight of him.
“Surely that’s against the deed restrictions,” I say. “Aren’t there decency laws?”
“It’s Texas, Daisy. It’s got to be 90 degrees out at least, who could blame the boy?”
She calls him a boy, but Lucas is all man.
“I’m going to go check the mail,” I say.
I’m having what I can only assume is a hot flash. Maybe the sight of a glistening Lucas has caused me to tumble into early menopause.
My mom shouts after me, but I ignore her and yank the front door open.
Lucas is up to something. Mowing my mom’s front lawn? He hasn’t done that since we left for college, when she hired a service. The fact that he’s doing it now, 11 years later, is absolutely absurd.
He pauses when he sees me strolling down the front path, but he doesn’t say a word and neither do I. I stomp, stomp, stomp down to the mailbox, yank it open, find it empty, and slam it closed again.
When I glance over, sweat is rolling down Lucas’ chest. Dear god. I’m still not convinced this isn’t somehow illegal. I notice a group of female speedwalkers stopped on the street corner, gawking at Lucas. Oh really? All four of them needed to tie their shoes at the same time? It’s called a double knot, people.
I wave my hand to shoo them away and they scurry off, embarrassed, but not really.
“You’re causing a scene,” I snap at Lucas. “Surely you can chop blades of grass while wearing clothing.”
“I can put my shirt back on if it’s a problem for you.”
“It’s not. For me. I don’t care.”
“Really—is that why you’re checking the mailbox like that?”
I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve got shampoo in your hair.”
That’s when I feel the wet suds slipping down my cheeks and chest, soaking my tank top.
“It’s leave-in conditioner.”
“Fascinating.”
“Daisy! Hun,” my mom calls from the front stoop. “You already got the mail earlier. Now come on in and leave poor Lucas alone. I need to rinse your hair anyway.”
Her ability to ruin a moment is uncanny.
“Oh, and Lucas,” she continues. “I left some lemonade here for you in case you get thirsty.”
“Satan doesn’t get thirsty,” I mutter under my breath as I drag my feet up the front path. The last thing I see is Lucas’ reflection in the window: buff, sweaty, disarmingly handsome. That night, before I go to sleep, I retrieve the massive box fan from the garage, turn it on full blast, and aim it right at my bed. The hot flashes are getting worse.
Friday afternoon, Lucas and I are presented with Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. They’re newlyweds in their late 40s with a penchant for PDA and an aptitude for over-sharing. They insist on a joint appointment and they sit on the exam table together, their hands linked. Their intake form mentioned painful rashes, but little else.
“You see…we went hiking on our honeymoon and well, you know how romantic it can be out in nature—”
Mr. Rogers blushes and pinches his wife’s side. “T-M-I, Kathleen.”
“They’re doctors! They need to know the full story if they’re going to help us, Mitch.”
Lucas nods good-naturedly. “So you were hiking and then…”
“Well we’re newlyweds,” Mrs. Rogers continues, and they both flash their rings in unison. “Did we mention that? That we just got married? It’s crazy. Mitch and I used to hate each other in school. He bullied me on the playground! Isn’t that ridiculous? Well anyway, we bumped into each other at a bar, one thing led to another, and well—”
“I asked her to marry me on our first date. I knew she was the one for me, even back in elementary school.”
I need to clear my throat, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I know Lucas wants me to look at him so he can arch a brow and say, Isn’t that interesting, but I resist.
“Let’s get back on track. Where exactly were you hiking?”
My voice sounds weird.
“Out in Big Bend. We were camping there too.”
“And things got a little heated on the trail?” I suggest, trying to connect the dots.
“It was Mitch’s idea!” Kathleen giggles. “He swore no one would see, but then I think we got a little carried away…”
Fifteen minutes later, after a short exam, it’s clear that Mr. and Mrs. Rogers are each sporting intense cases of poison ivy, concentrated around their nether regions. Yikes.