Chapter 2
Reed
The pH levels in my samples are off by point-zero-three, which may as well be a death sentence. I jab at the tablet screen, adjusting the solution for the third time today, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars.
“Easy there, Dr. Doom,” my friend Paolo’s voice echoes through the greenhouse lab as the bay doors slide open. “You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm.”
I don’t look up from the hydroponic data as Paolo makes his way through rows of my miniature fir trees sitting like tiny cub scouts, awaiting inspection. Each one represents months of research and more money than I care to calculate—money I don’t have to spare.
“These stupid seedlings aren’t cooperating,” I mutter, making another adjustment on the dash. “Plus, I wasted an entire afternoon getting jerked around by some clerk downtown, so now I’m behind schedule. If they’re not ready by next week—”
“Whoa, back up,” Vick interrupts, appearing at my shoulder with his usual unflappable calm. “What happened downtown?”
I look up to find all three of my friends standing in various states of post-work dishevelment—Paolo with grease under his fingernails from installing solar panels, Vick still wearing his city waste management polo, and Kash clutching a rolled set of architectural plans that probably contain his latest sustainable building design.
It must be later than I thought if they’re all here… which means I kept them waiting.
“Permit office,” I say, the memory still making my blood pressure spike. “Tried to get my holiday tree classification updated so I’d have the right paperwork for the pitch event. Spent forty minutes explaining basic botany to a clerk who clearly hates her job.”
“Ouch.” Paolo winces. “Did you get it sorted?”
“No. Some woman started yelling at me for taking too long, and then the clerk closed her window.” I turn to my seedlings, irritation flaring fresh. “Apparently, I was being ‘argumentative’ for asking logical questions about illogical categories.”
I can’t shake the image of that dark-haired woman jabbing her finger at me, all righteous fury and zero tolerance for bureaucratic nonsense.
I keep wondering what had her so wound up.
She struck me as someone who acts on instinct and deals with the consequences later, which honestly sounds… kind of liberating.
“Beer night,” Kash announces, checking his watch. “You need it more than usual.”
“I know, but—” I gesture helplessly at the seedlings that will make or break my entire future.
“No buts,” Paolo says. “You’ve been in here since dawn, probably haven’t eaten anything, and now you’re stress-spiraling. Plus, if you don’t come, Kash is going to make us look at his drawings.”
I open my mouth to argue, then realize I can’t remember my last real meal.
The past week has been a blur of analysis, growth projections, and increasingly desperate emails to potential financiers.
The investor pitch-a-thon at Bramblewood Manor is my last shot at getting the funding I need to turn this whole Christmas tree thing from a crazy idea into an actual business.
“The pitch is in a week,” I say, making one final adjustment to the grow lights. “If I can’t demonstrate consistent growth patterns—”
“Then you’ll have to charm them with your sparkling personality,” Vick deadpans, earning snorts from the other two.
I shoot him a look. “Very helpful.”
“Come on,” Kash says, already heading toward the door. “We’re going to Three Rivers Brewing. They’ve got that new IPA you wanted to try.”
I hesitate, glancing back at my trees. They look healthy enough—vibrant green needles and strong root systems visible beneath the spongy soil alternative.
Each tree is exactly eighteen inches tall, perfectly symmetrical, and completely sustainable.
No soil depletion, minimal water usage, zero transportation emissions since they’ll be grown locally.
My business targets young professionals who live in apartments or small condos but still want to decorate for the holidays. Enter: tabletop live evergreens. No need for a plastic tree and no sense driving to the countryside to chop down a full-sized one.
My idea is timely. It’s environmentally responsible. It’s trendy.
It’s also bleeding me dry financially.
“Reed.” Paolo’s voice is gentler now. “They’ll be fine for two hours. The robots will handle everything.”
I know he’s right. The entire setup is designed to run without supervision. But leaving feels like abandoning my post, especially with so much riding on next week’s presentation.
“My parents called again,” I say abruptly, staring at the trees.
The temperature in the greenhouse seems to drop several degrees. My friends met my parents exactly once, at my college graduation, and that was more than enough.
“What did they want this time?” Vick asks carefully. Vikram “Vick” Murthy is no stranger to rigid parents. We bonded immediately in the dorms once we realized we’re both learning to let go of any hope of meeting our parents’ expectations.
“The usual.” I shake my head and release a groan.
“Reminded me their ‘offer’ still stands—full funding for an MBA, fast-track into Nicholas Industries’ executive training program, corner office by thirty…
” I finally turn away from the seedlings.
“All I have to do is abandon this ‘hobby’ and start acting like a ‘responsible adult.’” My jaw tightens just thinking about my father’s condescending tone.
“Fuck that,” Paolo says with feeling. “This isn’t a hobby. This is entrepreneurship.”
“Try telling them that.” I grab my jacket from the hook by the door, doing a final scan of the greenhouse. Everything glows green on the status panel. “According to my father, sustainable agriculture is a luxury for people who don’t understand real business.”
“Your father’s an ass,” Kash says matter-of-factly.
Takashi, Paolo, Vick and I met freshman year and remained tight all through college and into grad school. I know I have zero interpersonal skills, but for some reason, the three of them put up with me and—I can admit this—drag me away when I forget to recharge my batteries.
We walk into the crisp November air, the industrial park around us mostly empty except for a few other startup employees burning the midnight oil.
The Sustainable Innovation Incubator seemed like a dream come true when I got accepted here—affordable rent, like-minded entrepreneurs, access to shared resources.
But the seed funding only lasts eighteen months, and I’m nearly through month seventeen.
“How bad is it?” Paolo asks as we climb into Vick’s hybrid. “Financially, I mean.”
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?”
As my friends launch into their latest work stories, I relax for the first time in weeks. Maybe Vick’s right; maybe the trees will be fine without my constant surveillance. Maybe the Bramblewood presentation will go well.
The server sweeps past in a flurry of dark hair that has me thinking about that woman who yelled at me downtown. Something about her fierce certainty… I bet she doesn’t spend Thursday nights second-guessing herself over beer and fries.