“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—”
