Hart sighed. He was too tired to fight and he was too tired to lie. "Francesca." Even with the slip in his hands, the fact that she wasn't his girlfriend became startlingly apparent, and he blinked back the sting in his eyes. Francesca had loved him, and he'd smashed it to bits.
Sully studied him. "Listen, do you want me to talk to her for you?"
Hart found himself smiling. Sully, the preppy mobster-slash-matchmaker, showing up on Francesca's doorstep? He'd pay good money to see that. "No, that's all right."
"I'm president of the Debate Club," Sully said quickly. "You know that, right? I've even kicked Father Connolly's ass in argument. Not once, twice." He held out two fingers so that Hart could count them. "I'm sure I could -"
"It's all right." The thought of Sully hustling a deal with Francesca on his behalf struck him as ridiculous but heartwarming. "Thanks."
"All right, you pain in the ass." Sully slapped his knees and stood. "Now that we've wasted ten minutes bullshitting over some girl's underwear, it's high time we embark upon our much-awaited bong hit."
Some girl's underwear. Hart's mind spun, turned in on itself. That's all the slip was. He'd been holding onto it, wishing things had turned out differently, pining like a fool.
Sully was waiting.