“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.
“Andno 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 ofSkinny 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.
