6. Ash
ASH
Statistically, this shouldn’t happen. The retreat has fifty people, twenty-five teams, and I end up with the cute artist I publicly called out.
I hover near the projection screen, clutching my backpack straps like a middle-schooler waiting for the teacher.
When it rains lately, it doesn’t just pour; it cuts pay, demotes you, and hands you a bad-idea crush at a retreat you can’t afford to leave.
Who books a retreat without knowing what it is? Kael Wright, apparently.
“Hey, Bart.” I hurry over to the podium, catching him before he can get too far. “Great kickoff, man. Real quick. My partner…” I glance up at the slide. “I think I got the guy who left.”
Bart’s already fielding questions from another volunteer, but he gives them a quick instruction and turns to me. The room buzzes as partners start pairing off.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“My buddy’s supposed to be Kael.” I point toward the screen. “He’s that guy who… left? Guess he thought this was an art retreat?”
Bart chuckles. “I thought that was a joke.”
“I don’t think so. Is there somebody else…”
Bart points toward the back of the room. “Right there,” he says, then turns back to the next volunteer.
Kael is leaning against the back wall by the double doors with his crumpled sketchbook under one arm. His dimpled smile lights up when he sees me, a smile that could bankrupt stronger men. I classify the flutter in my chest as market noise and move on.
He’s dressed as the artist he actually is with paint-stained layers, frayed edges on a white sweatshirt, and a deliberate chaos that somehow works. His eyes glimmer, like they’re always spotting potential, even when it isn’t there. Especially when it isn’t there. That look pulls me closer.
“Thought you left,” I say.
“I promise it wasn’t your talk.”
I wave off the polite reassurance. “Did you really book the wrong retreat?”
“Thought so. Then I heard there’s a five-hundred-dollar prize?” A glint of mischief appears in his eyes. “Figure I have a shot, being paired with the kickoff speaker and all.”
“Use the tech bro to make a buck?” I raise an eyebrow, letting him dodge the question for now. “Do you know anything about financial independence?”
“I know I’m dependent on winning the lottery.”
“You’re more likely to get struck by lightning. The lottery’s a tax on the poor. It’s actually sad when you think about how—”
Kael puts up a hand. “Save it for our presentation.”
“The lottery definitely won’t be part of anyone’s strategy to make a million dollars.”
“Yet someone will win tonight,” he says softly.
We’ve been standing shoulder to shoulder for maybe ten seconds, and that’s already long enough for my body to notice the heat coming off him while the rest of me gets hung up on the way his brain works.
“You seriously want to do this?” I ask, confident I can carry the numbers if I have to.
“I was going to leave,” Kael admits. “Then I figured, why not? Creative presentation is a third of the grade.” He shrugs. “Partners?”
Kael salutes me. Reflex takes over before dignity can intervene, and I salute him back.
He smirks.
God. Why did I salute him?
He’s laughing and turning toward the doors before I can undo it, and my chin drops to my chest. I should not be the one who’s flustered.
“I know enough for both of us,” I say, trying to pull myself together. “Hope I didn’t embarrass you when I called you out for leaving. I was trying to make a joke. I didn’t know it was you at first.”
Kael holds the door open for me. “Five hundred bucks makes the world right.”
“Only if you tell me how you booked the wrong retreat,” I say, stepping through after him.
“It’s a long story,” he says, pushing out into the crisp air.
Outside, pairs cluster at picnic tables or pace with notepads. These are the people I should be networking with. They’re all potential listeners, sponsors, and future ad revenue, but instead, I’m watching Kael tilt his head like he’s deciding whether I’m his meal ticket or just another tech bro.
“We won’t need all three hours to make a million dollars,” I say.
“So sure of yourself!” Kael teases. “I’ve spent twenty-five years and am no closer than the day I was born.”
“Dodging,” I prod.
“I thought it was a retreat for Futurist Illusionism,” Kael says, as if that clears anything up. “I saw ‘F.I. Escape’ and thought…” He shrugs. “Might’ve skimmed the website, but now I’m more desperate for a few hundred bucks than I am to learn about the art movement.”
So he’s not some enlightened early retiree. He’s a struggling artist who tripped over the acronyms.
“They should teach this stuff in school,” I say. “Basic financial literacy.”
Kael scoffs. “I think there’s more to it than that.”
Ah. I know this type. To him, money is either a mystery or a rigged game, something that happens to him instead of something he can learn to manage. People love taking credit when things go right, but when they go wrong, it’s always someone else’s fault.
Except for the downlevel. That’s definitely someone else’s fault. Shit.
“How do you want to handle the presentation?” I ask as we head back onto the trail.
“I’m the creative. What do you need?”
“I’ve got my laptop.” I tug at one of my backpack straps. “Why don’t we just plop down right here and crank it out?”
Kael clutches his chest dramatically and leans back. “Romantic as your offer to ‘crank it out’ right here is, why don’t I grab my paints and we can stroll around the lake?”
“Painting could be a cool way to visualize returns,” I say, conceding. “Happy little trees instead of bar graphs.”
“I’m sure Bob Ross would be thrilled to hear you reduce his passion to… productivity.” Kael pokes my side. His fingers graze bare skin where my shirt’s bunched under my backpack. “I’m kidding,” he adds quickly, but the spark’s already there.
The touch jolts me. I wasn’t ready for the warmth or softness of his hand, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of how cold and exposed I am. I tug my shirt down and slide the pack off my shoulders, fumbling for my jacket to hide the heat climbing my chest.
“Where’s your stuff?” I ask. My voice comes out thinner than I want. The little flicker I’d buried earlier flares back to life, lower now, curling down from my stomach.
“My car,” he says, without looking back.
I zip my jacket anyway, just to have something to do with my hands. I fall into step beside him, somehow the awkward one again.
We pass the spot where I tripped over him. I hear that surprised squawk again, feel the ghost of his body under mine, and see the startled look behind his glasses. It replays on loop, and I can’t find the damn Pause button.
Then the newer memory gets shoved aside by older ones: HR, the demotion, my extended freedom date, and the reason I decided against relationships until after FIRE.
I’ve lost enough life to bad decisions.
But this isn’t a relationship. It’s a partnership, a means to an end. With a… hot—no, careless—guy who acts like he has no financial responsibility.
The further we walk toward the parking lot, the more secluded the path becomes. Most of the other pairs stay close to the fieldhouse, and by the time we reach the lot, it feels like we have the entire place to ourselves.
“This is your car?” It comes out more judgmental than I intend.
“Ash, meet Buck,” Kael says. “My gram left him to me when she died.”
“This thing is awesome.” I run my hand along the wood paneling. “I mean, I’m sorry about your gram.”
“She was my favorite person,” Kael says. “But it was a while ago.”
“Normally I’m against car ownership,” I say. “Total money pit, especially in the city. But if you’re going to own one, this is the way to do it.”
“Thank you?” he says, grabbing his canvas and paint box, then shutting the trunk to stare at me.
“What?” I brush off my shoulders, self-consciousness spiking. “Is it a spider? I hate spiders.”
“You work for Query?” Kael points at the logo on my jacket.
“Guilty.”
He closes his eyes, shoulders slumping. He looks wiped out. Then, without a word, he turns for the counterclockwise trail around the lake.
“What?” I ask, jogging to catch up. “You’re walking away?”
“Need to process this,” he grumbles.
“Process my employment? You knew I worked in tech.” I pull out my phone to check the trail map and freeze. “It says it’s a three-hour hike.”
“We’ll walk fast,” he shouts back, just loud enough that I also catch, “What horrible thing did I do to deserve this?”
We turn onto the trail, gravel crunching beneath our feet. The trees thicken around us, branches narrowing the path. Kael sets a punishing pace, daring me to chase him.
“What have you got against Query?” I ask. “Aside from the sweeping generalizations about tech.”
“‘The fish stinks from the head’ means leadership’s the problem. You work for Query, the stinkiest head of them all.”
“You’re reacting that strongly to Alistair Blackwood?” I say. “Guy’s a genius, and he’s gay. Name a billionaire who isn’t eccentric.”
“Eccentric?” Kael scoffs.
“I can take the jacket off.”
“Just win this,” he says. “How do we make a million dollars?”
I take the cue and pocket my phone. At his speed, I’m more worried about keeping up than missing the deadline.
“Average stock market returns are about ten percent a year. Bart didn’t mention inflation, so we can assume—”
“Ash, please. I don’t care. If you need to talk it out, by all means, but if you’re doing it for me, just give me the answer. The teacher’s not going to check my work.”
“Might do you some good,” I say, and immediately regret it when his head drops and his pace kicks up another notch. “I mean, maybe all this happened for a reason!” I call after him.
“Didn’t take you for the karmic type,” he fires back.
The Bay Area is full of people who don’t like tech or Query. Fine. He can keep cosplaying starving artist forever.
A brisk walk around the lake will do me some good, even if it’s practically a jog. I put my head down and try to keep up.
“No high-interest debt,” I say, “increase our savings rate, and invest in low-cost index funds.”