“Before we create the blueprints for your Cash Machine,” Dylan said as we continued our drive home from the hike, “we first need to make sure we’re building it on a solid foundation.”
“What a beautiful analogy.” I turned the radio down and switched to the classical music station. I could tell this was going to get heady and wanted to make sure I had Mozart’s full support. “Unfortunately, I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”
“We’re going to collect all your financial data: your bank accounts, credit card statements, student loans, retirement plans, whatever you’ve got. We’re going to import them into a single app so we can get a look at the big picture.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?” I slapped my hand down hard on the wheel. “Collect all my statements? I can do that. That’s my first assignment?”
“It depends. Do you pay off your credit cards in full each month, or do you ever carry a balance?”
I squeezed my thumb and index finger together almost to the point of touching. “Maybe I carry a wee bit of a balance.”
“At what interest rate?”
Hot patches of pink rose up my neck. “I’m kinda not really sure.”
“In that case, your first assignment starts now. Is the credit card with the balance in your purse?” Dylan reached over to grab my purse from the backseat, then stopped. “Why are you pulling over?”
“I’ll get the card out.” It was a bit too early in our relationship to have a guy digging through my purse. Especially this time of the month. “What are we going to do with it?”
“We’re going to call your credit card company.”
I grabbed the card and clenched it with an iron grip. “You’re not going to cancel the card, are you?”
“That all depends on what we find out.” Dylan yanked the card out of my hand.
So much for my iron grip. I fought down the urge to grab it back. Nonetheless, I wasn’t willing to relinquish all control. I gave him my fiercest schoolmarm look. “You’re not canceling my card.”
Dylan held up his hands in defeat. “Fine, I promise I won’t cancel it.” He pulled out his phone. “At least not today. I’m just going to call and see what I can find out. OK?”
“You drive.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “I’ll call.”
Dylan went around to the driver’s side, and I slid over the middle. An eighteen-wheeler drove by, and Dylan pulled in behind it. The oncoming traffic lane was soon empty, but Dylan made no effort to pass. It drove me nuts to drive this slowly, but I had the haunting feeling that if I told Dylan to floor it, he’d give me some lecture about fuel efficiency.
At the sound of the automated service, I entered my digits and asked for a representative. After about five minutes, the road widened as it went uphill, and Dylan finally eased past the truck. Just as the road narrowed back into a single lane for the downhill, the representative finally picked up. After a long, canned introduction thanking me for my business, she said, “This is Candice. How can I help you today?”
I turned to Dylan and shrugged; I didn’t know the purpose of the call.
“What’s your balance?” he said.
I asked Candice, but before I got a response, Dylan said, “Put it on speakerphone. I want to hear.”
The woman’s voice boomed out of my phone. “As of today, your balance is $6849.71.” I quickly turned down the volume.
“At what interest rate?” Dylan called out.
“I’m sorry,” Candice said, “but I need authorization before I can discuss the details of the card with anyone but the primary cardholder.”
“It’s OK, I authorize,” I said. “You can answer his question.”
“Yes, ma’am. Your current interest rate is 23.99%.”
Ouch. I had no idea it was so high.
Dylan lifted his eyebrows. “What’s the lowest possible rate you can give her today?”
These reps were too well trained to lecture or laugh at us, but I pictured Candice rolling her eyes in her cubicle. You can’t just call up a major bank and negotiate with the phone representative.
“One moment while I check on that for you,” Candice replied.
Wait. Was she looking into this?
“My records show that you have been a loyal customer for five years and have never missed a payment. In thanks for your loyalty and perfect payment record, I’m authorized to reduce your interest rate to 12.99% today. Would you like me to go ahead and do so?”
Hell yes! I regained my composure and politely said, “Please, that would be wonderful.”
“Your new interest rate will go into effect as of today. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I was about to say, ‘no, thank you’ when Dylan spoke. “Are there any membership rewards on this card?”
“No, sir. It is not currently enrolled in our reward program. Would you like me to enroll you today?”
Yeah!
Dylan said, “What are the terms of your reward program?”
“On this card, one point will be accrued for every dollar spent. Points can then be redeemed for cash back, purchases, or travel.”
“Is there any cost for the program or an annual fee on the card?”
“No, sir. There is neither.”
Dylan winked at me. “Then yes, please enroll the card in the program.”
I turned to him with my jaw hanging low enough to clean the floor of the car.
“The card is now enrolled. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Again, Dylan jumped in before I could refuse. “Yes, what is the credit limit on this card?”
I heard the click of Candice’s keyboard as she searched for an answer. “It’s currently set at $14,500. Would you like me to check if it’s eligible for an increase?”
Dylan nodded toward me. “Please.”
“One moment, sir.”
My face contorted in confusion. “Why do I want that?” I whispered. “I figured you’d want me to lower my balance, not increase it.”
Dylan’s fixed me with a hard gaze. “The extra money isn’t for spending, so don’t get the increase if you think it will tempt you.”
“I’ll be a good girl,” I said, smiling as innocently as I could. “But why get it if I can’t spend it?”
“It raises your credit score.”
“Really?”
“One of the factors they evaluate is the percentage of your available credit you’re using.”
I cocked my head. “So raising my available credit lowers the percent I’m using, is that it?”
“Exactly.” I found the confidence in Dylan’s voice incredibly attractive. I liked how he was taking charge, but wasn’t going to let on. I was still beyond hesitant.
“And my credit rating is important because…”
“Because it can determine whether you’ll be approved for a mortgage and under what terms.”
Candice came back on the line. “Your card has been approved for an increase to $22,000. Would you like me to put that through?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“Your new credit limit is available immediately. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Dylan jumped in again. “Have there been any fees assessed against this card recently?”
“Yes, sir. Last month there was a $29 return payment fee.”
I shrunk against my seat. “I didn’t have enough in my checking account at the time,” I said, only loud enough for Dylan to hear.
Dylan ignored me. “Are you able to waive that fee, Candice?”
I sat up again. “Are you serious?”
Candice, of course, took it all in stride. “Yes, sir. As a courtesy, we’re able to do a fee waiver once every six months. Would you like me to go ahead and put that through?”
“Yes, please,” I said
“The fee has been waived, and you will see the credit on your next statement. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
I sat in stunned silence, waiting to see what else Dylan was going to pull out of his hat, but he just shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Thank you again for being a loyal customer and have a great day.”
The line cut out, and I lifted my chin from the floor. “Holy crap. You just cut my interest in half. Do you mean I could have been doing this all along?”
“Absolutely.” Dylan sat taller. “Plus getting 1% cash back.”
My tush did a little victory dance in my seat. “That’s awesome.”
“Not really. I wouldn’t recommend you stick with this card. For now, I just wanted to show you the power of asking. This woman had to hit a single command on her computer, and it spit out a new interest rate. But the bank has no incentive to offer it to you on its own. As long as you’re happy paying the higher rate, they’re content to let you do so.”
“Why are they willing to reduce it at all?”
“Because the type of people who ask for lower rates are also the type who compare cards. You pay on time, so you’re a low-risk client, and 12.99% interest is still a fortune. They’d rather have that than lose you.” Dylan eased the car toward the exit.
“You think I can do better than the deal you just got me?”
“Far better. That’s your other assignment for this week. I want you to research available cards.”
“Got it. So I’m supposed to figure out the best one to move over to?”
“Not one.” Dylan lifted his index finger, then opened his hand wide. “Ones. I expect we’ll start you off with at least five.”
“Five cards? Is that also to raise my credit score?”
“No. Getting new cards might even hurt your credit short-term. It’s only on existing cards where raising your limit can pad your credit rating with no downside.” He gave me the don’t-mess-with-my rules look my father used to throw at us when he and my mother would leave us home alone. “Unless you’re tempted to spend the extra money, of course.”
“But if not for the credit rating, what’s the advantage of all these cards?”
“You have to consider credit from the bank’s point of view. They’re watching out for their bottom line, not yours. They’ll give you massive incentives in one area to draw you in, but there’s always another area where they’re hoping to make their cash.”
“So either way, they screw you?”
“No, you screw them!” Dylan banged on the dashboard. “Once you know the rules, you can turn the game in your favor. I have twelve cards myself.”
Twelve? “Why so many?”
“To maximize incentives. Some give me a huge bonus for joining. Others give me cash back in one category or another. Last year alone, I made over $2000 in credit card sign-up bonuses and over $3500 in cash back rewards.”
My mouth fell open again. “$3500?”
“Yep. I get between 2% and 5% back on every dollar I spend. All financed by those undisciplined folks who pay 23.99% interest on their cards.”
“Hey,” I said, slapping his arm, “That’s not nice!”
“I thought there was no physical contact until you were ‘sure’ about me?”
I had to purse my lips to keep from grinning. Dylan was beating me at my game as much as he was playing Visa and Mastercard like financial fiddles. I quickly turned the subject back to money. “How did you possibly spend enough to get $3500 cash back?”
“Remodeling houses.” Dylan turned into his neighborhood. “Some of that stuff isn’t cheap.”
“That’s all for the houses you own?”
“No, most of it came from work projects. My boss reimburses me for expenses for the places we’re working on. He offered me a company card, but I’d rather use my own and get the rewards.”
“So when researching cards, what should I be looking for?”
“First off, we need to deal with your current card balance. The cards that have strong rewards programs won’t be a good solution for that. Those cards probably have at least a 3% balance transfer fee. Instead, you’ll transfer your balance to a card that offers 0% balance transfer fees and gives you a 0% introductory interest rate. That card won’t offer you any rewards, but it doesn’t matter. You won’t be making any purchases through it anyway.” Dylan turned onto his street.
“Are you saying I’ll be able to get the interest on my current balance down to nothing?”
“Absolutely. As a general rule, you never want to pay credit card interest.”
“A general rule? That means there are exceptions, right?”
“Oh, yes.” He slowed the car to a stop in front of his place.
“Like when?”
Dylan got out of the car and grabbed his pack from the back seat. He leaned down so he could look me square in the eye. “Like when you’re a hell of a lot savvier than you are now. Until you know exactly what you’re doing, stay away from credit card interest.”
Dylan biked over to my apartment early the following Saturday. I hadn’t seen him all week, which left me feeling antsier than I cared to admit. Between his work schedule and managing his own properties, his time to see me was limited. He was never far from my mind, though, especially as the assignment he’d given me kept me in Cash Machine mode.
I opened the door, and my heels bounced with excitement to share my news.
Dylan wore an old t-shirt from a Phish concert we’d seen together before his Mexico escapade. I felt a hint of nostalgia looking at the shirt, but just for a moment. It was so tattered and worn, I wouldn’t have used it to clean my toilet.
“What’s got you all jumpy?” he asked.
I pushed my revulsion with his shirt out of my mind. I had more important things to focus on, like gloating over my victory. “Guess what I did yesterday?”
“What’s that?”
“I brewed my own coffee rather than buying a latte on my way into work.”
Dylan snickered as he slipped past me into the apartment.
“I thought you’d be excited.” I pouted. “I saved over three dollars.”
“Three whole dollars?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“OK, fine, it’s not a lot. But think of it in percentages. I saved over 90% on my morning coffee expenses. Sounds a lot better that way, doesn’t it?”
He stifled another laugh.
“You’re still not excited.” I stamped my foot on the floor like a five-year-old. “I thought I did so good.”
“You’re doing great.” Dylan leaned over and kissed my cheek. My insides shivered, but I tried not to show it. Then he tipped his head and said, “That wasn’t too intimate, was it?”
“Ordinarily, I’d say no.” I pointed a finger at him as though he were a naughty student. “But even a kiss on the cheek is crossing a line for a guy who has the nerve to mock me.”
“There’s no mocking here, I promise.” Dylan sat on one of the bar stools at my kitchen counter, looking a little too at home for his first visit. “I applaud the intention, but you’re starting upside down.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s like my boss always says, ‘Don’t sweep the floor when you’ve got a hole in the roof.’”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t speak shop talk.”
“Let’s put it this way.” Dylan twisted the lid off my cookie jar. I couldn’t help but notice the grime under his fingernails.
“No, no, no, you don’t!” I pounded my hand onto the lid. “You’re not sticking your grubby hands into my cookie jar before washing them first!”
“Yes, Mom.” Dylan headed to the sink with his tail between his legs. He scrubbed with a hearty helping of soap, but his hands didn’t look much cleaner as he dried them on my freshly laundered towel. Construction guys had a level of grime that stuck to them like Krazy Glue.
“As I was saying…“ He headed back to the counter, pulled one of my grandmother’s biscotti out of the jar, and held it up in the air. “Imagine trying to lose weight by skipping the slivered almonds on the biscotti. It helps, but doesn’t get at the core issue.” He pointed the biscotti at me and added, “Tell me, if we were to rank your expenses from highest to lowest, where would lattes fall?”
“Somewhere between rent and toilet paper.”
“And closer to…”
I rolled my eyes. “Toilet paper, obviously.”
“It’s not so obvious.” Dylan took a bite. “I pay more for toilet paper than I do for rent.”
“Funny you never mentioned these digestive problems on our first date.”
Dylan didn’t even give my lame joke a courtesy laugh. “Since you’re probably paying far more in rent than you are for lattes and toilet paper combined, let’s start there. Did you do your homework to track your expenses?”
“Yep, I loaded all my bank statements into that app you sent me.”
“What did the results say?”
“I haven’t looked them over. I figured we could do that together.” I put my laptop on the counter and opened up the app.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” He arranged my bills by category. “The first step is to track your expenses and see where your money’s going. Any surprises here?”
“Ooh, there’s a digital subscription JibJab I hadn’t realized I was still paying for. That should have expired over a year ago.”
“It probably auto-renewed. You’d be amazed at how many people still pay for things they’ve forgotten about. That’s why I make a point to turn off auto-renew, especially for things on annual billing. If I can’t turn it off, like with annual fees on credit cards, I put a note in my calendar to make sure I still need it before it’s renewal date. Any other surprises?”
Dylan finished his first biscotti and went back for a second while I scanned the hundreds of line items from the past year, hoping I wouldn’t find anything seriously wrong, like a flat-screen TV shipped off to Nigeria. My stomach lurched as I realized how little attention I paid to my bills each month. If there’d been any fraud, I could have easily missed it. I sighed when I got to the bottom and saw that all the charges were undeniably mine. “All looks correct. What’s your prognosis, Doc?”
“It could be worse. You’re making your payments on time. No one’s going to come and repossess your car anytime soon.”
“Good luck if they did. My lease is up next month. See anything else in the data?”
“You have a fairly normal expense profile.”
“Meaning what?”
“Pretty much everyone’s three biggest expenses are housing, taxes, and transportation. Food is normally fourth, but for you, food and transportation are pretty much the same.”
I slumped. “I eat out a lot.”
“There’s no judgment here. We just want to see where you stand.” Dylan pulled the laptop back over to him, and I grabbed a biscotti myself, a bit of sweet support to handle the blows he was about to send my way. “Let’s start at the top, with your rent.”
“Don’t you go touching my apartment.” I gazed toward the brick fireplace, which didn’t work but still looked stunning. “I love this place.”
“You’re paying $1500 a month for it, and a couple hundred more in utilities.”
“But I’m only six months into a one-year lease, so I couldn’t leave it if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
Dylan held up his hands in defeat. “Your next biggest expense is taxes.”
“I won’t give you a hard time for cutting those. But good luck. If there’s anywhere I could save on taxes, my father’s accountant would find it.”
“I’m sure he would.” He tapped the tax line item on the screen. “But your problem isn’t an accounting issue. By the time the accountant gets your data, you’re already stuck.”
“Meaning what?”
“Mastering taxes is all about the way you earn and invest your money. Since that involves major life shifts you’re not ready to make, let’s put taxes aside for now and move on to transportation. Mr. Money Mustache says most people can make their biggest gains here.”
“You’re not seriously going to give me financial advice from a guy who calls himself Mr. Money Mustache, are you?”
“You want me to quote someone else? Every financial advisor I know agrees that leases like yours stink like skunk roadkill.”
Now it was my turn to shove a cookie in Dylan’s face. “You weren’t complaining when I picked you up last week to go on that hike…”
“I’m not complaining that you have a car.” Dylan bit right into the cookie I held in his face, which wasn’t technically intimacy, because he didn’t touch me, but felt mighty close, nonetheless. “I’m pointing out that your lease is sucking you dry.”
“What’s so bad about it? I get to drive a nice car at a decent monthly rate.”
“You’re currently paying $300 a month for your lease. How long is it for?”
“36 months.”
“That means you’re paying a minimum of $10,000 over three years, plus a wide range of possible fees depending on how many miles you drive and what condition the car is in when you return it. Not to mention that your insurance is higher because you’re driving a new vehicle. All that money goes straight in the garbage, with no hope of getting anything back for your investment. That’s reward-free risk.”
“The reward is getting to drive a nice car.” I shimmied my head with full-on attitude. “Rather than biking to work like some know-it-alls I’ve met.”
“You need to weigh the pleasure of driving a new car against the other rewards you could get for your $10,000.”
“Like what?”
“Remember that quadruplex I bought after living with my parents for that first year? I put less than $10,000 down on that property.”
“You must have been left with a gigantic mortgage.”
“True, but not all debt is made equal. My mortgage is high-quality debt.”
“High-quality debt? Isn’t that just some rationalization, like high-quality herpes?”
“Don’t thumb your nose at debt. Debt can be good or bad.”
“How can debt be good?”
“Good debt is leverage. In this case, my mortgage allowed me to buy a property 30 times what I could afford to buy in cash.”
“But isn’t that going to be a weight around your neck? How’s it any different from a car lease?”
“The difference is that I didn’t just acquire debt; I also acquired a passive income source. I moved into the basement and rented out the other three apartments.”
“I think I see what you’re saying. It’s not that mortgages are good debt and car leases are bad, it’s more how you use them, right? Like my cousin George got a decent paying job as a driver, but he needed a certain kind of car for it. So for him, his car lease was good debt because it allowed him to make a lot more money.”
“Exactly. From the time I moved into my first quadruplex, the money I collected each month covered my mortgage payments plus taxes, insurance, and utilities. It also brought my housing costs down to zero. I made a profit really—most months, I had money left over.”
“How long was your mortgage?”
“30 years.”
“You must have been about 20-years-old when you bought that house.” My eyes grew wide as hubcaps. “Are you saying that by the time you hit 50, you could own a four-unit building outright, without ever putting in more money than I’ve spent on my piece-of-crap car?”
“I thought you liked that car?”
“I did. But if you had three rental units and no mortgage, you could retire on that.”
“Are you starting to see the power of the Cash Machine?” Dylan reached for another biscotti, but I snatched the jar, sealed it, and put it atop the refrigerator.
“You’ll ruin your brunch,” I said.
“Oh?” Dylan rubbed his hands together. “What’s the chef cooking up?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.” I tapped the tip of his nose and immediately regretted it. I quickly turned around—so he wouldn’t see me blush—and opened the fridge to gather up ingredients for omelets. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled, and I knew Dylan was watching me. I had to get the conversation back to neutral territory. “I hear how you could buy real estate with the money instead, but I still need a car.” I cracked six eggs into a bowl.
“Then get a used car you can afford to buy in cash.”
I threw away the eggshells. “All I can afford is a piece of junk.”
“Listen to yourself! If all you can afford is a piece of junk, then you have no business leasing a new car.” He got up from his stool. “Put me to work. How can I help?”
“Chop these.” I passed him a cutting board and a pair of onions. Let him shed a few tears for me—I’d shed more than enough for him. “Dylan, I don’t get your logic. The whole reason I got the lease is so I don’t have to come up with all the money at once. It’s just a flat fee per month. I can afford that.”
Dylan got to work. It was a rare guy that knew how to use a chef’s knife. Aunt Marie would be impressed. “There are ways to break up the cost of a used car into monthly payments too. But you’ll have more options and get a better price if you can pay cash. How much can you afford?”
I turned back to my cutting board and diced red peppers. “Nothing, really.”
“Come on, Amber. You have no savings? No retirement accounts?” He peeked at the computer to look through my retirement information.
I slammed the laptop shut. “Hold on, we’re not touching my retirement accounts.”
“Didn’t you just say you could retire on the money you’d save on a lease?”
“I meant that one could. Specifically, you.” I chopped a sprig of fresh basil. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with some multi-unit property. That’s way over my head.”
“And being in a load of debt isn’t? Better to use the money today to buy a good used car, which will save you money and hold most of its value, rather than leave it in an account you can’t touch for the next 34 years. What kind of accounts do you have, anyhow?”
“Just a 401(k).” I pointed my knife in his direction. “You got a problem with that?”
“Whoa! Down, girl.” Dylan’s hands flew up like a criminal under arrest. “I’ve got many, many problems with the 401(k). It mostly exists for people who can’t be trusted around their own money.”
I returned to chopping. “How so?”
“The government knows you’ll blow everything you make without saving for retirement, so they set up a system that takes money before it hits your bank account, then penalizes you for touching it early. It’s the only way to get most people to save anything. But I have no problem with self-control, so for me, there’s only one reason to consider a 401(k).”
“What’s that?”
“If your employer matches your contribution, then you’re turning away free money by not participating.” The chopping of his knife ceased. “What should I do with these?”
I lit the burner under my frying pan and added a dash of olive oil. “Throw them in here and keep them moving.” I tossed the peppers in as well and got to dicing a handful of cherry tomatoes. “Back to this 401(k) thing. My school will match up to 50% of my contribution, so that’s good, right?”
“Do they give you the money right away?”
“No, it only vests after five years. If I leave my job before that, I don’t get all the contribution.”
“Sounds like a trap.” Dylan lifted the pan and flipped its contents like a pro. “The small amount of money they’ll add could keep you from moving to a better job or starting something on your own.”
“What about the tax benefits?”
“They’re negligible.”
“Oh, come on.” Rehabbing apartments might have qualified Dylan to manage real estate, but retirement funds were managed by MBAs, not college dropouts. “You want me to believe that no one gets tax benefits from the number one tax benefit program out there?” I added the tomatoes to the pan.
“I should say, they’re negligible for anyone building a Cash Machine. The 401(k) is not tax-free, it’s tax-deferred. That means that you’ll eventually pay taxes on it, just not now.”
I threw salt and herbs into the eggs and whisked them into foam. “Isn’t that still a good thing?”
“It depends. For someone like Kyle, who’ll make a ton of money but doesn’t worry about investments, it makes sense. He should be in a far lower tax bracket post-retirement when he gets the money than he’s in now. Plus he’ll save on capital gains tax on the profits.” The vegetables flew into the air as he spoke. He caught them with grace and returned the skillet to the fire. “But if you build a Cash Machine, your income should go up as you age, not down. I’d rather be taxed now at the lower rate and use the money to build my Cash Machine than have it sit in some fund only to be taxed at a higher rate later.”
I poured the eggs into the pan, took over the spatula, and nudged Dylan over. “I still haven’t decided if you’re crazy or not. Until I do, there’s no way I’m touching my retirement funds.”
“If you can get your car money some other way, then you’re best off leaving it, it’s not worth paying the penalties. But is your 401(k) at least in an index fund?”
I grinned, knowing I had him on this one. “Even better. I have it in a mutual fund that beat the S&P 500 six years in a row. I don’t know what the S&P 500 is, but I know beating it is good.” I pointed to a baguette on the counter. “Can you slice some of that and put it to toast?”
“Sure. The S&P 500 is a portfolio of 500 of the largest stocks, as determined by a company called Standard and Poor’s.”
“Got it, so S&P stands for Standard and Poor?”
“Exactly. As of when was this mutual fund of yours doing so well?”
“When I signed up for it, I guess. That was two and a half years ago.”
Dylan popped a few slices of baguette into the toaster. “It hasn’t beat it since.”
“You know, you can be so freakin’ arrogant sometimes.” I lowered the heat on the pan. “I haven’t even told you what fund I invested in.”
“Doesn’t matter. The odds of it beating an index fund that tracks the S&P 500 are tiny.”
I wagged the spatula in his face. “It’s time to show you that you don’t know everything.” I served the eggs onto two dishes and gave him the heartier portion—he was in construction, after all. I sprinkled the fresh basil on as garnish, just like Mom always did. “You ready to put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
“Sure am. I’ll take care of the bread and set the table. Why don’t you go check your mutual fund earnings for the past two years? I’m not talking about the top-line earnings. I’m talking about the actual amount you put in your pocket at the end of the day after fees. If, in either year, you gained more than you would have with an index fund tracking the S&P 500, I’ll make you dinner tonight. But if it underperformed in both years, you make it for me.”
I prodded him with the spatula. “What will you make?”
“You set the menu.” He held my gaze and didn’t even blink.
“And you’ll buy all the ingredients?”
“If you win.”
“Oh, good.” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Because it just so happens that I’m in the mood for lasagna, with a homemade marinara sauce.”
“Any appetizers?”
I should have gone easy on him, but his cocky grin set me on edge. “Minestrone soup.”
“And for dessert, my lady?”
“Tiramisu.”
“Sounds delicious. You can make me that exact menu when I win.”
“You realize this is a sucker’s bet, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He leaned in until we stood only inches apart. I didn’t know if I wanted to slap him or kiss him.
“Still, it’s sweet of you to be a sucker for me.” I tapped his cheek with the spatula, leaving a tomato seed in its wake. “I think I’ll put on some Pavarotti and take a hot bath as you prepare my Italian feast.”
“Oh, it’s a sucker’s bet all right, but not in your favor. You don’t stand a chance.”
“Are you kidding?” I opened my laptop. “My mutual fund already outperformed the S&P six straight years, and now it only has to outperform it one out of two for me to win. It’s in the bag.”
“It’s in the trash bag, where all those mutual funds belong.” He opened one drawer after the other, presumably looking for cutlery, and I was happy for him to scramble a bit. “Go on, look up your returns.”
While Dylan set the table, I split my screen, pulling up my mutual fund on one side and the Vanguard S&P 500 index fund on the other. My chest sank. There it was, plain as day. The S&P 500 had averaged over 8% growth, while my mutual fund barely hit 5%. “You son of a bitch.” I slammed the computer shut. “How the hell did you know?”
“I didn’t. I just know the system’s rigged.” The toaster pinged, and Dylan quickly grabbed the piping hot slices, threw them on a plate, and walked over to the table. “There are ten ways you’re getting screwed on this mutual fund you don’t even know about.”
“Ten?” I pulled spreads out of the fridge: butter, jam, Uncle Sonny’s olive tapenade. “Now you’re just bragging.”
“Am I? Care to go double or nothing on dinner tomorrow night?”
“I’m going shopping with Libby tomorrow to look at bridesmaids’ dresses. Next week?”
“Deal.”
I joined him at the table and poured us each a glass of O.J. “So what are your ten?”
“I don’t know.”
I shot my hands above my head. “Yes! I win!”
“Not so fast. You never said I had to know them off the top of my head. I don’t know squat about mutual funds, just that they’re bad news. I’ll research them while you prepare my feast tonight, and by the time we sit down to eat, I’ll have my list.”
“Fine, but they’d better be ten good ones. I don’t want to come back to find you’ve packed your list with a bunch of lame distinctions that don’t make a difference.”
“Oh, they’ll be good.” He raised his glass in toast.
Our glasses clinked together. “They’d better be.” I gulped down the cool juice. “If you have even nine and a half, you’re making me pizza next Saturday.”
“How can I have half a reason?”
“Shut up.” I spread tapenade on a slice of hot toast and bit into it. “I’m just saying, they’d better be damn good.”
We hit the produce aisle first. I picked out vine ripe tomatoes, red bell peppers, eggplant, carrots, portobello mushrooms, and zucchini. I headed in the direction of the freezer section, but Dylan stopped. “You’re not going to buy me some frozen tiramisu, are you?”
“My Great Grandma Mona would roll over in her grave if she saw me buying frozen tiramisu, and she’s not even dead yet.” I shot straight past the freezer section toward the bakery. “Come on, we’ll need ladyfingers.”
We spent way too long in the dairy section debating over parmesano versus pecorino. I decided to let him pick his pecorino, gathered up the ricotta and mozzarella of my choosing, and turned towards the exit.
“We need noodles, don’t we?” Dylan asked.
“Sure, I could buy you store-bought noodles if you prefer those to the ones I make myself. How about Spaghetti-O’s?” I turned my back on him and headed to the register.
“I guess I shouldn’t mess with an Italian.”
“Not unless you want to be eating microwave lasagna tonight.” I laid the groceries on the conveyor belt, and a now quiet Dylan raced to help out.
The total came to a whopping $68.59. “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be teaching me how to save money, you’re doing a lousy job.”
He offered me an awfully innocent smile considering he probably didn’t spend that much on food in a week. “Not to worry. $60 is a bargain for one of the most powerful financial lessons you’ll ever learn.”
“It’s almost $70.”
“So far.” Dylan waved his keychain over the checkout scanner, which registered his membership number. The price dropped to $61.09. “Membership is free, you know. There’s no reason to pay full price when some of these items are on special.”
I gritted my teeth. “It’s still over 60 bucks.”
“Not with credit card rewards. You should be getting at least 2% back. Didn’t you research the cards?”
I grabbed one of the two shopping bags and walked out of the store without a word.
“I’ll tell you,” Dylan said, standing up from my desk, “you might not know the finer points of retirement accounts, but you sure know your way around a kitchen.”
I already had both the soup and marinara sauce boiling on the stove. “You finally done with that list, slowpoke?”
“I kept pausing to watch you work.”
I suppressed a grin. “Don’t get used to it. Next week I’m planning on doing the watching.”
“We’ll see about that.” Dylan slipped a ladyfinger out of its package.
I slapped his hand away. “They’re for the tiramisu.”
Dylan pulled back but still managed to steal one. “You always sing opera when you cook?”
“Only when making Grandma Mona’s lasagna.”
“In that case, I might have to request it again next week.” He raised his eyebrows and bit the ladyfinger.
“Don’t decide so fast. You don’t know what I sing when I make burritos. Besides, this bet is far from won. What have you got?”
Dylan flourished a piece of paper. “The number 10 reason why mutual funds always get destroyed by index funds.”
“Doing a countdown, are you?”
“Hey, I was almost a drama major.”
“I thought you were pursuing business?”
“That’s the great thing about dropping out of college after one semester: I was almost a lot of things. Now stop distracting me.” He flipped over my wooden salad bowl and patted out a drumroll. “Number 10: All costs of researching investments get passed onto you, whereas index funds require no research and therefore have no costs.”
Part of me wanted to see Dylan win this contest of ours, to show me that he really was savvier than he looked. A small part. A very small part. The other 99% of me despised losing bets under any circumstances. “That’s a totally lame reason. I want my fund managers doing their analysis. A research budget makes perfect sense. Not counting that one.”
“Oh?” Dylan didn’t look the least bit discouraged. That’s good. I like a guy with a bit of fight in him. “Next you’ll say that you want the funds advertising themselves too. Do you know that they also pass that expense on to you?”
My eyes bulged like a cartoon character’s. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.” He pointed to his list. “It’s called a 12b-1 fee. They can bill you up to 0.75% each year for their advertising costs.”
“0.75% of the profits?”
“Oh, no.” Dylan tapped on the bowl. “0.75% of your total account balance.”
“Their advertising costs should come out of their share, not mine.” I threw the carrots into the soup. “That can be your new number 10.”
“But I had it at number 3.”
“Then it sounds like you’d better come up with a new number 3.” I grabbed semolina flour for the noodles. “Either that or get busy building yourself a brick oven, because that’s how I like my pizza baked.”
Dylan cleared his throat. “Number 9, also under rule 12b-1, they can give out commissions and bill them to you, most often to whoever handles your 401(k) plan.”
“Doesn’t strike me as a big deal, but I’ll give that to you.” I turned down the soup to simmer. “Next.”
“Number 8, management fees. They charge you between 0.5% and 2% each year for handling your money.”
“Your index funds don’t have that?”
“Index funds require next to no management. Vanguard charges 0.05% in management fees for its S&P 500 fund. Mutual funds charge 10 to 40 times more.” He didn’t wait for my response before moving on. “Number 7 is a purchase fee paid to the fund when you buy-in. Which perfectly matches with number 6, which is a redemption fee of up to 6% when you sell.”
I was trying to knead the pasta dough but felt myself wanting to punch it. “That’s a lot of fees.”
“I’m just getting started. Number 5 is called a Sales Load, which is a fee paid to the broker when you buy or sell. This can be 5%, which means more or less the equivalent of a year’s worth of gains goes up in smoke.”
“Sounds like a load of—.”
“Sure does,” Dylan leaned over the counter and snatched a slice of red pepper. He bit into it with a Bugs Bunny grin of satisfaction.
“You’re sure enjoying yourself.”
Dylan shoved the rest of the pepper in his mouth. “What can I say? Being right is the greatest feeling in the world—well, other than…”
Time to change the subject! “So, you got any more fees up your sleeve?”
“They’re not up my sleeve. I didn’t make these babies up. I’m just the messenger.” He looked back at his paper and said, “Number 4, mutual funds are buying and selling constantly, and they bill the fund for each transaction.”
“As opposed to index funds that just buy and hold?”
“Precisely. But there’s an even bigger consequence to all the buying and selling, which brings me to number 2.”
“What happened to number 3?” I asked as I rolled out the dough.
“You made me use it for number 10, remember?”
“That just means you owe me a new number 3.”
“I’ll get to it, but right now I’m on number 2. Are you familiar with short-term and long-term capital gains?”
“No, what are they?”
Behind my back, Dylan sneaked into the cookie package again. “Well, say this ladyfinger is your initial investment.” Dylan lay the ladyfinger on the counter. “And your investment grew over time.” He pulled out a bunch more ladyfingers and made a pile out of them.
My hands were too covered in flour to fight him. I didn’t want to make an even bigger mess. “So those are my profits?” I asked, pointing to the pile.
“Exactly. Now, when you decide to sell, the government won’t tax you on your initial investment.” He pointed to the one ladyfinger. “But they will tax your profits. By how much? Well, that depends on how long you held the investment. If you held it over a year, they tax it only a little.” Dylan took one ladyfinger from the profits pile and bit off half of it.
“Hey!”
He ignored me and continued. “This is called a long-term capital gain. But if you held it for less than a year, they tax it at a far higher rate, called a short-term capital gain.” Dylan ate the rest of the ladyfinger.
“Did you really need my cookies to get that point across?”
“I get hungry watching you cook.”
As I sliced sheets of lasagna, I pondered this whole short-term versus long-term tax issue. “I don’t get the problem. I’ve held my mutual funds for over a year.”
“Mutual funds aren’t one entity, they’re a collection of stocks and the portfolio is constantly changing as the fund managers buy and sell. So they’re always taxed as short term capital gains.”
“That’s not the case with index funds?” Whatever part of me that had wanted Dylan to succeed had long since been silenced. Now I just wanted him to crash and burn.
“Nope, because the stocks are just sitting there. They’re not actively traded.”
“Even in my retirement account?” I asked.
“No. In your 401(k), you won’t be billed for short term gains.”
I pumped my fist in the air, “Yes!” At least I’d beat him on that one.
“Your gains will be taxed as regular income, which is even worse. Of course, the same is true for index funds or anything else in your 401(k). Did I mention I hate those?” Dylan grabbed another ladyfinger. “As long as we’re on taxes, I’ll give you a bonus one for another cookie.”
“Fine, but this is the last one, or I’m not making dessert!” At least I could still best him in the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am.” Dylan held the ladyfinger between his fingers like a cigar. “You can even get taxed on profits that the fund made before you bought it. Say they’ve held Apple stock for the past 20 years, and the week after you buy the fund, they decide to finally unload that stock. You owe capital gains tax on those profits.”
“But I didn’t profit from it.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re now a partner in the fund. So even if it goes down during the period you held it, you can get stuck with a massive tax bill.”
I sighed in exasperation. I was so done with this game. “What’s your number 1 reason?”
“Mutual fund managers make money whether the fund goes up or down. You could be losing your shirt while they’re off buying a new BMW. Your interests are not aligned.”
I didn’t know whether to be more frustrated with Dylan for being so right about how screwed I was getting with my mutual fund or with the broker for never telling me any of this stuff. “You’re still only at nine, by the way.” I still hoped to save face on the bet. “So you’d better get back to your research or start working on my pizza. I’ll take a Caesar salad on the side.”
“And a bottle of red wine?”
“White.” I laid lasagna noodles into my baking dish and spread a layer of ricotta over them. “By the way, how could you be so sure my fund would lose against the S&P 500 when it beat it so many years in a row?”
“Oh right, I forgot. I’ll call that number 3, the mutual fund bait and switch. A bank might have hundreds of funds, and statistically, they’re bound to have some that beat the S&P 500 a few years in a row. When it comes to advertising their featured funds each year to suckers who know little about the market, which do you think they highlight?”
I imagined my broker was the pepper mill as I cranked it over the cheese. “Obviously, the ones doing the best.”
“Right, so even though on average they’re getting killed by the index funds, in their publicity, they’re always highlighting the small portion of their portfolio succeeding.”
I handed him the pecorino and a grater. “But if a fund has a strong track record of success, shouldn’t it be a strong investment?”
“If only…” The pecorino fell like snow over the lasagna. “The fund that was doing well may have been tiny in previous years, but now that it’s featured, the amount of money it has under management goes through the roof. The bigger fund can’t slip in and out of opportunities like it did before.”
My body drooped like the roasted veggies I laid over the first layer of marinara sauce. “So the whole character of the fund changes?”
“Precisely. You may as well erase the history.”
“And those fees add up to such a difference?”
“It’s huge.” Dylan rested the cheese and grater onto a plate, then pulled paper and pen from my desk. “Let’s say you invest $100 each in a mutual fund and an index fund and they both went up at 8% a year, but the mutual fund charged 3% in fees, reducing your gains to only 5% a year. Guess how many years it’ll take for your $100 to reach $10,000?”
“I don’t know. How many?”
“No idea.”
“Swift, Dylan.” I took a ladyfinger and bit off the end.
“I thought you needed those for dessert?”
I threw him my mother’s don’t mess with me look.
He fled back to the laptop. “That’s the great thing about the internet. You don’t need to know something to have the answer within minutes. Give me a second.”
I lay another layer of pasta into the dish while Mr. Librarian pecked at my laptop. I had to admit his geekiness about all this stuff was pretty cute.
Dylan entered his data into an investment calculator. “OK, the index fund would take 60 years to grow to $10,000. At the same time, the mutual fund would only be worth $1867.”
“Less than a fifth as much?” I whistled. How could 3% add up to be so much?
“That’s the magic of compounding.”
“Is that what you aim to get? Around 8% a year?”
“No, that’s what the stock market as a whole tends to return over time. Index funds can be great for those who want to park their money somewhere and not have to think about it. My Cash Machine is something different entirely. I aim to double my money every five years, which means I need to get at least 15% annual growth.”
“And you’ve been able to get that?”
“I’ve averaged over 20%, partially because real estate in our market has continued to go up.”
Any hopes I had of winning the bet had long since dissipated. Now that my competitive side had been reined in, I could start appreciating Dylan for what he’d done. Beneath the grimy fingers and tattered shirt was a guy who had given serious thought to his financial future. How strong could he make it? I still wasn’t sure, but I intended to find out. “Let’s say you can’t keep up the 20% return, and over time you get exactly the 15% you’re aiming for.” I pointed to the laptop. “What does your little calculator say would happen to that same $100 investment over those 60 years?”
“Let’s see…It says the $100 investment would grow to $438,399.” Dylan swirled on his barstool. “Oh yeah, and 87 cents.”
“Four. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars?” I crushed black pepper with each word. “How is that possible?”
“Einstein said, ’Compound interest is the 8th wonder of the world, he who understands it, earns it; he who doesn’t, pays it.’ That’s why you want to start your money compounding as early as possible. It’s also why you want to be extremely careful with debt. Your school loans and credit card balances are also compounding, just not in your favor.”
I’d never given much thought to the interest on my school loans or even on my credit cards. Just about everyone I knew paid interest on these; I’d just accepted them as a normal cost of living. “At least my school loans are super-low interest. I’m only paying 6%.”
“It may sound low, but it adds up over time. And the biggest cost is a hidden one.”
“What’s that?”
“All that money that’s going into your loan payments is money you’re not using to build your Cash Machine. You may only be paying 6%, but if you weren’t paying out that money, you could be investing it and watching it compound in your favor.”
There was nothing I could do at the moment about my school loans, and I’d found a new credit card that would allow me to transfer my current balances interest-free for a year. I needed to bring my focus back to the matter at hand: my retirement accounts. “So those mutual fund fees add up, huh?”
“Absolutely. Fees are a compounding killer. Taxes are an even bigger one. That’s why it’s crucial when building a Cash Machine that you know the tax implications of each investment.”
“OK, Dylan, you win. I’m still not going to cash out my 401(k), but I’ll switch it over to an index fund.” I slid the lasagna into the oven and mustered a smile. “What would you like for dinner next week?”
“What did you say you sing when making burritos?”
“You’re just going to have to order them to find out.”
“I’ve got some big news,” Libby said as I hopped into her car. We were headed to Calcott Ave to pick out bridesmaid dresses. “The party planner for Kyle’s firm’s charity gala backed out for medical reasons.” She bounced in her seat, and her blond ponytail swung back and forth. “Kyle convinced the firm to give it to me instead.”
“Nice. I’m sure your boss was thrilled when you brought her that gig.”
She bit her lip. “I didn’t bring it to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s my other piece of news.” Libby hit the brakes at a stop sign and turned to me. “I quit my job.”
“You quit?”
“Kyle’s been pushing me to do it for months. He says his wife doesn’t need to work some 9 to 5. And as you know, party planning is hardly 9 to 5 anyway. I didn’t get home from the Schwartz Bar Mitzvah party until after 2 am last week.”
I shifted in my seat. “I’m confused. Are you giving up working or going out on your own?”
“A little of both, I guess. I mean, planning my wedding alone is almost a full-time job.”
“But that’ll be over in six months.”
“True, but hopefully there will be kids before too long. From the time my parents got divorced, our house was always empty when I got home from school. I hated it. I swore I’d be home for my own kids when I grew up.”
“Which could be years from now.”
“That’s the great thing about party planning.” Libby turned onto Calcott. “You take on as many jobs as you can handle. For now, I’ll do a few one-off jobs like the upcoming gala. After we get married, I’ll ramp it up if I can find enough work. Then when the kids come, I’ll either go back to part-time or quit entirely.” Libby eased into the parking lot.
“So tell me about this gala.”
“Oh, you’ve got to come. It’s going to be the Sunday night before Halloween, so I’m making it a costume party. All the money will go to the center for at-risk youth the firm does pro-bono work for.” She parked the car in front of a row of boutiques.
I reached for my door handle, and Libby said, “Wait! I want to give you something first.” Libby handed me a box the size of my fist wrapped in purple paper. Libby jiggled in her seat as I unwrapped the box. Inside I found a pedant of an owl, my favorite bird. On the back was etched, Thanks for being the best maid of honor ever!
Libby had probably given me thirty little gifts since freshman year of college. Most of them had been small and inexpensive, since she’d never had much money, but even when cash-strapped, she always managed to find some little trinket to express her affection. This one was more than just some trinket, though. The owl was silver with inlaid stones, and it clearly cost a pretty penny. “I haven’t even started being your maid of honor…”
“You’ve been by my side for seven years. I know now won’t be any different.” Libby teared up as she embraced me, and I started bawling like a true Romano. Our make-up was all smudged as we stepped out of the car and into Les Fleurs.
I called Dylan when I got back from Calcott. “How was shopping with Libby?”
“You’re going to kill me.” I hid my face behind my hand even though Dylan couldn’t see me. “I spent way more than I should have.”
“Amber, it’s your money. Do whatever you want with it.”
“Yeah, but I want to give this whole Cash Machine thing a chance.”
“What went wrong?”
It ached to tell him, as though he was the priest at St. Joseph’s. “We went out for bridesmaid dresses, but then it was lunchtime, so we stopped for a bite. Then Libby wanted to get her nails done. You know how it is.”
“Manicures are one hurdle I’ve never had to face.”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, there are two things I wanted to run by you. The first is that Kyle’s firm is having a Halloween gala. The firm does pro-bono work for a center for at-risk youth, and all the money raised is going to them.”
“Yes,” Dylan’s tone was flat. “I’ve heard all about this gala.”
“What you might not have heard is that the original party planner had to back out. Kyle got them to hire Libby instead. It would mean so much to her if we came.”
Dylan sighed. “Amber, you know I don’t go out for things like this.
“But this is for charity. You don’t even give charity?”
“I do. 10% of everything I make.”
Wow. For all my talk, I wasn’t giving anywhere near as much. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I consider my charitable contributions like I do my investments. I want to get the most bang for my buck as possible.”
Until Dylan spoke, it had never struck me as an issue that this event raising money for charity would itself cost a fortune. “I guess galas don’t offer a very big bang for your buck, do they?”
“I’m guessing not.”
“If we’re both just guessing, then we should at least know for sure before I’m going to let you off the hook. We can ask Libby next week.”
“Next week?”
“Libby wants us to double date next Saturday.” I promised her I’d pass on her suggestion, but I braced myself for Dylan’s response. “She thought we could go out for pizza and a movie.”
“Aren’t you making me Mexican?”
I loved that Dylan looked forward to my cooking, even if it was for a lost bet. “We can do that a different night.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Instead of making Mexican, why don’t we all make pizza and rent a movie.”
I squinted. “I can’t picture Libby and Kyle baking pizza.”
“Me neither, but I can’t wait to see them try.”
“Don’t worry, Libby.” Kyle took a swig of beer and tapped his pocket. “I’ve got Domino’s on standby in case this pizza tastes like ass.”
“If you eat Domino’s, you must like your pizza tasting like ass.” I kneaded the dough on Kyle’s granite counter. “My family’s been making pizza since yours was swinging from the trees.”
“We’ll see, Amber, just try not to make a mess of the counters, OK?”
“You know,” Dylan said, “we didn’t have to do it at your place.”
“What did you want?” Kyle folded his head under his hands as if in a tornado drill. “The four of us to watch a movie crowded around your computer monitor, deep in the bowels of The Crypt?”
“We could have done it at Amber’s.”
“No way. When Libby moved in, we upgraded to a 67-inch screen with surround sound. It’s better than being in the theaters. And if the movie sucks, you can always make out on the couch.” Kyle puckered his lips at Dylan.
Dylan shoved Kyle away. “Amber’s got a stacked kitchen.”
“Don’t you worry, little buddy, we’ve got everything we need right here.”
“This is going to be fun.” Libby pulled two aprons out of a shopping bag. “I haven’t made pizza since I was a kid. Check out what I got us, honey.” Her apron said Professional Chef, his said Professional Taster.
“I think you have these backwards,” Kyle said.
“Please. You could burn cereal.” Libby peaked over at the floured countertop. “Amber, tell me what to do.”
“You can start on toppings. I bought a ton, so find out what everyone wants.”
“Make mine a double anchovy,” Kyle said.
Libby looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Then you can forget about making out on the couch.”
I went to preheat the oven, then stopped. “Kyle, your oven is still taped up.”
“What tape?”
I yanked at the strip of blue, which squeaked as it pulled away from the oven. “The packing tape they put on it when it comes from the factory. You’ve never used this thing?”
“Of course we use it. All the time. Why, my Libby is a genius in the kitchen. Aren’t you, honey.” He nuzzled up to Libby. “She’s just careful to reseal the oven after each use to keep out the moisture. Once these things begin to rust, you might as well throw them away.”
I opened the oven. “Wise of her to also reinsert the operating manual.”
“That way, it’ll never get lost.” Kyle kissed Libby’s cheek. “That’s my Libby, always one step ahead.”
“You know, Kyle,” Libby said, “if your hands were as fast as your mouth, maybe we’d get the pizza done tonight.”
“Nothing wrong with my hands.”
“Hey!” Libby slapped his hand away. “Keep them to yourself.”
Before this conversation got any more awkward, I decided to step in. “Dylan and I were talking about the Halloween gala. What’s the charity it’s going for?”
“Crossroads. They’re a center for at-risk youth. They’re kind of a pet project at our firm. We do pro-bono work for them whenever they need legal help.”
“But a gala must be a pretty expensive event.” I tried giving voice to Dylan’s concerns. “How much money can you really generate from something like that?”
“The firm picks up the cost of the gala.” Kyle flexed his muscles, as if he and his team were warriors for noble causes and not a bunch of beer-bellied corporate attorneys. “All the money from the ticket prices and the silent auction will go directly to Crossroads.”
That was the answer I was hoping to hear. Even Dylan couldn’t object to the gala now. Could he?
Then he spoke. “The event must be costing the firm a fortune, then.”
“It is,” Libby said. “But it’s amazing PR.”
“Exactly,” Kyle broke in. “How often do you hear positive news stories about law firms? This little project helps us present a different narrative.”
Dylan slapped Kyle on the back. “Makes you sound like a bunch of modern-day Robin Hoods?”
“Something like that.” Kyle downed the rest of his beer and grabbed two more. “Come on, Dylan,” he said, handing Dylan one of the beers, “I want to show you my new chess set.”
Dylan followed him into the living room, but it was an open-plan apartment, so I could still see them. “That’s not new,” Dylan said. “It’s the same one you’ve had since college.”
Kyle examined the board. “You know, I think you’re right.” He sat down at one side. “As long as we’re out here, we might as well play a game.”
I rolled my eyes at Libby. “So much for the four of us cooking together.”
“Trust me, you don’t want Kyle cooking anyway.”
Kyle grabbed two pawns and mixed them up behind his back. He held them out to Dylan, “Choose.”
Dylan shot me a guilty look, as if asking if it was OK to play rather than help out. “Go ahead,” I said. “You boys have your fun. I owe you a meal anyway.”
Dylan pointed to Kyle’s right hand.
Kyle opened his hand. “Ah, black. You always did like playing from behind.”
“Shut up and move.” Dylan focused on the board, even though there wasn’t anything to see yet. “King’s pawn, like always?”
Kyle lifted the pawn in front of his king and moved it two spaces. “That’s right. I stick with proven winners.”
I don’t know what proof Kyle was talking about, since Dylan quietly beat him in three straight games. Libby jumped in before they could start a fourth. “Pizza’s in the oven. Time to start the movie.”
“Since you bums didn’t help with baking, we’re picking the film,” I said.
“Great.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be some romantic comedy, isn’t it?”
“You’d better believe it. The king of them all: When Harry Met Sally. Thought we’d stick with a proven winner.” I sent Dylan a wink.
“Your call,” Kyle said. “You two lovebirds want the big couch or the love seat?”
“We’ll take the big one,” I said.
“Hoping to go horizontal?”
Libby elbowed Kyle in the gut.
Dylan said, “Amber just wants enough room to leave some space between us.”
That had been what I was thinking, but it felt awkward hearing it said out loud. Out of embarrassment, I didn’t go to the far end of the couch; I sat more toward the middle. Dylan sat next to me, still leaving a gap between us. But as the lights went off and the movie started, I inched toward him, and he did the same. Before long, our legs were touching. Then Dylan made the oh-so-bold move (for middle school perhaps) of reaching an arm around me and placing his hand on my shoulder. The second he did, an alarm went off on my phone.
“Dammit, Amber, you got a chastity app on that thing?” Kyle said. Hot splotches rose up my neck—it was a good thing it was so dark in here.
Libby elbowed him again. “Shut up, Kyle, or I’ll get a chastity app myself.”
“It means the pizza’s done.” I shot up and straightened my sweater. “It’s about time, too. It’ll give you boys something harmless to do with your hands.”
“Libby, you are the greatest cook in the world.” Kyle licked a dollop of sauce from his fingers. “This pizza is fabulous.”
The pizza was fabulous, if I do say so myself. And Libby had been a big help. She’d washed all the dishes and wiped the countertop. We’d made a total of four pies, three of them pizza, the fourth a cherry pie I brought out for dessert. Dylan and I never did get cozy again on the couch, but he attacked my cooking with abandon, which filled me up in a way food never could.
I’d seen When Harry Met Sally at least a dozen times. We were on our third pizza when we hit my favorite dialog:
Harry: There are two kinds of women. High maintenance and low maintenance.
Sally: What am I?
Harry: You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance, but you think you’re low maintenance.
Kyle cozied up to his fiancé. “You see, Libby, that’s what makes you so terrific. You’re high maintenance, and you know it.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s a damn good thing you wound up with me, and Dylan got Amber. The other way around would have been a disaster. Though I’m not sure a girl low maintenance enough for Dylan has ever been born. At least not in this country. Perhaps some third-world refugee.”
Dylan laughed this off. “Have you checked the scoreboard lately?” he asked.
Scoreboard?
“I try to avoid it.” Kyle picked a cherry with his fingers. “Just leaves me depressed.” He served himself a double slice of pie and returned to the movie.
A little after midnight, I dropped Dylan off at The Crypt. On our way there, I brought up the gala again. I hated the idea of going without a date.
He put a hand to his stomach. “The whole thing makes me nauseous.”
“Why? All the money you give goes to charity.”
“I’d be surprised if what they raise at the gala even matches the cost of the event.” Dylan’s body stiffened. “The firm could just write a check and have greater impact.”
I stopped at a light and turned to ask, “Don’t you care about the at-risk kids?”
“Come on, Amber. You think buying costumes and attending a Halloween gala is the best way to help these kids?”
“You have a better way to help them?”
“I sure do. If I know Kyle’s firm, they’re going to pass whatever money is raised over to some high-end contractor to fix up the center.” Dylan’s voice grew animated. “Think how much farther that money would go if we volunteered even one day of our time and did the work ourselves.”
I could probably use my girlish charms to persuade him to come but realized he’d resent me for it. “OK, I’m in. I’ll give you a day to fix up the center. But I still want to go to the gala.” The light turned green, and I took a left.
Dylan stared into the distance. “Do what you want.”
After a long silence, I figured I should change the subject. “What was that scoreboard you and Kyle were talking about?”
A mischievous smirk rolled up Dylan’s cheeks. “Just a little contest the two of us have.”
“I take it you’re killing him?”
“Total destruction.”
“Good.”
When I parked the car in front of The Crypt, Dylan hesitated. I felt the heat of his gaze seeping into my cheek and dared not turn. I got the distinct impression he was debating whether to lean over and kiss me goodnight. But Dylan was nothing if not disciplined. I’d told him no intimacy, and he was going to respect it. He stepped out of the car and waved goodbye.
I drove away, cursing Dylan’s discipline under my breath.
