We’re supposed to stop at his house, so it works out. Apparently, Miles offered to pick up some tools from his garage for the crew to use at rehearsal later today. He didn’t need a chaperone, but I ended up taking the trolley here anyway.

I still don’t know if we’re just here to get tools. After all, “grabbing tools” could be a euphemism. According to the extremely reliable resource of internet porn, all kinds of situations can lead to sex: making salad, tutoring, playing soccer…The possibilities are endless. The question isn’t if Miles watches porn, but whether or not we watch the same things.

It doesn’t take long to get to his house, but I spend the entire time looking over my shoulder. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see—Eric, recording videos of us on his phone, or maybe one of his friends. Maybe he just hears gossip and leaves letters based on that. I don’t know what sets him off.

I want to spend time with Miles, to get ice cream and watch musicals and leave school together. But is that more important than keeping my secret safe?

“God, Simone,” Miles says, opening the door. “The point of ice cream is to eat it, not drink it.”

Miles’s house looks large enough to fit a much bigger family, with a garage and everything. Compared to his place, ours looks more like a bungalow. I guess working in business has some perks.

“You’re one to talk.” I might have to slurp melted ice cream out of my cone, but streaks of vanilla line Miles’s hand like a striped shirt. “Why do we suck at ice cream?”

“We?” He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

I follow him into the kitchen, all stainless steel like the ones on TV. Dad would be jealous of how clean it is. There are only three of us, but between Dad’s cooking experiments and Pops’s passion for shopping, it doesn’t take long for our house to get cluttered. Miles points out some paper towels on the counter, gesturing toward me with his head. I chomp down the last of my cone, reaching for the roll with sticky hands.

“When I first met you,” he starts, licking at his cone, “I never would’ve suspected you ate ice cream like a four-year-old.”

As if to prove my maturity, I stick out my tongue. He leans in to kiss me, but he’s also a mess, and one of his scoops splats right onto my thigh.