4. Ash
ASH
Carpooling to The FI Escape is brutal.
Being the last pickup means contorting into the back-back middle seat of Bobo’s Cheeriowagon.
I’ve never met her, but Cheerios on the floor and gouges in the ceiling fabric suggest she moonlights as an Uber driver for cereal-munching monster babies.
On The FI Escape message board she called this “a fun, low-cost way to build community.” So far it feels like a hostage situation.
The woman in the passenger seat dominates the conversation with her children’s summer camp anecdotes, leaving six strangers to stare out the windows at Bay Bridge traffic or pretend to care.
I instinctively reach for my phone and swipe to my spreadsheet.
The twenty-one-year countdown now glares back at me, a stark reminder of how far my freedom date has slid.
I flip to a different tab and spend the next couple of hours lost in hypothetical scenarios, tweaking rates of return, and searching for a combination that will undo the damage from Query’s HR department.
Sustaining above-average market returns is a fantasy, which makes my side hustle, the podcast, my best hope. I need more listeners. More ad dollars. This retreat is my shot to network, to pitch the show without sounding like I’m pitching it.
If I can grow the podcast twentyfold, maybe it’ll make up for the hit I took at Query.
I’d also be riding a unicorn to this retreat instead of being crammed into Bobo’s Cheeriowagon.
Whether it’s a daydream or Bobo’s sudden braking, a jolt yanks me back to reality and the wall of greenery filling the back window.
“Philbrook Campground!” Bobo announces. I wait for the first row of back seats to empty before unfolding myself and thanking her for saving me a car payment, gas, and insurance.
The pine-scented air clears my head. Two steps onto the dirt parking lot and I see the real draw in a screensaver-perfect lake reflecting the surrounding pines, distant mountains, and a single white puff of cloud.
I’m no naturalist, but the crisp air, the brilliant blue sky, and the sudden quiet are all so different from the city, my phone, and my life that one deep breath thaws the ice block in my chest a little.
This isn’t a vacation, I remind myself. It’s an investment. A few strong conversations could double our downloads. One connection could unlock real sponsors.
I need to check in, and a multicolored sign points the way:
Bear Wallow Trail ←
Lake Circle ← →
The Fieldhouse ↑
Fieldhouse it is. I leave the other arrivals to their explorations and follow the path, eager to connect with people who actually get it. The free ticket is a small consolation for everything that’s happened, a reminder that Skinny Fat FIRE has potential.
As I leave the parking lot, the sun’s warmth gives way to cool shade.
The path winds deeper into the forest. The fieldhouse appears ahead, a rustic wooden structure framed by branches.
Sunlight pours through the canopy, dappling the ground, and I tilt my face up to let warmth keep thawing the ice block in my chest.
My foot snags on something. “Oof. Whoa!” My backpack yanks me forward, and I slam down on top of… someone. A solid chest, a shoulder. The corner of something hard and flat digs into my ribs.
My grunt is met with a louder squawk. “Whoa, watch it!”
I scramble to my feet, which only makes it worse. My hand slips on something slick, and I shove down harder on the guy I just flattened.
“Sorry!” My eyes catch on an inexplicable wet rainbow gash sliced across my forearm. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You think?” the man replies, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
He’s still on the ground, paintbrush clenched, surrounded by a small blanket, an empty canvas, a wooden box of paints, and a palette now holding the rest of the impromptu artwork from my arm.
“I’m so sorry. Hope I didn’t ruin your work.” Heat climbs my neck as I take in the scene. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you. You’re right in the middle of the trail.”
“Not exactly hiding,” he says, one hand mixing paints, the other sweeping out to the surrounding forest.
Wiping my arm only smears the paint further. I’m going to have to wash it off at the fieldhouse.
“You know a retreat’s coming through here soon,” I say. “There’ll be loads of people coming from the parking lot.”
He gives an exaggerated nod.
“So maybe you want to… move?” I say.
“I’ll cross my fingers that not everyone chooses to walk through me.”
He looks up at me through thick black-framed glasses.
A slow smile hooks up more on one side, cocky, until dimples flash and warm his cheeks.
His white hoodie’s cuffs are freckled with old paint, making him look younger than he probably is, until he stands to his full height, and I realize he’s about my size, lean and solid.
Sun hits his skin, pale and dusted with a constellation of freckles across his nose, and I swear the breeze shifts just to spotlight him, because suddenly I’m overheating.
His gaze drifts over me, curious, deliberate, and absolutely aware of what he’s doing.
He’s checking me out.
I glance away, caught.
But he doesn’t. “If the retreat’s starting soon, I’ll walk with you.”
Abort. Abort. This man is too handsome and too confident.
“I meant—” I stammer. “I just didn’t want you getting trampled by anyone else.”
“My hero.” He clasps his hands in a mock swoon, and I laugh, the flush of heat from the first look rushing back. “Here for the retreat anyway,” he adds.
“Really?” I ask. So he’s not just some random artist camped in the woods. He’s heading to the same FI nerd fest I am.
“So surprised?” he asks, amusement tugging at his mouth.
“I mean… I just meant—” I shut my mouth before I dig deeper, then try again. “I mean, it’s cool you paint. I work in tech.”
“Oh.” His grimace wipes out any hint of attraction. He folds his blanket with brisk efficiency that also physically closes him off. “I’m surprised you’re here,” he huffs.
I can’t help poking. “You don’t like tech?”
“Don’t mind the tech,” he says. “Mind the people who work it—bros or creeps, in my experience. And when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”
“Maya Angelou,” I say, and that earns me a raised eyebrow. I use the same quote in recruitment training, but I keep that detail to myself. Probably not what Maya had in mind. Instead, I hold out my hand. “Ash.”
“I’m Kael. Nice to meet a fellow… artist,” he says, reluctant, “even if you are a tech bro.”
“At least it wasn’t the first thing you knew about me,” I point out, ignoring the strange spark that comes with being called an artist at all. “So which bothers you more? That I ran you over or that I work in tech?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Which is why you can carry this too.” Kael hands me his box of paints, the palette flipped over as a lid and secured by a leather strap.
“You know, the top five tech companies make up a third of the S&P 500. We’re hardly monolithic.”
Kael starts down the path toward the fieldhouse, not looking back. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“I mean, I do work in tech, but how can you have an opinion of all of us?”
Kael stops, canvas balanced over his head, and turns in a slow circle. “The fish stinks from the head.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means if the people at the top are willing to run people over, I’m not shocked when everyone under them stops looking where they’re going.”
I hold up the paint box between us, Exhibit A for my argument. “Not all of us have side hustles we love.”
“That’s exactly my point. What’s a ‘side hustle’?” He sets off again. “Why can’t you talk like a human being? Are you going to ‘ping’ me later?”
“It’s a side gig,” I say, hurrying after him. Pine needles crunch under my shoes. “Something you do for extra money.”
“Painting is what I was born to do. It’s what I love. Not some ‘gig.’”
“But how do you pay the bills?” The question’s a bit forward, even for a financial retreat.
Kael winces. “Is it so hard for you to believe I do art for a living?”
My brain stalls, auto-calculating how little he could possibly earn from his art. Probably not enough for San Francisco rent.
“Sorry. It’s… honestly pretty cool that you’re doing something you like,” I concede, because it is, even if it isn’t exactly a moneymaker.
“You like working in tech?”
“Not particularly. It pays well. The people are… mostly nice.” Chase’s face flashes into my mind, and the ice block in my chest reminds me I’ve put relationships on hold until after FIRE. “I mean, I’m working at one of the world’s greatest companies.”
“Life’s too short to do something you don’t like.”
I laugh. “Ooh, okay. Juicy retreat convo. I guess I believe I’ll do more of what I like… eventually. Because I’m not doing it right now.”
“But you don’t know how long you’ll live,” Kael says, as if every person pursuing FIRE hasn’t run that risk-reward calculus as often as they run their net worth.
“Why don’t you test that theory this weekend,” I suggest, biting back the urge to point out his naivete.
“Why?”
“Curious what you’ll find if you poll the ratio of people’s enjoyment to payment.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “My gram used to ask me if I’d jump off a bridge if everyone did that too.”
As we leave the trees, the long, weathered fieldhouse with a covered porch and a pitched roof welcomes us.
“This your first time at one of these?” I ask, nodding toward the building as we cross the grassy field.
“I thought it was some new age movement when I booked it,” Kael says.
“You’ll love it. It’s still pretty niche. The ideas go back to the early nineties, though. Vicki Robin and Joe Dominguez. Legends. They basically laid the foundation for all this.”
“Points for the tech bro.” Kael makes a show of his surprise, brows raised, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
It’s infuriatingly cute. Distractingly so.
“Did I mention the high pay?” I add, just to see his reaction.
“And no more points.” He rolls his eyes and pushes open the screen door to the fieldhouse, the muscles in his back shifting under his sweatshirt.
Money talk at a FIRE retreat isn’t rude. But mentioning my salary to a struggling artist with dimples and a body like that feels like asking for trouble.
“Mr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce!” A boy comes running as soon as we step inside. He can’t be more than fourteen. FIRE parents start their kids on financial literacy early. “Huge fan of Skinny Fat FIRE. So glad you made it! Ready for the big event?”
The kid glances at the rainbow on my arm, then at Kael, then back at me.
I can’t tell if he’s seeing paint or seeing us.
“Hold up.” I turn to Kael. “Sorry again about earlier. Registration’s over there.” I nod toward a table near the entrance. “I’ve got a speaking part during kickoff, so I need to prep. But I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Kael gives a small, unimpressed bow and heads for the registration table.
Whatever. Good riddance to the whimsically cute, bitterly judgmental painter.
I’m here to present, recharge, and reconnect with people who actually want me here.
This retreat is supposed to be my boring, steady getaway.
Kael radiates pure crypto volatility, all sharp edges and bad timing. Fun to watch. Terrible to build around.
I turn back to the kid. “When do we get this show on the road?”
He launches into a rapid-fire explanation of the day’s schedule, enthusiasm fizzing off him. While he leads me to a sink, I glance back toward registration. Kael’s bent toward a woman with a nametag, brow furrowed, listening hard. Even from a distance, his smile flashes bright when he answers.
He’s passionate. It’s good to see FIRE expanding beyond tech bros.
Something tingles in my palm, like my hand still remembers him. Which is absurd. People bump into each other. Men do not get branded by five accidental seconds on a hiking trail.
I shove the thought down and square my shoulders. This weekend, I’m back in the old family business of pretending. If I can sell everyone on my future being secure, maybe I’ll finally buy it myself.