I can tell that Jordan understands. He knows that cost of living in NYC is high, and even if he’s not suffering for it himself, the billionaire is aware that one tiny studio apartment here is the same price as a six bedroom mansion where I’m from.
“It’s okay,” he says. “My parents didn’t come to Parents Weekend when I was in college because one, we didn’t have anything like Parents Weekend back then, and two, because they didn’t think I needed a college education. They figured I was throwing money down the drain by getting a four year degree.”
My brow scrunches.
“Really? My parents think that a four year degree is non-negotiable. If I didn’t get one, I think they would commit suicide.”
Jordan throws his head back and laughs then, showing off perfect white teeth.
“But that’s because you’re the child of academics. My parents are a lot more blue collar. My dad worked a factory job for forty years, and came out of it okay. No serious injuries, with his body and mind still intact. So he wanted to get me in with the union too, since it’d worked so well for him.”
I cock my head.
“Yes, but union jobs are disappearing. I thought there was a huge push against labor, and all the most famous unions are slowly seeing their authority wane.”
Jordan nods his head seriously.
“Exactly. You’re a smart one, little girl. But back when I was in high school, my dad didn’t believe that. Labor was all powerful then, and he figured that he’d had a good life working with his hands, and I would too. Of course, he thinks differently now, but it’s taken decades to open his eyes.”
I smile softly at him.
“But you did it. You paved your own way and went to college over the objections of your parents.”
He nods, his expression pensive.
“I did, and it wasn’t easy. That’s why I know what you feel like Katie. You feel like you don’t belong at Hudson, with all these prep-school kids who wear designer clotehs. You feel like you’re an imposter because all their parents are high tech moguls and investment bankers, while your parents share one job. But trust me, honey, I get it. Once upon a time, I was that imposter too. I felt like everyone around me had tons of familial support, and I was the only one working my way through college.”
“So you had a job?” I ask softly. My heart pounds. Wow, I never expected this from Jordan Marks. After all, he’s a powerful CEO in a city full of billionaires. He rules Manhattan, and people jump when he says ‘jump.’ And yet at the same time, there’s more to the billionaire than that. He’s struggled. He’s put himself out there, and struck out on his own, even when the chances of success seemed low. He’s had to fight to get where he is, and my heart swells because I respect him immensely for it.
Meanwhile, Jordan’s still speaking to his experience.
“I did work through college,” he drawls. “All four years. I’ve flipped burgers, pumped gas, and even driven a taxi. Nothing was below me. I had to put food on the table, not to mention buy books and pay tuition, so yeah. I’ve had my share of greasy burgers.”
That makes me laugh.
“Really?” I ask, so delighted that the air almost whoofs from my lungs.
“Really,” he says drolly. “You know that place over on Sixth called Busty Babe Burgers? I used to work there.”
I almost collapse with laughter then.
“But I thought they only hired busty babes at Busty Babe.”
He nods.
“Exactly. But guess who was in back wearing an apron while flipping patties? Yours truly, that’s who.”
I almost dissolve into giggles then because Busty Babe is a dank and dark dive. It’s underground and smells like cheap beer even at 11 a.m. The only thing they have going for them are the busty babes they hire as waitresses, prancing from table to table in little more than a tight top and booty shorts.
“Come to think of it,” says Jordan with a quirk of his eyebrow. “You’d look good in a Busty Babe get-up.”
“Noooo!” I squeal, almost howling with laughter. “Those clothes only come in a size XS, and unfortunately I’m an XL.”
Jordan crinkles his brow as if thinking.
“No, it can’t be,” he muses playfully, rubbing his jaw like a learned scholar. “The girls are busty babes so they can’t possibly fit into extra smalls, could they? I mean, how do they squeeze into those tiny t-shirts?”
I shake my head with mock disapproval.
“It’s because they want the t-shirts to stretch where they’re supposed to stretch. The girls are like Barbie dolls. They have tiny frames with huge knockers, so when they put on the t-shirts, the material’s really, really tight where it’s supposed to be.”
I thought that explained it, but Mr. Marks won’t accept that as an answer.