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.
CHAPTER 5
KAEL
We hadn’t even exchangednumbers, and my mind is already composing scenes of our possible future life together. My imagination went feral the second his hand landed squarely on my… well. Memorable first encounter, to say the least.
The tech guy and the artist. My brain slots us into a story before I can stop it. I picture his sleek, minimalist apartment with stark white walls punctuated by my canvases. He drags me to his nerdy game night, some Dungeons & Dragons thing with spreadsheets and dice, and I charm his friends with ridiculous backstories. He loves that about me—the way I spin a yarn, the way I see colors he never noticed. We’re a study in contrasts, two worlds colliding in a quirky, messy way that somehow works.
I do this, I know. One tiny spark, and my head fills in years.
Then I remember Alistair.
Ash probably worships him. That thought pops the fantasy fast, wiping away the fact that Ash is also taller and more muscular than me, which aren’t even difficult boxes to check.
The welcome packet promises exactly what Alistair demanded: mindset workshops, transformation, “recalibrating your narrative.” I’d skimmed right past the budget charts and FIRE acronyms and circled all the vague “growth” language.It sounds like the kind of bullshit deep dive into this new movement that will thrill him.
I find my bunk on the second floor and unload my blanket, paint supplies, and well-worn bag. My roommate’s side is already staked out, marked by a new backpack, a pristine Patagonia jacket, and a stickerless laptop tossed carelessly on the bed. Trusting. Or just rich.
Sketchpad and Rocky in hand, I head downstairs for the main room and The FI Escape kickoff.
The main room’s filling up when I slip in from the back.
Beyond the double doors, lofi hip-hop plays under the chatter. The space smells like citrus and cedar, the rustic fieldhouse fantasy complete with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams above dark patterned carpet and rows of metal folding chairs. It’s a weird mashup between summer camp and conference hotel.
The fifty-odd seats are occupied by more softshell jackets staring into open laptops. I don’t see a single other sketchpad.
Laptops weren’t on the packing list. For a second, I consider retreating to a corner. Strange crowd for a strange “art” movement. But it wasn’t the marketing that got me here. I won’t chase this forever, but I need Alistair’s money. It makes my toes curl knowing he knows it. This is still art. Right?
Commit. I sidestep through clusters of chattering attendees to an empty seat in the middle row.
If Alistair keeps depositing checks, I’ll learn about FI. If that means cozying up to tech bros in matching jackets, so be it.
“Hi! I’m Kael.” I offer a hand to my neighbor.
“Karen!” She matches my overdone enthusiasm beat for beat, her hair bouncing with our handshake. “Welcome to The FI Escape!”
She sounds like a walking advertisement, but she’s friendly and, blessedly, not glued to a screen.
“Thanks. Everyone seems, uh, really into it. But what’s with all the technology?” I nod toward the sea of laptops.
“People have different approaches, I guess. I’m volunteering for a free ticket.” She taps her nametag, which reads, Ask Me About The FI Escape.
“First-timer here.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “How long have these been going on?”
“Well, it started in the early ’90s with?—”
“Vicki and Joe? Yeah, I’ve heard. But the retreat itself… I literally heard about it last night. It sounded brand new. I’m surprised to see so many people… these people,” I add, cautiously.
“You heard about FIRE last night, and now you’re here?” Karen’s eyes widen. Her excitement is infectious. She stands, gathering attention like a conductor rallying an orchestra. “This guy is committed!” she announces. “He heard about FIRE last night, and he’s already here!”
A smattering of applause ripples through the room. Someone pats my shoulder. A few others stare with a mix of awe and disbelief.
I glance past them and spot Ash at the back. He’s laughing, a warm, easy laugh. When he notices me watching, his hand lifts in a small, almost shy wave, like a tech bro breaking protocol to say hi, which shouldn’t thrill me like it does.
