Chapter 24
I leaned back slightly. "What I really love is economics—especially finance and investnt. Not the theoretical stuff. I love studying markets. I love investing. And, ironically... I'm already the best in the world."
Dr. Freeman raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
I gave a slight shrug, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "I know it sounds arrogant. Maybe it is. But I understand how the system works. I see patterns. I can predict behavior—not because I'm special, but because I pay attention. Believe it or not, give ten years, and I'll be on the cover of Forbes."
"But you don't sound proud of it," she said. "I've never interviewed Shaquille O'Neal, but I know what pride sounds like."
I nodded. "I've made peace with it."
Still, it never felt like sothing I had truly earned. Back when I worked in finance, I had no problem accepting praise for wins that were mostly due to luck or randomness—so maybe I'm more comfortable with this than I let on.
Dr. Freeman leaned forward slightly, watching . "You're not ready to talk about all of it, are you?"
I shook my head.
This is the one thing I'll never talk about—not with her, not with anyone. My past life stays mine.
"Have you ever spoken to anyone about what we've discussed here?" she asked.
"No," I said quietly.
"So I'm the first?" she asked, a playful tone in her voice. "Do you trust that much?"
"Yes and no," I answered. "Yes, I trust that you'll keep what needs to stay private, private. Confidentiality is fundantal in your profession. You'd risk more than I would by breaking that trust. And from what I've seen, you genuinely care about your work. But no, I haven't told you anything that could actually compromise . Maybe it'd cause so headaches if it leaked, but nothing I couldn't redirect."
I allowed a quick grin. "Besides, I've still got the ten-year-old card to play. Worst case? I chalk it up to confusion. People are quick to believe a kid just misunderstood sothing."
Dr. Freeman gave a short laugh, but her eyes remained focused. "That's an impressive level of foresight for soone your age."
"It's not foresight," I replied. "It's risk managent."
She nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
"I have to say," she continued, her smile widening, "this session went far beyond what I expected. We've clearly established that you're handling the divorce without any psychological issues beyond the typical, and that you're more than capable—emotionally and intellectually—to skip as many grades as needed. And the most interesting part? It's not even lunchti yet."
She leaned back in her chair, still smiling. "I'm genuinely curious about what else we'll uncover."
I let out a genuine laugh. "You look like when I find a hidden gem in the stock market. So, ladies first. Shoot."
She chuckled softly. "So, tell , Jake. What do you want for your future?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Starting with one of the toughest ones, huh?"
I held up my hand and counted with my fingers. "I could sum it up in five words: To have a successful life. That's it."
Then I added, "And for , that's synonymous with a happy life."
Linda nodded. "Elaborate more."
"I could go through the concept of a successful life from the lens of ancient Greek philosophy, trace it through dieval thought, and bring it into the modern philosophical landscape. But in the end, for , only the individual can say whether their life was successful or not. It's not about money, fa, or power. Soone might feel incredibly fulfilled being a janitor, while another person could feel like a complete failure as the CEO of a major corporation."
"It's like in Tolstoy's book, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A man who had everything society defines as a 'successful life'—status, wealth, reputation—lies on his deathbed and wonders, 'Was that all there is?' That's not success. That's regret. And for , that's the definition of a wasted life."
"So to answer your question," I continued, "I want to read as many great books as possible. I want to taste the finest things money can buy. I want to have incredible relationships. And most importantly—I want to look back one day and say it was all worth it."
Dr. Freeman smiled gently. "That's beautifully said. And very self-aware. You're not just chasing success—you're defining it on your terms. That's rare, Jake."
"Thanks," I replied, my voice softer.
We talked until late afternoon. When we finally wrapped up, the clock showed nearly 5 p.m.
"This has been productive," Dr. Freeman said as she closed her notebook. "Jake, I think it would be valuable for you to continue these sessions."
"I agree," I said imdiately. "But I'd like two hours per week. One feels too short."
She gave a short laugh. "Most kids can barely sit still for thirty minutes. But I think that suits you."
I left her office feeling clear-headed, almost energized.
When I got back to Charlie's house, both he and Dad were in the kitchen.
Charlie looked up. "So? How was therapy? Did she fix your twisted little brain?"
Alan glared at him. "Charlie!"
I dropped my backpack on the floor. "It went well. We'll keep eting. I asked for two hours a week."
Alan blinked. "Two hours?"
Charlie poured himself a drink. "Kid's aiming for a PhD in psychology now."
I smirked. "No, I just like good conversation. And she's one of the few people who actually knows how to listen."
Charlie raised his glass. "Here's to finding the one person in Malibu who listens."
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