“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.Ishould 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’ andthought…” 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?”
