“Well, we could start with your German pimp-mobile looking like it wound up on the losing end of a street fight. Or the fact that you just ordered a heart attack on a plate after living on cauliflower and air for the last six months. Or really, we could skip all that and go with the fact you look like toasted shit on a cracker.”
“Thanks.” Oliver fidgeted with his flatware.
“You really do,” Martin said.
Oliver snorted and thanked the server for the fresh coffee.
“We’re not buying your stupid act,” Seb said. “What’s going on? Is it the veggie shack? Did you make too many celery smoothies again?”
“It’s not the business.” Oliver stared down into his coffee. “The business is fucked.”
“It’s what?”
“Fucked, okay?” Oliver’s voice raised over the din of the brunch crowd, and he hunched down in his seat, running a tired hand over his face. “It’s all fucked. The market is going to kick me out, which is fine, really, because, it’s not like anyone ever does anything but take free samples and flyers for workshops they never actually show up to.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Martin said.
“Not that bad? Not that—I have one client. One.” He thrust his index finger between them. “And lately I’ve been giving him juice for free too because it’s going to spoil in the fridge. So I’m keeping the lights on with willpower and savings to prove a point to an asshole who isn’t even here to see me kill myself over this thing that was supposed to be ours.”
They were silent. Seb and Martin stared at him, open-mouthed. Oliver slurped at his coffee, and it dribbled into his beard. He glared at his brother, daring him to try some kind of snarky comeback.
“But you have a plan to fix it, right?” Seb said.
“What about the people? The ones who came to that workshop we went to?” Martin asked.
“They never came back. Not one, except for Avery.”
“The ginger twink with all the questions?”
“He’s an accountant.”
“And he can’t help you figure out the money?”
Oliver laughed. “Believe me, he’s trying.”
More silence. Their breakfasts were delivered. Oliver dug into his hash like he’d been starving for weeks. It tasted hot, greasy, and salty, almost too much so. So many flavors he’d hardly tasted in months. He scarfed it down in huge bites, barely pausing to breathe, only stopping when he nearly choked on a potato.
He glanced up as he finished another mug of coffee. Seb and Martin were staring at him like he was aMen in Blackalien in an Oliver suit.
“What?” he said as he resumed eating.
“You’re joking, right?” Seb said.
“I don’t think he’s joking.” Martin poked at his eggs.
“I’m not.”
“Is it really that bad?”
Oliver shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood to detail his failings. He didn’t need Seb’s sarcasm or his judgment.
He needed Nick.
Shit, he was trying not to think about that. Nick would call if he needed help, but otherwise, Oliver was going to stay a few steps back, out of the way, where he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.
I love you.
He nearly choked on another potato.
