“That last one’s a full-time job and probably impossible.”
“Which is why I’m offering you twenty-five percent.” Mark grinned. “Look, we both know romance wasn’t our thing. You kiss like someone following instructions from IKEA, and I kiss like—”
“A golden retriever who just discovered peanut butter.”
“Exactly.” He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “But business? Business, we could be perfect at. I’ve got the capital and the vision—admittedly terrible vision sometimes, but vision nonetheless. You’ve got the bartending experience and the brains to make things work. More than that, we trust each other, and we already know each other’s worst qualities.”
“That’s true. You’re disorganized, impulsive, and you once tried to fix a leaking pipe with duct tape.”
“It worked!”
“For three hours.”
“Still counts.” Mark pulled up photos on his phone. “But seriously, I can’t do this alone. I need someone who’ll tell me when my ideas are stupid, who knows how to run a bar, and who can keep me on track. That’s you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
I pickedup my sandwich because I needed something to do with my hands. “Fine. Let’s pretend. Tell me about your vision for this bar,” I said before sinking my teeth into my sandwich.
The pork was perfectly seasoned, the bread had that ideal ratio of crusty to soft, and the whole thing was delicious. Of course, it was. This was the Columbia. Everything here was good.
Which was why it cost fourteen dollars.
Which was why I shouldn’t have been eating it.
Mark’s grin turned guilty as he grabbed a folio from the booth beside him and opened it. “Okay, so I made a list of ideas—”
“Oh, lick afookin’arse.”
“Lick a what?” He shook his head and moved on. “Idea number one: pirate theme. Full commitment with treasure chests for tables, staff in eye patches, specialty rum drinks with names like ‘The Plank Walker’—”
“Not only no, but fuck no.”
“You didn’t even let me explain the full concept—”
“I don’t need to. Next.”
“Fine. Idea two: foam party Tuesdays. We install special drains, get the foam machines, really make it an event—”
“Are you trying toget us shut down by the health department?”
“Idea three!” He was undeterred, swiping through his notes. “Roman bathhouse aesthetic. The staff wears togas, we have columns, maybe some statues of David—”
“Mark, I swear to God—”
“Idea four: underwater theme. We could install an aquarium floor—”
“How many ideas are on yourfookin’list?”
“Ten.” He looked far too proud of himself. “I love how your accent thickens when you’re excited.”
“This isn’t me excited.”
He waved me off. “I made a very detailed list.”
“Of course you did.” This was so Mark—ten terrible ideas instead of one good one. “Okay, let me stop you before you suggest installing a mechanical bull or getting a mascot parrot. What’s theactualconcept? No pirates, no foam, no togas, and no aquarium floors that would collapse and kill someone.”
Mark’s expression shifted, instantly becoming more grounded. “A neighborhood sports bar. Gay-owned, gay-friendly, but not exclusive. We’d serve good drinks—craft cocktails and local beers—and food that’s worth eating, not frozen shit we microwave. There’d be TVs everywhere forgames, but not so many it feels like a casino. I want comfortable seating and a good atmosphere, somewhere you can bring a first date or meet your buddies to watch a game.”
I was nodding before he finished. “That sounds nice.”
