She’s still reading the homemade label when she draws to a halt in front of me. “I might never look at ice cream the same way again.” “I don’t want to know.” “Ingredients: cream—” “Sloane—” Sugar—” “I’m begging you,” I say, but as soon as ‘beg’ leaves my lips, Sloane’s grin ignites. My stomach flips in the most uncomfortable way. Sloane clears her throat. “‘Semen, milked April tenth to April thirteenth.’ That’s an interesting substitute to salt—”
