“Whoa, back up,” Vick interrupts, appearing at my shoulder with his usual unflappable calm. “What happened downtown?”
I look up to find all three of my friends standing in various states of post-work dishevelment—Paolo with grease under his fingernails from installing solar panels, Vick still wearing his city waste management polo, and Kash clutching a rolled set of architectural plans that probably contain his latest sustainable building design. It must be later than I thought if they’re all here… which means I kept them waiting.
“Permit office,” I say, the memory still making my blood pressure spike. “Tried to get my holiday tree classification updated so I’d have the right paperwork for the pitch event. Spent forty minutes explaining basic botany to a clerk who clearly hates her job.”
“Ouch.” Paolo winces. “Did you get it sorted?”
“No. Some woman started yelling at me for taking too long, and then the clerk closed her window.” I turn to my seedlings, irritation flaring fresh. “Apparently, I was being ‘argumentative’ for asking logical questions about illogical categories.”
I can’t shake the image of that dark-haired woman jabbing her finger at me, all righteous fury and zero tolerance for bureaucratic nonsense. I keep wondering what had her so wound up. She struck me as someone who acts on instinct and deals with the consequences later, which honestly sounds… kind of liberating.
“Beer night,” Kash announces, checking his watch. “You need it more than usual.”
“I know, but—” I gesture helplessly at the seedlings that will make or break my entire future.
“No buts,” Paolo says. “You’ve been in here since dawn, probably haven’t eaten anything, and now you’re stress-spiraling. Plus, if you don’t come, Kash is going to make us look at his drawings.”
I open my mouth to argue, then realize I can’t remember my last real meal. The past week has been a blur of analysis, growth projections, and increasingly desperate emails to potential financiers. The investor pitch-a-thon at Bramblewood Manor is my last shot at getting the funding I need to turn this whole Christmas tree thing from a crazy idea into an actual business.
“The pitch is in a week,” I say, making one final adjustment to the grow lights. “If I can’t demonstrate consistent growth patterns?—”
“Then you’ll have to charm them with your sparkling personality,” Vick deadpans, earning snorts from the other two.
I shoot him a look. “Very helpful.”
“Come on,” Kash says, already heading toward the door. “We’re going to Three Rivers Brewing. They’ve got that new IPA you wanted to try.”
I hesitate, glancing back at my trees. They look healthy enough—vibrant green needles and strong root systems visible beneath the spongy soil alternative. Each tree is exactly eighteen inches tall, perfectly symmetrical, and completely sustainable. No soil depletion, minimal water usage, zero transportation emissions since they’ll be grown locally.
My business targets young professionals who live in apartments or small condos but still want to decorate for the holidays. Enter: tabletop live evergreens. No need for a plastic tree and no sense driving to the countryside to chop down a full-sized one.
My idea is timely. It’s environmentally responsible. It’s trendy.
It’s also bleeding me dry financially.
“Reed.” Paolo’s voice is gentler now. “They’ll be fine for two hours. The robots will handle everything.”
I know he’s right. The entire setup is designed to run without supervision. But leaving feels like abandoning my post, especially with so much riding on next week’s presentation.
“My parents called again,” I say abruptly, staring at the trees.
The temperature in the greenhouse seems to drop several degrees. My friends met my parents exactly once, at my college graduation, and that was more than enough.
“What did they want this time?” Vick asks carefully. Vikram “Vick” Murthy is no stranger to rigid parents. We bonded immediately in the dorms once we realized we’re both learning to let go of any hope of meeting our parents’ expectations.
“The usual.” I shake my head and release a groan. “Reminded me their ‘offer’ still stands—full funding for an MBA, fast-track into Nicholas Industries’ executive training program, corner office by thirty…” I finally turn away from the seedlings. “All I have to do is abandon this ‘hobby’ and start acting like a ‘responsible adult.’” My jaw tightens just thinking about my father’s condescending tone.
“Fuck that,” Paolo says with feeling. “This isn’t a hobby. This is entrepreneurship.”
“Try telling them that.” I grab my jacket from the hook by the door, doing a final scan of the greenhouse. Everything glows green on the status panel. “According to my father, sustainable agriculture is a luxury for people who don’t understand real business.”
“Your father’s an ass,” Kash says matter-of-factly.
Takashi, Paolo, Vick and I met freshman year and remained tight all through college and into grad school. I know I have zero interpersonal skills, but for some reason, the three of them put up with me and—I can admit this—drag me away when I forget to recharge my batteries.
We walk into the crisp November air, the industrial park around us mostly empty except for a few other startup employees burning the midnight oil. The Sustainable Innovation Incubator seemed like a dream come true when I got accepted here—affordable rent, like-minded entrepreneurs, access to shared resources. But the seed funding only lasts eighteen months, and I’m nearly through month seventeen.
“How bad is it?” Paolo asks as we climb into Vick’s hybrid. “Financially, I mean.”
