Magan Vernon - The Only One

I swung my legs over the bed and sat up, stretching my arms over my head. The top I was wearing fell down to my legs and that’s when I remembered that I fell asleep wearing John Boy’s shirt. It even still smelled like him. Yes, he might have been sweaty that night, but his cologne was amazing. It wasn’t overpowering like the expensive stuff Trey wore, but a light scent, like fresh cotton.

That was the moment I realized I was sniffing his shirt and felt like an idiot. I tore off the shirt and walked the few feet through my tiny living room to my bathroom, throwing it in the hamper. Better to wash the shirt and give it back to him right away. Monica would probably be asking for it soon anyway. By the way she was acting I could tell she didn’t think too highly of the guy, even though I was pretty sure he was Trey’s fraternity big brother.

There were still remnants of the red drink that had dried into a sticky goo on my stomach and I needed a long scrub. I showered, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, put on some makeup, and went back out into the living room. I couldn’t have shared my box of a studio apartment with a roommate. It only took about ten steps to get from the bathroom to my closet and I didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing me naked. But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone in my apartment. Someone who looked very good in just a loincloth.

I shook the thoughts out of my head as I slipped my regulation uniform red polo over my head. I couldn’t keep thinking about John Boy. He wasn’t the type of guy that dated girls like me. He was the guy that wanted one thing. Not that it would have been a bad thing, either. My high school boyfriend and I tried to work it out our freshman year of college, but I preferred to stay faithful and he preferred to screw other girls. I’d been single since I caught him cheating when I went to visit him at his school. I’d met a string of guys in some of my English classes, but nothing did it for me like John Boy did on the dance floor. Maybe all I needed was to just screw him and get it over with. That wasn’t my usual M.O., but maybe it was time for something new.

No, no, no. Monica would kill me. Or maybe she wouldn’t have to know.

Brewster’s Beans was located on the first floor of the student center. It was decorated in red and black to match the school colors. Hardly anyone came in on Sunday mornings so I always found myself rearranging coffee bags and counting the floor tiles.

I was the only person working until ten when Monica came in, so I brought some homework to work on after I started all the drip coffees. I was just finishing a chapter of my history textbook when I heard footsteps on the floor near me.

Quickly, I shoved my book underneath the counter and looked up to meet a lazy grin and bright blue eyes. John Boy. He was wearing a blue t-shirt with red AM letters across his very broad chest. His biceps were busting out of his shirt and I couldn’t help letting my gaze trail to the tattoos on them. I really wanted to get a better look, but wasn’t sure how exactly to ask a guy to take his shirt off in a public place. Though this was the guy who wore a loincloth to a party, so he probably would have been up for it.

“I thought I remembered you worked here with the Lib.” He sauntered closer, leaning against the pastry case.

“Yeah...yeah I do.” My cheeks grew hot. I probably looked like crap from my lack of sleep and the fact that I ran out of foundation. And even with little sleep the Greek God was standing in front of me looking—and smelling—fresher than ever.

“Well that’s good, because I was really craving a donut.” He leaned in closer. “Maybe you can help me out with one?”

“I, uh, yeah, I can totally get you a donut.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the donuts in the pastry case or making a reference to his ‘smile like a donut’ shirt. Either way, I thought I’d play along.

“Or I can get you one.” His fingers trailed the bare skin on my arm, leaving goose bumps in their wake.

“Am I interrupting something?”

I gasped and jumped back when I heard Monica’s voice behind me.

“Hey Mon,” I said and looked back at her. Her eyes were locked on John Boy, her eyebrows slightly raised.

“Good morning, Lib, pleasure seeing you here.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you meeting Trey?”

John Boy shook his head with a small smile on his face. “No, just thought I’d see if I could get a donut.”

“I hope you’re talking about the kind in the pastry case,” Monica said.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe not.” He shot a wink in my direction. “I guess I’ll just take a rain check on that donut, Red.”

With that, he pushed off the counter and walked out the side door. Monica followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight.

Monica blinked, looking at me like I had something weird on my face. “Um, what was that about?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He just came in all flirty. He’d never actually done that before the party. I wonder if he even knew I existed.”

Monica smiled, adjusting her baseball cap with ‘Student Dining Services’ embroidered across it. “Maybe that Hermione costume really does have some magic on it.”

“You leave my costume out of this.” Monica didn’t understand my Harry Potter obsession. Okay, maybe not an obsession. It was something I tried to hide from the other English majors, but really there was nothing better than a good book with action and magic.

“Wasn’t there some guy in one of your Lit classes you were interested in, anyway?” She asked, quickly changing the subject off John Boy and my costume.

“You mean Walt?”

“Yeah. Was he the one that was really into Kerouac and smoked those black cigarettes?”

Walt Hines was the epitome of an English major. He always carried around a worn out copy of Slaughterhouse-Five and wore hipster glasses with his girl jeans. I thought he was the type of guy I wanted to be with, until I actually hung out with him. He spent the night scrutinizing every book I’d ever read and told me Harry Potter wasn’t real literature. Once a guy slams down the Weasleys, it’s over.

“That would be Walt, but nothing ever happened there and nothing is happening with John Boy. He just came in to say hi.”

Monica leaned on the counter. “John Boy never just says ‘hi’ to girls unless it’s followed by ‘wanna screw?’”

I said a silent prayer of thanks when a group of students came in and lined up for coffee. That got Monica to stop talking John Boy and get back to work, but that didn’t mean it got me to stop thinking about him or his biceps.

Midterms were approaching, which meant a lot more homework and a lot more people showing up for classes.

On Mondays I worked in the morning and then headed to American Religious History. It was across the quad from the student center where Brewster’s was located, in the art building that looked like a giant juicer.

It was a decent sized lecture hall, shaped in a half-circle with five rows of desks descending to a lower level where the professor’s podium was located. There was a giant screen behind that where he put up all the lecture slides.

I slumped down in an open desk near the back and searched through my bag for a notebook. Most everyone on campus just carried their laptops or iPads so they could play games while the professor lectured, but I still preferred the old pen and paper way. There was something about the feeling of putting pen to paper that I found invigorating. It was probably why I was an English major. I loved writing long hand. I had old journals full of half ass story ideas and notes from classes sitting in boxes back at my mom’s house.

Digging through my bag, I finally found a pen, but just as I grabbed it and put it on my desk it promptly rolled onto the floor.

“Shit,” I mumbled.

I scrambled out of my desk when the pen stopped at a pair of Pumas. “Sorry!” I yelped and reached for the pen.

“No prob, Red.”

I grabbed my pen and when I stood up I met the endless blue pools of John Boy’s eyes. I’d never noticed him in my class before, but then again usually I was busy staring down at my notebook trying to take down notes.

“Hey, John.” I tried to regain my composure and sat in my seat. He took the one next to me, a small smile on his face. He pulled a slim Mac book out of his bag and sat it on the desk in front of him.

Out of all my classes, why did he have to be in the one I looked like crap for? There he was, looking gorgeous in a gray knit sweater and faded jeans that fit every bit of his form perfectly. The guy had to be literally all muscle. And I had seen a lot of him when he was wearing just the loincloth. I found myself thinking about what was under his clothes and my face heated up from the thought.

“So you’re going to call me John now?” He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head down, which just brought out the slight dimple on his chin. God he was too damn attractive.

“Um, well that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but most people call me John Boy.”

“And why is that?” I tapped my pen on my notebook, trying to figure out something to do with my hands.

He let out a single laugh. “Just a nickname my pledge brothers gave me freshman year. When your name is John Walden, and it sounds similar enough to Walton, it just sort of happens.”

“As in John Boy from the Waltons? The TV show?” I didn’t think anyone under the age of seventy actually knew about that show. I only knew about it because my grandma was obsessed with it.