He grabs a handful of fries and brings his fist up to his mouth. Andrew is always grabbing handfuls of things and it drives me crazy.

“I’ve dated girls for more than a week,” he says, licking the salt off his fingers. “I think you have this idea that I’m a lot shittier than I really am.” He says it with a smile, his voice easy, so I know he’s not mad.

“So you and Cecilia are dating, then?”

“Okay, so dating isn’t the right word.”

I roll my eyes and then we both get distracted by the TV, because there’s a huge explosion and the sounds of soldiers dying. Before I can help it, I wonder if James Dean likes Saving Private Ryan, if he’s seen it before or if he only watches abstract film school movies. Do they even call them movies in film school? I need to learn before next year.

“Do you . . . think about her a lot?” I ask, and then I feel my cheeks get hot, because it’s a weird question. “Like, do you find your mind wandering to Cecilia at random times?”

“Not really,” he says. “Only at night. Or in the shower.” He grins.

“That’s not . . . never mind,” I say. And then I can’t let it go. “I mean, does she give you that stomach flip? Like when you drive over a big hill?”

He picks up the remote and pauses the movie.

“I know the stomach flip. Believe me.” He reaches a hand up to fiddle with his hair, the floppy part on his forehead. He’s got his glasses on so he can see the movie, and he takes them off, tapping them against his palm. “Are you . . . have you . . . um . . . do you like someone?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “No.” For some reason, I feel like I have to deny it. “I guess I’m just wondering what you get out of it. Is it just sex?”

Now he looks really uncomfortable. His face is probably even redder than mine, and I don’t know why I said anything.

He scratches his chin. There’s stubble growing in there, just barely. “No,” he says. “It’s not sex . . . just sex.”

“Was Sophie different?”

Andrew dated Sophie Piznarski for six months our freshman year, back before Party Andrew existed. I hung out with them sometimes, just the three of us, me sitting awkwardly on one end of the couch playing games on my phone while they cuddled together on the other.

“Sophie was a long time ago,” he says. “It’s different now. I’m different.”

“No kidding,” I say.

“It’s just easier this way.”

“Cecilia’s easy?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, I’m easy. I like things to be relaxed and . . . I don’t know. Feelings suck. No feelings, no stress.”

“C’mon, if you’re not feeling anything, what’s the point?”