“You can stop with all of”—I wave my soapy hand between us—“this.” Charlie lets go of the end of my braid. “Stop with what?” “The emotional check-in. I don’t need it.” I grab the tractor plate and start scrubbing furiously at a spot of stuck cheese. “We’re not—” Together, I almost say. “We aren’t anything, Charlie.” He falls quiet next to me. There’s nothing but the sound of the sink water and my brush against the plate. The pound of my heart in my ears. “Friends don’t make sure their friends are okay?” he finally asks. A laugh sputters out of me. “Is that what we are?” Do friends argue the
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