I wasn’t prepared for the glasses. The plaid flannel jammy pants are no surprise—I’ve long since noticed all the jocks who pick up more-to-love in the buffet-style dining hall favor the elastic waistband—and he’s wearing the zip-up version of the same maroon-and-gray Inland Empire sweatshirt I’ve got on. His hair looks slept-on and his cheek-fuzz looks prickly and he’s generally doing his usual Adorable George routine when I swing into the parking lot behind O’Donnell Hall at six-fifty the next morning.
Except I’ve never seen him in glasses, and the Clark Kent of it all has me second-guessing this plan. Even if they are the dopiest-looking gold-rimmed aviator frames and take up half his face, he looks so sexy-librarian in them I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to go six seconds without beggi
