First, instead of strangling Chase, I vow to abstain from all romantic entanglements until after FIRE.
Second, I text Jenny:Not fired but downleveled. pay reduced :’( screwed.
Third, I need to assess the damage.
I close the door and open my laptop. My spreadsheet is set as my home page. Muscle memory takes over as I enter my newly reduced compensation. The spreadsheet does the rest. Automatic calculations ripple through five tabs, the impact instantaneous and devastating.
My breath hitches as the graphs shift, their steep climbs flattening into a disheartening plateau. My finger trembles as I scroll to my dashboard, the tab with my freedom date. I wrap one hand around the armrest and brace for impact.
It might still work.
My percentage remains at 47.15 percent, a cruel reminder of how far I still have to go. The party cat now looks like it’s mocking me.
My new freedom date stares back: twenty-one years from now. I’ll be fifty.
“No,” I groan. “That can’t be right.”
But it is. I try and fail to picture twenty-one more years of this. Instead, my whole life fast-forwards in a dizzying montage of meetings, metrics, decks, reviews, and all my best hours swallowed by work that owns me instead of freeing me.
This is how it happens, Pawpaw whispers in my head.
My phone buzzes at Jenny’s reply:<3 You got this. Good timing for The FI Escape.
I send back a poop emoji and think about spending a long weekend surrounded by people who see the world the way I do. To everyone else, financial independence sounds like greedymoney-grubbing. It’s ironic, considering the world’s addiction to debt-fueled consumerism.
Jenny’s right. At The FI Escape, I’ll find people who understand the sacrifices, the meticulous planning, and the desperate desire for control over your own time. They understand that we aren’t really saving money. We’re saving time, the most precious commodity of all.
And now, thanks to Chase, mine’s slipping away.
CHAPTER 3
KAEL
Alistair Blackwood’sparties pass legendary on their way into myth.
Fairy-tale creatures arrive in self-driving chariots, dressed to the nines, drawn to him like moths to golden light and expensive champagne. The entertainment starts on the street with a full symphony serenading the walk up. Drinks drift on a constant tide of silver trays, borne by hot servers who materialize only when your glass is empty.
All of it is just framing for Alistair’s true gem. Strip away the servants, guests, and live soundtrack, and the house itself is almost modest on a quiet cul-de-sac in Glen Park that makes you forget the drive up and up and up. The climb comes back to you inside, where Alistair keeps San Francisco’s twinkling skyline on display.
My Uber driver cuts off a few ever-patient, driverless cars and noses right up to the front, beside the woodwinds.
“You sure this is the right place?” he says, eyeing my striped collared shirt, which suddenly feels inadequate.
“I’m sure,” I say, stepping out of the car and into Alistair’s world.
He rolls the window down for one last question. “What kind of party is this?”
I set my jaw, canvas clutched against my chest, pretending everything will be fine. “I have no idea.”
It’s my fifth one of these. Alistair seems to enjoy making each party feel like a brand-new level of the same game.
“Beverage, sir?” A server materializes at my side, tight-fitting clothes showing off an unfair amount of muscle. He’s young, gorgeous, and I can’t help but compare his effortless presentation to my own awkwardness.
I imagine his interview requirements were a lot simpler than mine. Are you hot? Can you carry a tray? You’re hired.
“PBR?” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Sir?” With a tilt of his head the word sounds dirtier.
