Andy combed his hair in clean lines. Still, the cowlick popped up at the back of his head, arching into the air like a feather in a cap. He glanced at Hart, slung out on his bed.
"What's up, buddy?" Andy asked. "You get in a fight with what's-her-name?"
Hart smiled. He'd dated five different girls last year, and now, the autumn of his senior year, was into his sixth. Andy had begun calling them what's-her-name as shorthand; he couldn't keep track of them.
"No problems," Hart said. "None at all."
Andy's eyes found Hart's face and held. No problems, none at all was a euphemism for getting laid decently and regularly.
"That's not what I meant," Andy said.
Hart shifted beneath his roommate's expression of concern. Andy didn’t know a thing about Francesca, but he knew more than enough about Alison, Kelly, and the other ones, and that seemed wrong to Hart now, as if his closest friend didn't know him at all. Under the guise of nonchalance and sexual promiscuity, Hart had fooled everyone. He'd wanted to keep Francesca close, but was there anything left to keep?