“Sorry about that,” I say, brushing my hair out of my eyes and straightening my shirt. I realize one of the pockets of my jeans is inside out, and I tuck the lining back in with my fingertips. “It’s fine,” Bailey says. “I’m actually—” “Bailey!” At a table near the back, a woman with short dark hair waves wildly. Two other women sit slack-jawed and staring like this scene is straight out of a telenovela. It’s close enough. Even more so when arms snake around my waist from behind as Brenda and Kellie—whom I’d forgotten all about—make what can only be called a last-ditch coordinated, amorous
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