I consider lying, but these guys have seen me through the initial excitement of developing the hydroponic method, the frustration of failed prototypes, and the crushing disappointment of my parents’ reaction to my career choice.
“Bad,” I admit. “I’ve got five weeks of operating expenses left. If the Bramblewood presentation doesn’t pan out…”
I trail off, not wanting to voice the obvious conclusion. My friends exchange glances in the rearview mirror.
“We could—” Kash starts.
“No.” I cut him off before he can finish the offer, my words harsher than I intended. I see them exchange looks, so I take a breath. “I’m not taking money from friends. That’s how relationships get destroyed.”
“Stubborn ass,” Vick says affectionately, pulling into the brewery’s parking lot.
Three Rivers Brewing is packed with the usual Thursday night crowd—young professionals, a few students from local universities, and the hardcore craft beer enthusiasts like me, who can talk for hours about hop varieties and fermentation tanks. We manage to snag a high-top table near the windows overlooking the Allegheny River.
“Four pints of Eye of the Storm,” Paolo tells the server, then grins at us. “I still can’t believe it’s made with locally grown hops.”
I smile at that. My friends always support local business and share my opinion that it’s important, not just stubbornly idealistic. The beer arrives quickly, and as expected, it’s excellent. Citrusy and bright, with a complex flavor profile that speaks to quality ingredients.
Paolo reads aloud from the menu, telling us the hops are grown in reclaimed vacant lots, but the crop yield is only big enough for one small batch per year. “This is a rare, morally superior beer,” he gushes, smacking his lips as we all agree.
“So,” Kash says, raising his glass, “to proving that sustainable can be profitable.”
“To not letting corporate assholes crush our dreams,” Vick adds.
“To friendship,” Paolo finishes simply.
We clink glasses, and for the first time in days, I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders. Whatever happens with the Bramblewood presentation, at least I’m not facing it alone.
“Now,” Vick says, setting down his beer, “tell us the truth. How confident are you about this pitch?”
I take a long sip, considering. “The science is solid. The environmental benefits are undeniable. The market research shows real demand for sustainable holiday traditions.”
“But?” Kash prompts.
“I’m pitching to people who probably spent more on their last vacation than I’ve invested in my entire business.” I stare into my beer, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. “What if they see me as some naive kid playing with plants?”
“Then they’re idiots,” Paolo says firmly. “And you’ll find better investors.”
I wish I shared his confidence. The truth is, I’ve already been turned down by other potential backers. The Bramblewood event is essentially my Hail Mary—a chance to present to multiple investors at once, alongside a dozen other amazing ideas from go-getters also seeking funding. This pitch event is for holiday-focused items, and there’s an agreement we will leave our products in place as gifts for the estate’s Yule Gala guests.
If it fails, I’ll be back to square one. Or more accurately, back to my parents’ corporate world, tail between my legs, and all my environmental principles neatly filed away as youthful folly.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother:
Darling, don’t forget about the Nutcracker tomorrow night. Your father has box seats.
I show the message to my friends, who groan in unison.
“The ballet?” Vick asks. “Seriously?”
“It’s tradition,” I say with resignation. “Nicholas family holiday obligations are non-negotiable.”
“Skip it,” Kash suggests. “What are they gonna do, shun you?”
The question hangs in the air longer than it should. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure they wouldn’t. I don’t not enjoy the ballet. I just don’t have time to spare with so much riding on this pitch.
“Enough about my dysfunctional family,” I say, raising my glass again. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. Like Paolo’s latest solar installation disaster.”
“Hey!” Paolo protests, but he’s grinning. “That wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know the client had a family of flying squirrels living in their attic?”
