The shop was always quiet on Mondays, but today seemed especially so. Oliver tried to stay productive. The market issue was still in play, so he made some calls and sent some emails to other vendors to ask about sourcing new produce. It largely came to nothing. He needed organic sources, which were rare in the area.
At three, the shop phone rang. Oliver almost jumped out of his skin. He’d nearly forgotten he’d had a landline hooked up since no one ever called it.
“Good afternoon, Pulpability!” He tried to sound upbeat, even though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours.
“Ollie?”
He froze, grip tightening on the handset.
“What do you want?”
“Are you sober?” Cooper’s voice was flat, and Oliver kept silent, rather than rising to Cooper’s easy bait. “Are we going to have a reasonable conversation this time?”
Oliver needed a cigarette. He’d quit in the fall, but maybe it was time to start again. “Probably not.”
“How have you been?”
“Fuck you.” He slammed the phone down in its cradle. With no one to see how he shook, he braced himself on the counter. He needed to get beyond this. Cooper was his past. Nick might be his future, but even if Oliver was on his own again by the end of the summer, he had to get his emotions under wraps.
And why the fuck was he calling anyway? They’d said everything that needed to be said months ago.
He turned the sign on the shop door over at six, which seemed pointless because no one appeared to care that he’d been open, and also because he was going to turn it back over again in an hour. He’d scheduled another workshop that night, but he wasn’t optimistic about the attendance. On Saturday, he’d been too worked up over Nick and the sudden appearance of his family at the market, but he’d managed to hand out a few flyers.
Seb and Martin weren’t even coming for moral support. Martin texted midday to say Seb had a line on someone selling old books, and they were going out of town for a few days.
In the end, the full and total attendance of Oliver’s workshop was Avery. He sat, hands clasped on the counter, eyes wide in anticipation, bright red hair sticking up in fiery tufts from his head.
“You didn’t need to come,” Oliver said with a smile. “I was planning to give the same talk as last time.”
“Oh, I don’t mind!” Avery wiggled in his seat like a puppy. “I’m sure there was stuff I missed.” He rummaged through a satchel at his feet and pulled out a tablet and a small keyboard. He sat, shoulders square, fingers poised on the keys, like a stenographer ready to take Oliver’s testimony.
“You really don’t need to do that.” Oliver had handouts for anyone who came and wanted something to refer back to, but then again, Avery probably laminated his from last time.
Oliver sighed and pulled a few bottles of juice from the fridge. He popped the top on his and clinked the side of Avery’s. “Cheers. It’s on the house.”
“Really?” Avery smiled at him like he’d given the kid a medal.
“Sure. Why not? You made the effort to be here. Normally, I’d pass out small samples to everyone, but since it’s you and me, might as well go for the full meal deal, right?”
Avery frowned. “But you said I couldn’t use this as a meal replacement.”
“What?” Oliver swallowed hisBeet the Rap. “No. I mean. Yes. You can’t use this as a meal replacement. That’s not what I meant, I—” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for coming.”
Avery gave him another wide smile, then took a sip of his juice. He set the bottle down on the counter, turning it slowly in his hand. “How many of these do you need to sell a day to cover your costs?”
Oliver snorted. He gestured at the still largely full fridge. “More than that.”
“Do you have other revenue streams?” Avery asked, flushing when Oliver turned his attention back toward him. “Sorry. Accountant. It’s hard to shut my brain off sometimes.”
“The coaching packages are supposed to be where we make the money. The juice was meant to act as a sort of loss leader, but . . .” Admitting Avery was his only current coaching client was embarrassing.
“They’re expensive for a loss leader.”
Oliver shrugged. He could have explained about the cost of organic produce, or the limitations of cold-pressing, but the projections he and Cooper had put together were sound.
They hadn’t accounted for the general apathy the town felt toward their offerings. All of Oliver’s research said the demographics in Seacroft were right for a small business like this, and he still didn’t know where he’d gone wrong. The market was a gamble, but even there, he hadn’t expected to have his knees cut out from by the board before the season even got into full swing.
“If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m all ears.”
