It was a Friday night in New York City, and for once, we, the girls, had pulled it off: A six-person table at The Odeon, 8 p.m. sharp, reserved a week in advance like proper adults. We were going to order martinis and steak frites and talk about everything—jobs, exes, celebrity gossip , the usual liturgy.

Two espresso martinis in, someone was deep into a story about a finance guy who wept after sex. We were howling when, suddenly, a voice chimed in. It was deeper than it should’ve been.

“I’d argue it’s a good sign that he’s in touch with his emotions.”

We turned.

It was Brad.

Sara’s boyfriend.

Apparently, now a regular at our dinners.

An hour earlier, Sara had texted: “Hey! Brad’s work dinner got canceled last-minute. Do you mind if he tags along?”

The thing is, Brad didn’t just

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