My best friend in college was scary as hell. She was a terror in platform Mary Janes, confrontational in all her qualities (from intelligence to wardrobe) and infamous for her wit, which she occasionally used to flay some quivering victim. Usually she felt bad afterwards, but she rarely apologized. At the same time, she was ferociously loyal and loving, the kind of friend who can read the tremor in your lip and ask precisely the question that gives you the chance to spit out all the capital-F Feelings you’re gnawing on. That friend who has the wisdom to just shut up when you have to ugly-cry for an entire hour—you know, the way you do when you’re 20 (or, it turns out, when you’re 30).
