“Fantastic. They’re comfortable, practical, and they’ve been unfairly maligned by an entire generation of men.” I take a sip of my lemonade, relishing the way his expression transitions from mortification to cautious hope. “Welcome to the right side of history.”
Oliver’s mouth twitches. The red in his face begins to recede, replaced by something closer to his normal skin tone. “You’re not going to make fun of me?”
“Why would I make fun of you? I’ve been wearing them my entire life.”
“I know. I—” He catches himself, and a fresh wave of pink crests his cheekbones. “I mean, I remember.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Oliver Jacoby, flustered and fidgeting, wearing tighty-whities at a Fourth of July party. My heart swells inside me, a balloon filling with helium, lifting against the cage of my ribs and threatening to carry me away. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Oliver nods. “Please.”
“Jackson wears them too.”
The lingering embarrassment on Oliver’s face transforms into pure, unadulterated shock. “Jackson Monroe wears tighty-whities?!”
“Around the dorm, yes. Ever since the Polar Bear Plunge. I lent him a pair of mine to keep his penis warm.” I pause, allowing the image to settle. “He complained nonstop until he saw himself in the mirror.”
Oliver’s jaw drops. “Wow.”
“He bought his own pack the next day. Now he sleeps in them, studies in them. I’ve come back to the dorm more times than I can count to find him sprawled on his bed in nothing but a pair of white Fruit of the Looms, scrolling on his phone.”
Oliver braces both hands on the drinks table and leans forward, processing. “So…I’m not crazy?”
“You’re not crazy.”
“They reallyarebetter.”
“They really are better.”
“The support?—”
“Superior.”
“And the way they?—”
“Don’t ride up? Yes.”
“And how your legs feel?—”
“Free. I know.”
We’re grinning at each other now. The waning sun catches his green eyes, and they’re bright with relief and amusement and something underneath both of those things that makes my pulse quicken.
“You cannot tell anyone, though,” I tell him. “If Jackson finds out I told you, he’ll smother me with a pillow in my sleep.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Oliver presses a hand to his chest, still grinning. “Tighty-whitie solidarity.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It’s a brotherhood now, Ryan. You, me, and Jackson. The Briefs Brigade.”
“Please never say that again.”
“The Fellowship of the Fruit of the Loom.”
I press my fingers to my temples. “I’m going to regrettelling you this.”
“Too late. This is the best gossip I’ve heard all summer.” Oliver angles his body toward me in that way he does—creating a pocket of intimacy in the middle of chaos. His knee bumps mine and stays there. “Seriously, though. Thank you.”
