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... onversations competing with a truly terrible jazz cover band. The Class of [Redacted] had cleaned up well—or at least learned to dress like it.
And there, at the center of our own gravitational pull, was our crew.
Trent, holding court with a group of former athletes, caught my eye and raised his glass. Marina stood beside him, elegant and sharp as ever, deep in conversation with a woman I vaguely remembered from the debate team. She gave me a small, knowing wink.
And then ...
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