The strip goes on next.

Holy crap, pain is coming. I start the countdown in my head. Three, two—she pulls that sucker right off. Oh, that wasn’t so bad. I let out a breath. She spreads more wax on my skin and rips up another section of hair. I’m tempted to look but, having the feeling it will resemble something torn off Chewbacca, I don’t to save myself the embarrassment. I had to forgo shaving all week to get this wax.

It takes longer than I anticipated, and when I’m told to roll over and spread my thighs, the realization that “backside” means “butt crack” hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach and I’m so stunned I can’t do anything but lay there in terror and hope I don’t fart.

I leave feeling smooth, sore, and just a little violated. My skin begins to burn as the fabric from my panties and jeans rubs against it, and by the time I get home it’s on fire and super itchy.

Then I realize the lotion put on after the waxing was scented. I’m okay with scented stuff most of the time.

Most. Of. The. Time.

Freshly waxed, fragile skin plus a history of eczema and psoriasis going back years isn’t most of the time. Damn it. I rip my clothes off as soon as I get through the door and run to the shower to wash off what I can.

I pause in front of the mirror while the water is warming up and stare in horror at my bikini line. It’s red as hell. Yes, definitely a reaction to the scented lotion. This is the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to make my fun zone more fun. Not angry and red, like it wants to kill anything that enters it.

I open my medicine cabinet and pop a Benadryl in my mouth, then get into the shower, taking a drink from the water streaming down to swallow the pill. I stand in the warm water, scared to touch my irritated skin, but curious as to how smooth it feels, and feel considerably better when I get out. I slather on cortisone cream, pull on a thigh-length nightgown, foregoing undies all together, and go into the kitchen to make dinner. I call Erin while my mac n’ cheese is cooking and tell her about my poor lady bits and how I was too terrified to even think of being allergic to scented shit.

She can’t stop laughing. A best friend, yes she is.

I eat, then crash into bed, feeling sleepy from the Benadryl. I watch a few episodes of The Big Bang Theory, get up to brush my teeth, check on my skin—yep, still red—and take one more Benadryl in hopes that I’ll wake up better.

It almost works.

I sleep through my alarm. I’m a lightweight when it comes to anything, and two Benadryls knocks me out. I half ass my hair and makeup, wear a flowy dress and my granniest panties to avoid any chaffing during the day, and take one more Benadryl since I’m looking better. I’ll counter act it with coffee and be fine once it wears off by midday.

I pack a lunch, feed Ser Pounce, and try my best not to fall asleep while driving. I trudge into the office and plop into my desk.

“Oh, like the new hair color!” Mariah says.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Are you okay?”

“In a sense, yes. I had an allergic reaction to something and the Benadryl is making me so tired.”

I stash my purse under my desk and fire up my computer. “I just need a few hours for it to get out of my system then I’ll be fine.”

“You’re making me worried, honey,” she says, sounding motherly. Do I look that bad? “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”

That is a great idea, but I can’t ask to go home because of this. I blink several times, trying to get my head out of this fog. I didn’t bring coffee with me since I didn’t have time to make any. I push my shoulders back and walk to the break room.

There are fresh donuts on the table. I could kiss whoever brought them. I take two, and fill a cup with coffee, mixing in creamer. I run into Cameron on my way back to my desk.

“Sexy color,” he says and touches my hair, then he flicks his eyes to my face. “Rough night?” he asks.

“You could say that.”

“The boy toy?”

“Hah, I wish.” I take a sip of coffee; I think I need an IV of it today. “Uh, actually I got a wax and then had a reaction to the lotion. It’s pretty painful and rashy. I overdosed on Benadryl.”

Cameron looks at me with a blank face. Then he busts out laughing. “That would only happen to you.”

“Shut up,” I say dryly. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious.” His face gets serious. “How bad of a reaction? Do you need to see a doctor or anything?”

“Nah,” I say and take another drink of coffee. “The redness is almost gone, thank God. I’m just so fucking tired.”

He gives me a watch-your-mouth-at-the-office glare. “Why didn’t you call in sick? You look terrible.”

“Thanks, and I’m not sick. I didn’t even think of it, really.” I sigh, feeling the drugs pull me back. “I should have.”

He crosses his arms. “You know, you’ve never taken a sick day since you’ve been here. You won’t be behind if you take the rest of the day off.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You can do some work from home anyway, right?”

“I can, and I don’t have much to do with this current site anyway. The client is out of town for the holiday so we can’t go over anything I’ve done for approval.”

“Then go home. Get some rest and ice your cooter.”

“Don’t say it so loud.”

He’s laughing again. “Sorry. Really, I am. Now go, get some sleep and have a good weekend.”

“You too.”

“Oh, I will. Adam’s sister’s husband’s family has a house in the Hamptons. We’re flying out right after work.”

“Classy. Sounds really fun though. I’m kinda jealous,” I lie. From what I know about that area—granted, it’s all from TV shows and movies—is that it’s too fancy for my liking. Feeling grateful for befriending my boss the week I started here, I go back to my desk, shut down my computer, and gather my things. I say bye to Mariah on my way out and consider calling Ben, but decide not to.

I don’t want to tell him why I’m leaving early, and I’d really like to go home and crash for a few hours before packing and getting dressed. Deciding to forego the rest of my coffee, I get into bed right away.

*

Four-and-a-half hours later, I wake from my drug-induced slumber. After a long, hot shower, I feel completely better. I look better too, which is awesome.

I get my packing done in under an hour, set things up for Ser Pounce to be alone all weekend (I need to remember to shut the windows and turn the AC on before I leave so the kitty doesn’t cook in case it gets hot), and call Ben. His phone rings but goes to voicemail. I leave him a message, sure he’s busy painting or sculpting or talking to people who come in to buy his expensive work, and go into the kitchen.

I need to make something to bring to the cookout, and I’ve been too lazy to go grocery shopping this past week. Lazy, and distracted with Ben. I have a lot of apples. I could make apple pie. That’s easy and tasty.

I preheat the oven and start making the crust. It has to chill for a while, and I rationalize that I should probably finish the open bottle of moscato in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad by the time I get back from the weekend getaway. I pour myself a big glass and sit at the island, scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest for half an hour before getting up to slice the apples.

The oven has been on for way too long now, and the kitchen is hot. I twist my hair up and use a pen to secure it in a bun. I’m sweating by the time I get the pie in the oven. My phone rings as I go around closing windows to turn on the air.

“Hey,” I say to Ben. “How are you?”

“Better now.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “How’s work?”

“I got out early,” I tell him. “On good behavior. What about you?”

“I’m finishing up at the gallery. I need to shower. I’m covered in paint.”