He can’t help it. He’s living in a glass ball the rest of us polish clean, and we’re the ones stuck away from the power, the money, and the beautiful view.
“It’s complicated,” he concedes. “And yeah, I’m lucky. Middle-class family, no student loans. But all that can be true, and it’s still on me to make something of it.”
“And…” I point to the spreadsheet, not bothering to hide the judgment. “Thisis what you’re making?”
“It’s my masterpiece,” he says, a strange light in his eyes.
He launches into a detailed explanation of his financial projections, his “freedom number,” and the recent setback that added years to his timeline.
I break eye contact as he adds, “I don’t expect sympathy.”
“Oh, good.”
“If you were actually into FIRE, you’d understand. We’re obsessive. We track our numbers, spend responsibly, plan for the future. For everyone here, adding years to their freedom date… it’s… devastating.”
He trails off, a picture of money not buying happiness.
It’s a familiar kind of misery. My mind skims over Alistair and my “father,” two men with money chasing some missing piece and breaking things as they go.
“What do you love doing?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Investing,” he replies. “It’s like walking uphill with a yo-yo. It may go up and down, but over time, it’s all up.”
“I asked you to tell me about yourself, not your portfolio.” I tap his laptop with the back of my brush. “Convince me that tech bros aren’t all heartless automatons.”
“I’m from Texas?” He blushes, which is unfairly charming, and I resent how instantly that makes me return to his leg against mine.
“Yeehaw. Course you’re a cowboy.”
“I did have cowboy boots as a kid,” he says. “In high school, we had Cowboy Day once a year. One time, we had foreign exchange students visiting. They left convinced Texans really wear those hats and leather boots.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not true,” I say, feigning disappointment.
Present company excluded, it feels good to be here, away from the city, overlooking nature’s magnum opus, finally painting. The air, the light, and the lake all settle under my skin.
Maybe Ash isn’t all that bad.
He laughs, bursting my fantasy about real-life cowboys. “Pretty normal, suburban upbringing, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. But it does earn you a few human points.”
“I work out,” he adds, oblivious to how obvious that is. “My side hustles don’t leave much time for hobbies.” His shoulders slump. “And now that I need another….”
“There’s more to life than making money,” I say, knowing he won’t listen.
Trying to fix rich guys is a lesson I’ve learned the hard way.
“That’swhyI’m making money,” he says.
“Right.” I don’t bother pointing out he doesn’t make sense.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know all this stuff,” he goes on. “I could open a little coffee shop or something without knowing that sixty-two percent of them fail within five years.”
“Right,” I repeat. “Why be happy now when you can be happy later?”
I feel him roll his eyes. A fleeting curiosity about what the rest of him feels like makes me chuckle as I switch brushes.
“Not like I don’t think about that,” he says. “Sacrificing today for tomorrow. Vice versa.”
