Sometimes, when we were kids, Cash would bring Dina and I squeezie pops when we were hanging out in her treehouse. He’d holler, and we’d come out and sit on the balcony, dangling our legs through the slats. He’d offer the pops fanned out like a deck of cards. I always picked grape, and Dina always picked lime. Then Cash would launch into some long-winded story about a video game or a fish or something equally boring to pre-teen girls. Dina and I would pretend to listen patiently, swinging our legs and eating our ice pops since he did bring them all the way out to us. Sometimes he’d mess with
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