It started with a voice note that said, “Babe. You’re not going to believe what this walking ick just did,” followed by thirty-seven seconds of Jynelle’s muffled breathing, the unmistakable clack of her heels storming down the street, and then, very clearly, in her breathless rage-clarity voice: “He called me baby girl. Baby girl, Scarlett. In public. After pasta.”
I was still in the middle of trying to force down a workday salad that tasted like soggy ambition and regret, but I abandoned it immediately like any good best friend. I spun in my chair, kicked my flats off with the determination of a woman entering battle, and called her.
He had taken her to an overpriced Italian restaurant with bad lighting and tried to use the words “alphalike charisma” to explain why he didn’t open the do
