Page 59 of No More Billionaires

“About what?”

“You were right—what you said about me—I do put people off. I am suspicious of anyone who’s friendly, of women who act interested. But I’m not a snob. I have reasons for being the way I am.”

His tone was so sincere, the sound of his voice so vulnerable, I couldn’t just let his confession lie there, unanswered.

I rolled over to face him, though only the outline of his profile was visible in the dim light of the downstairs stove.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

He hesitated, took a breath, and then spoke softly.

“I was sent away to boarding schools all my life. I was always accepted into the popular clique, the in-crowd—whatever you want to call it. And starting in about eighth grade, I was swarmed with girls flirting, asking me out, offering to—well anyway—I never knew if all of it had anything to do withme,my personality, my sense of humor, my sex appeal or whatever. Because everyone there always knew who I was—who my parents were—before I even arrived. I was introduced around as, ‘Larson, Corina Videau’s kid.’”

He breathed a short laugh. “My dad’s rich, but my mom’s richandfamous, so she usually gets top-billing.”

I nodded against the pillow. “Yeah. I had a pair of her jeans in the eighth grade. I wanted more but they were too expensive.”

“Right. I used to see girls all the time with my mom’s name stitched across their butts—very disturbing to a perpetually-horny adolescent boy, by the way.”

“I bet.”

“Anyway, I was looking forward to college because I would finally get the chance to be just myself—make my own friends—figure out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life,” he continued. “I put in a dorm application, checked the box to be paired with a random roommate. I couldn’t wait to get to Stanford and walk around the campus and just be known as Larson from New York.”

“Right. I can see that. I’m guessing Stanford was your choice and not your parents’ alma mater.”

“Exactly. They’re East-coasters all the way. They acted like I was running off to be a hippie or something.”

“So, did you? Grow your hair, hang out with the stoners?” I teased.

“No. I didn’t have much of a social life. I sort of… withdrew after first semester. I mean—not pulled out of school—I became kind of a loner.”

“What happened?”

Larson rolled to face me and pushed up onto one elbow. “I was paired in a room with a guy named Jared from Los Angeles. At first, things were great. We had a lot in common. We both liked golf, liked the same TV shows. He introduced me to all his friends. Everyone treated me like, you know, a normal person, one of the guys. Nobody mentioned my family or acted like they even knew anything about it. I was so happy to have real friends—people I’d earned for myself. I invited him and his friends to come skiing at our house in Colorado over Christmas break. That’s when I found out the truth.”

“The truth?”

Larson looked down and drew invisible circles on the sheet with his finger as he answered.

“We’d gotten kind of trashed one night, and I slept late the next day, later than everyone else. When I did get up, I was coming down the stairs to the kitchen and heard them in there talking about me. I stopped on the stairs and listened. One of the guys, Ryan, was congratulating Jared on how well his plan had worked, like ‘Dude, look at this sweet place. You totally scored. Your research paid off, man.’ And Jared said something like, ‘Yeah—it’s killing me to put up with the lame shows he watches, and I’m bored out of my head every time we play golf, but it’s worth it. I’m angling for a beach house invitation for Spring Break. Maybe I can meet his rich sister and be a kept man for the rest of my life.’ They were all laughing, everyone in on the joke, except for me.”

There was a long pause. “He researched me so he could pretend to be my friend. I didn’t think he even knew who I was.”

“Oh, Larson.”

My hand went out to cover his. His fingers stilled under mine, and I squeezed them in sympathy.

“Maybe he was just nervous about meeting you and wanted to impress you or something.”

Larson’s hand moved, turning over to weave our fingers together. His were very warm. And strong.

A warm wiggling sensation jumped low in my belly.

“I doubt it,” he said so softly I could barely understand the words.

He cleared his throat. “It’s not like that was the only time. It happened a lot with girls. I mean, I know I’m not a troll, but I’m not the most handsome guy on the planet.”

I could have put up a good argument but stayed quiet.

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