34. Ash
ASH
I take a sick day. Query will survive. I need just one day where I’m not pretending I’m fine. I’m not sick; I’m heartbroken, which I’m making a valid medical condition.
Jenny calls it stupidity, stubbornness, and I enter the code to her garage expecting to get an earful. It opens to reveal she’s already sitting at the orange recording table.
“Good,” she says flatly, lips drawn to a line while looking at the soundboard. “You’re here.”
“Great to see you too.” I go in for a hug.
She slumps into it like a wet noodle. “Ready?”
I take my seat across from her, not getting any eye contact. “You’re mad.”
“Why do you care what I think?” she says, eyes still on her laptop. “You want to be miserable? Fine. Just don’t infect the rest of us.”
She told me to call him, and I did the exact opposite of what she was hoping for.
“He’s not right for me, right? Maybe I’m just pulling tomorrow’s pain into today to get it over with.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Can you tell me how long you plan to be mad for?”
“I don’t know, Ash. I haven’t planned out every moment of my future like you.”
I flip open my laptop. The last tab I had open is my net worth spreadsheet, and it stares back at me.
Jenny sees it and snorts. “Of course.” She huffs. “We’re with Isabella today.”
“I remember,” I say.
“Good.” Jenny slams her laptop into place between us.
“Jenny, can we just—”
With a click, our interviewee’s face fills the screen before I can finish.
“Hello, Ms. Isabella!” Jenny’s voice is overanimated, laced with forced cheerfulness while avoiding my gaze and keeping her jaw tight.
“Hello, Jenny and Asher!” Isabella chirps. “Thank you for having me on your show!”
Isabella is the picture of unassuming FIRE success: gray hoodie, an enthusiastic smile, medium-length straight hair with natural highlights. Subtle wrinkles are the only sign she’s over fifty-five.
Jenny barrels forward, pointedly ignoring me as she addresses Isabella. “I know you’ve seen how this works. We’re pre-recording to give you a chance to review the interview before it goes live. Any questions, or shall we jump in?”
“All set!” Isabella brings her hands together, oblivious to the tension radiating between her hosts.
Jenny turns our microphones red. “Today on Skinny Fat FIRE, we’re joined by Isabella Fernando. Welcome Isabella!”
“Hello, Jenny! Hello, Ash! Thank you for having me.”
“Thanks for joining,” Jenny says. “I think our guests may have heard of you before, as you make the podcast circuit, but can you tell us a little about yourself and your journey to FIRE?”
“Sure thing.” Isabella says. I try to catch Jenny’s eye, but she’s focused intently on Isabella, her lips still pressed in a thin line. “I’m fifty-six years old, married with two teenage sons, and we retired at fifty with five million and thirty-six dollars.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. Five million is my number. “Congratulations. You know people aren’t always so open with their actual numbers, but we think it keeps it real. Would you mind sharing how much money you have now, six years out of the accumulation phase?”
“We thought we were leaving accumulation,” Isabella says with a chuckle, “but with the markets the way they’ve been, we actually have more than when we started. About two hundred thousand more.”
Jenny beams. “Incredible.”
I stare at the waveform dancing on the screen and try to remember when that word applied to anything in my life that wasn’t a spreadsheet.
I shake myself out of it to ask, “So you’ve lived for six years on your nest egg and have more than you started?”
Isabella’s shoulders rise to her ears, her hands fluttering briefly into the camera frame as she laughs. “It happens more than people think. All us FIRE people are wired to be so conservative, but I guess José and I are proof it’s not always the worst-case scenario.”
“Inspiring,” I say, hearing how it lands like a dead fish in the middle of the garage. “And what are you doing with your time now? How has the transition to early retirement been? I know it isn’t always easy.”
“I don’t think it will surprise anyone to hear that not much has changed,” Isabella says. “Which I guess is good, right? We built the life we wanted, and then we saved for it. Not the other way around.”
That comment makes Jenny finally look at me, her gaze piercing, as if she’s driving Isabella’s point directly into my skull.
“How did you get here?” I ask, forcing my attention back to Isabella. “We all want to be where you are someday. Can you walk us through your steps?”
“I’m cheap!” she says, her full-face smile returning. “My husband and I were just talking about this the other night. I never understood dropping sixty bucks on a restaurant’s bottle of wine when I can drink the same thing on my couch for fifteen.”
“What about now?” I ask.
“Old habits die hard,” she says. “I don’t enjoy wasting money. I don’t get it, and for us that works well.”
“What does working well mean?” Jenny asks.
Isabella laughs. “Did you hear the part about our net worth increasing?”
“No money fights in your household?” I ask, and it’s Kael’s face in my mind, not a hypothetical couple. “It’s the number one source of tension for couples, but for someone like you… I’m wondering if, now that you ‘made it,’ you buck that trend.”
Isabella rolls her eyes, as if we’ve caught her in some transgression. “My husband would kill me if I didn’t admit that he wants me to loosen up a little.”
“Loosen up how?” Jenny asks.
“Spend more,” Isabella says. “Vacations, meals out—nothing major.”
“You can’t take it with you,” I say, and then force a laugh to cover any chance for Jenny to drill my own advice into my head.
“I know,” she says. “But I’m happy.”
“If you had to splurge on something, what would it be?” Jenny asks, leaning closer to her mic.
Isabella’s laughter falters, the light dimming in her eyes as she considers the question. It wasn’t meant to be so piercing, but now that Jenny’s asked, we hold silence while Isabella thinks.
“I don’t know,” she finally says.
“Come on,” I urge gently. “What do you love doing?”
“I love reading,” she says. “But that doesn’t cost much.”
Jenny’s voice is warm and encouraging. “Imagine you had to spend ten times the money you spend now on reading. What would you do?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’d buy more books.”
“You’d have to buy a lot more books to spend ten times the money!” I say, noticing Isabella nervously twirling a strand of hair. “Maybe build yourself a nice home library? Swap out your favorite books for beautiful, special editions?”
Isabella’s nose wrinkles. “That sounds… expensive.”
“But your money’s growing faster than you can spend it.” I hear the edge in my own voice and hope it sounds curious.
“You’re right. Okay. Maybe a home library.”
My muscles relax, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. “I love it! Tell us more about your dream library! What would it take to make it a reality?”
“Well,” Isabella’s gaze darts around the room she’s in, “we need a spare room for my in-laws—”
“Who cares about the in-laws?” I interrupt, pretending to laugh. “We’re dreaming here, remember?”
But Isabella isn’t smiling, and my fists are clenched. I think of Kael. The paint under his fingernails. The way he looked in the back of that truck, like joy was worth chasing. He knows how to dream.
“I, uh …I don’t know,” Isabella stammers.
“You made it!” I encourage her while glancing at my own spreadsheet. “You’ve got more money than you know what to do with. Sacrificed so much to get here. You know you won’t overspend. That’s not who you are. We’re just having fun. How could you make a dream library happen?”
Even as I’m saying it, I can hear I’m pushing too hard. I look up from my personal numbers to see Jenny’s eyes wide in alarm.
Isabella is crying. Not sobbing, but tears are streaming down her face, reflecting in the ring light. She pats her cheeks with a trembling hand.
“Sorry, Isabella,” Jenny says quickly, shooting me a sharp glance.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty, unsure what I did besides push too hard.
“No, no. I’m… surprised by my reaction,” she says.
“What makes this so uncomfortable?” Jenny asks.
Isabella takes a shaky breath. “I… I don’t think about stuff like this.”
“Don’t you like dreaming?” I ask, my voice softer.
Isabella’s eyes narrow, and she swats the air. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Don’t you want to live the life you imagined after reaching your number?” I press, thumb digging into the edge of my laptop.
“I don’t think like that,” Isabella whispers.
Neither do I, I realize. “But don’t you want to be… happy?” My question hangs in the air.
Isabella didn’t hear it. Jenny muted my microphone, and she’s steering the conversation toward Isabella’s teenage sons.
The forced pause makes me feel how my heart is racing, sweat beading on my upper lip. I take a deep breath and try to relax my knotted muscles. I made our podcast guest cry. The realization settles heavily in my stomach.
Jenny takes over the rest of the interview, leaving me on mute. “Isabella, I want to thank you for being so honest with us. This is hard stuff, real stuff.”
Isabella repairs her cracked facade by wiping tears and shrugging her shoulders. I’m suddenly grateful for the mute button.
“Do you mind if I ask one more question?” Jenny asks. “Of course, you don’t have to answer, and the whole thing will be shared with you for review before we go live.”
Isabella nods.
“Would you change anything about your pursuit of financial independence?”
Isabella’s eyes light up again, all traces of her earlier distress gone.
“Absolutely not. It’s worth it,” she says with conviction.
“Really?” Jenny asks.
“You said it yourself.” Isabella’s wide grin spreads across her face. “I’ve won. I can do whatever I want!”
Jenny thanks her profusely, and even though my microphone is live again, I don’t know what to say. I just nod while Jenny handles the last details of the episode.
We sit in stunned silence after the call ends.
Isabella said to build the life you want, and then save for it. She said she’s won.
I close my laptop, sickened by the glow of my own spreadsheet.
The conversation has clearly hit Jenny too. Her shoulders slump, and one side of her mouth curls as her brows pinch together. It’s a look I know well. Worry. And it’s aimed at me.
“So,” Jenny says. “What are you going to do?”
This is my fucking future. This is what I’ve been building: a perfect number and an empty life.
Kael’s paint-streaked pants, our fight in the gallery, his smile at the Inskip Inn, and that night at Sharon and Walt’s all flicker past like a highlight reel I’m in the middle of erasing.
I’ve spent years trying to win a game that doesn’t even make me happy. And I’m about to lose the one thing that did.
I spring from the chair before the thought finishes forming. “I have to stop Kael from leaving.”
Jenny shoves my bag into my hands. “Yes,” she says. “Go get him.”
Forget the spreadsheet. Forget the plan. This time the numbers will follow my lead. If Kael’s really leaving, I’m not letting him walk away without a fight.