7. Kael
KAEL
It was fleeting, sure, but when Ash landed in my lap, I let myself imagine it. Not just Ash being fun, or flirty, or a decent lay. I pictured mornings with coffee in mismatched mugs, his too-big arms wrapped around me while I tried to paint. Our whole life bloomed in his surprises.
Like how everything could be wrong about him and he could still be my type. He knew the origins of an art movement. He carried my things without making it weird. And when he looked at me, I didn’t feel like some disaster of a man-child playacting at being an artist.
God, if he’d only stop playing Mr. Tech Bro. But he keeps jamming himself into every Silicon Valley cliché imaginable, repainting his redeeming surprises until they look mass-produced.
We’re perched on a slope near the lake, sun glinting off ripples that feel too romantic for what this is. My canvas is balanced between my knees, but the trainwreck of a piece we’ve envisioned for this little contest barely needs my attention. I swirl dark colors to match the tangle in my gut.
Ash drops onto the mossy boulder beside me, laptop open.
His thigh brushes mine, warm through both our jeans, and for one profoundly unhelpful second sitting this close to him feels more intimate than it should.
Then he turns his laptop toward me, revealing a spreadsheet so dense it crushes the whole moment.
I bite my tongue, and brace for impact. Five hundred dollars is a powerful motivator.
“This is my life,” he says, and it lands differently now that I can see all his numbers, charts, and graphs.
I stifle a snort. “You don’t find that… depressing?”
“Failing to plan is planning to fail,” he counters. “It’s depressing that most people drift through life without thinking about their future. It’s why, like, eighty percent of older folks struggle to retire.”
“Oh, is that why?” I’m unable to sand the edge off my voice.
He can’t help it. He’s living in a glass ball the rest of us polish clean, and we’re the ones stuck away from the power, the money, and the beautiful view.
“It’s complicated,” he concedes. “And yeah, I’m lucky. Middle-class family, no student loans. But all that can be true, and it’s still on me to make something of it.”
“And…” I point to the spreadsheet, not bothering to hide the judgment. “This is what you’re making?”
“It’s my masterpiece,” he says, a strange light in his eyes.
He launches into a detailed explanation of his financial projections, his “freedom number,” and the recent setback that added years to his timeline.
I break eye contact as he adds, “I don’t expect sympathy.”
“Oh, good.”
“If you were actually into FIRE, you’d understand. We’re obsessive. We track our numbers, spend responsibly, plan for the future. For everyone here, adding years to their freedom date… it’s… devastating.”
He trails off, a picture of money not buying happiness.
It’s a familiar kind of misery. My mind skims over Alistair and my “father,” two men with money chasing some missing piece and breaking things as they go.
“What do you love doing?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Investing,” he replies. “It’s like walking uphill with a yo-yo. It may go up and down, but over time, it’s all up.”
“I asked you to tell me about yourself, not your portfolio.” I tap his laptop with the back of my brush. “Convince me that tech bros aren’t all heartless automatons.”
“I’m from Texas?” He blushes, which is unfairly charming, and I resent how instantly that makes me return to his leg against mine.
“Yeehaw. Course you’re a cowboy.”
“I did have cowboy boots as a kid,” he says. “In high school, we had Cowboy Day once a year. One time, we had foreign exchange students visiting. They left convinced Texans really wear those hats and leather boots.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not true,” I say, feigning disappointment.
Present company excluded, it feels good to be here, away from the city, overlooking nature’s magnum opus, finally painting. The air, the light, and the lake all settle under my skin.
Maybe Ash isn’t all that bad.
He laughs, bursting my fantasy about real-life cowboys. “Pretty normal, suburban upbringing, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. But it does earn you a few human points.”
“I work out,” he adds, oblivious to how obvious that is. “My side hustles don’t leave much time for hobbies.” His shoulders slump. “And now that I need another….”
“There’s more to life than making money,” I say, knowing he won’t listen.
Trying to fix rich guys is a lesson I’ve learned the hard way.
“That’s why I’m making money,” he says.
“Right.” I don’t bother pointing out he doesn’t make sense.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know all this stuff,” he goes on. “I could open a little coffee shop or something without knowing that sixty-two percent of them fail within five years.”
“Right,” I repeat. “Why be happy now when you can be happy later?”
I feel him roll his eyes. A fleeting curiosity about what the rest of him feels like makes me chuckle as I switch brushes.
“Not like I don’t think about that,” he says. “Sacrificing today for tomorrow. Vice versa.”
“Those aren’t the only options,” I say, mixing a new color.
“You’re really good, you know? Those are going to be the chains, right?”
“They will be,” I say. “And thanks. I’d rather take my time, spend weeks on a piece, but I’ve done a little speed painting. Maybe… thirty more minutes?”
Ash checks his phone again, but there’s still no service. “We may have to run back once you finish.”
“You’re the one with the backpack.”
His eyes glaze over, lost in the glow of his screen. I sigh, resigned to exasperation and painting, while watching his body take every shape imaginable to sit, lie, hunch, and squat in front of a laptop. Ten minutes later, he’s on his feet, laptop still glued to his hands.
I finish the basic outline of a figure breaking free from chains, trying to ignore how problematically on-the-nose it is.
“Hey,” Ash says.
“Hmm?” I don’t look up.
“Kael, look at this.”
Something I can’t put my finger on has me smiling when he says my name, but it’s the urgency in his voice that makes me follow his gaze across the lake.
“What?”
“Something’s going on. Look at the parking lot. See that haze? That’s not normal.”
I set down my brush and stand to squint across the water. It’s a long distance, but the far shore looks… wrong. The air above the trees is smudged, a gray-brown smear instead of clean blue.
“It was like that when I got here,” I say automatically.
“But only one person missed registration.”
I reach into my pocket, fingers finding Rocky’s familiar weight. “What do you think it is?”
“Maybe nothing?” he says, but worry has already sharpened all his features.
It would be cute if it wasn’t so distressed.
“You want to…?”
“We can head back,” I say. “Just in case.”
Ash bends down to grab my paints, and my arms shrink into my sides. His rushed help looks more like time-saving than kindness.
He starts down the path ahead of me, all my stuff in tow.
“What do you think it is?” I press, hurrying after him. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”
“Probably nothing,” he repeats, voice strained. “But if we kicked up all that dust coming in, maybe everyone’s… leaving.”
“What?” A knot tightens in my stomach.
“Probably not,” he says without conviction.
“Why would everyone leave? We just got here.”
The same chilling realization hits us both.
We live in the Bay Area. We know about fire season.
Bart’s comment about the fire watch replays in my mind.
With a wet, unfinished canvas in one hand and my paint box clenched in the other, Ash breaks into a near sprint down the path toward the parking lot.
“It’s probably nothing!” he shouts, like saying it enough times will make it true.
“You keep saying that,” I yell back, overtaking him to lead us down the lakeside path.
“Worst-case scenario,” he pants, “we hop in your car.”
Shit. My car.
“No,” I say quickly. “Worst-case scenario is that my car won’t start.”
He barks out a laugh in spite of himself.
“Fuck. Ash, that’s why I didn’t leave before!”
“WHAT?” His tone jumps from forced calm to full panic. “We literally walked right past your car! Are you serious?”
“It didn’t come up! I was going to ask for a jump after we won. You practically popped a boner when I poked your stomach, so excuse me for not mentioning my dead battery!”
“I did not—” He groans, and I glance back, mouthing whatever, trying to lighten the mood. It only sharpens his scolding. “This is serious. It’s fire season. We’re in fire country.”
“They’re not going to leave without us.”
The trees blur into streaks of brown. Conversation dissolves into the crunch of pine needles and our ragged breathing.
For someone in such good shape, Ash breathes loudly, muttering to himself, and I slow my pace to match his.
“What are you mumbling about?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
He’s agitated, and if my earlier assumptions are right, that anger is going to swing back to me eventually.
Our phones erupt in a duo of high-pitched wails, and we slow to dig them out.
“Holy fucking shit,” Ash says as the sirens keep screaming.
I fumble mine unlocked.
EMERGENCY ALERT. WILDFIRE DANGER. IMMEDIATE THR—
“Evacuate now!” he reads aloud. “It says take action now!”
My heart hammers against my ribs. Ash looks ready to bolt.
“Go!” I shout, and we both take off.
He swipes at his screen as he runs. “I should’ve checked the damn fire watch earlier,” he mutters. “Why didn’t I pay attention?”
My thumbs mirror his on my phone. A quick search on the Query home page confirms our worst fear by showing a live map with a rapidly expanding red blotch.
“It says it’s in… Lassen National Forest!” I yell, the words catching in my throat.
“We’re in Lassen National Forest!” Ash screams back.
“Oh, fuck.”
We run and urgency bulldozes stewing resentment and awkward attraction. The wailing phones, the smeared haze across the lake, and the emptying lot on the far shore all add up to one terrifying possibility.
Everyone’s gone.
And we’re still here.