“Why would a boxer-brief-wearing person like yourself have a pair of fancy underpants in your humble abode, Mr. Declared Bachelor?” “Bachelor. Not monk.” The best lies contain the most truth possible. His grin widens. “Well, tell me about them.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because it’s nothing.” His smile tightens. “Is it actually nothing? Or are you trying to convince yourself it’s nothing? Not being sarcastic. I’m honestly asking.” I don’t answer him, because if I did, I’d have to admit something I don’t want to: that with Rooney it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like something—something I can’t
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