“You like when I do things with my mouth.” It isn’t a question. The smile on his face is too cheeky. “Don’t lie. I watch you. You like it.”

My cheeks flush. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Okay,” he scoffs. “Next time I eat ice cream—”

“You’re horrible,” I say. “Completely horrible.”

Then I kiss him so he can’t argue.

CHAPTER 12

I make the mistake of grabbing yesterday’s mail from the mailbox on my way inside. An envelope has my first and last name on it in bright red ink, but no address or return address. My stomach wobbles as I rip it open.

Miles won’t want to hang out with you if he finds out the truth. And he will find out.

How the fuck did the note-leaver figure out where I live? I stare down at the envelope like it’ll reveal the secret. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is a million times worse than finding the first letter in my locker. Whoever wrote this doesn’t just know where I live—they were here. A shiver runs down my back.

“How was it, baby?” I glance up to see Pops and Dad standing in the doorway. “Did you have fun?”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“What’s wrong?” Dad frowns. “Did he hurt you?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak, before sliding past them. Of all times, the note had to come now? When my parents aren’t going to leave me alone? I don’t even know how to act like everything is normal. Part of me wants to tell them, so they can make everything better like they used to when I was little, but I push it down. They’d never let me stay at this school if they found out. I’d rather deal with this than switch schools again. Not junior year. Not when I’m directing the musical, not when I just met Claudia and Lydia at the beginning of the school year. Not now.

“Come on, baby,” Pops says, following me into the kitchen. “You can tell us if you didn’t have a good time. Sometimes that happens.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It was a lot of fun, actually.”

I look up to see them sharing a glance. Dad still has his lab coat on, which means that he is using his break to grill me about the date. Ugh.

“What?” I finally ask. Their silence isn’t doing anything to help the knot in my stomach. “Is something going on?”

“You have something on your neck,” Dad says, brushing his own neck as an example. “I don’t think you’ll be able to wipe it off.”