“Right?!”
“But it would need to be done right. I saw a place try this in Atlanta a few years back, but it felt forced, like they were trying to gay up the world of sports just for the bar. Our place needs to feel authentic.” I was thinking out loud now, the pieces clicking together despite my brain screaming that this was insane. A list fell out of my mouth before my brain could stop it. “Clean aesthetic, nothing too themed. Mix of booths and high-tops, some bar seating. Classic cocktails with local touches. The food needs to be legitimately good—like, people should come for the food and stay for the drinks.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Mark pulled up photos of an empty commercial space. “This is it. The space is about two thousand square feet, with high ceilings and good natural light. The previous tenant was a furniture store, so it needs work, but the bones are solid.”
I studied the photos. He was right. The space had potential.
But potential wasn’t the same as reality.
“Mark, this is a huge risk,” I said quietly. “Most new bars fail in the first year.”
“So we won’t fail.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Sure it is. We’ll be the ten percent that succeeds.” He said it with such absolute confidence that I almost believed him. “Finn, I know it’s scary, but you’re miserable at Riley’s. You’ve been miserable for years. When’s the last time you were excited about work?”
I couldn’t come up with anything, so I tried to think of a moment when I didn’t dread stepping into Riley’s. That didn’t work any better.
“What about permits? A liquor license? Staff? The budget?” I was grasping for practical concerns, anything to anchor myself.
“Lawyer says six weeks for permits. Staff is where you come in—you’d hire them, train them, and build the team. Our initial budget is two hundred thousand.”
“Dollars?” I nearly choked on myMaterva. “You havetwo hundred thousanddollars?”
“I sold a successful company, Finn. I did okay.” He waved this off like it was nothing. “Some goes to build-out and equipment, but we’d have enough for operations and payroll for at least six months, longer if we’re smart about it.”
“That’s a lot of money to risk on a maybe.”
“It’s my money to risk. And it’s not a maybe—it’s a definitely, because I’m doing this whether you’re in or not.” Mark’s expression turned serious. “But I really,reallywant you to be in, because I’ll turn it into a disaster without you. I’d rather build something great with my best friend than build something mediocre alone.”
The server came by to check on us. Before I could even reach for my wallet, Mark had already grabbed the check.
“Mark—”
“Business expense,” he said firmly, pulling out his credit card. “We’re about to be partners.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“But you want to. I can see it on your face. You Irish blokes are terrible at hiding what you’re thinking.”
“One, we don’t use the term ‘blokes,’ and two, your Irish accent is a crime against humanity.”
He chuckled as he signed the receipt with a flourish. “Come on, Finn. When’s the last time you took a risk on something you actually wanted?”
Three years ago, when I’d agreed to date him.
That had been a risk.
A failed risk, romantically speaking, but it had given me the best friendship of my life.
“I don’t have any money to invest,” I said, voicing the thing that had been bothering me since he’d mentioned partnership. “I’ve got maybe two months of rent saved. That’s it.”
“We don’t need your money. We need your brain.” Mark leaned forward. “The ownership split reflects the work you’ll put in, not capital investment. You’ll be running the day-to-day, building the concept, and making decisions that keep us afloat. That’s worth twenty-five percent.”
“That’s not how business partnerships usually work.”
“Since when do we do anything the usual way?” He extended his hand across the table. “What do you say? Partners?”
