The bar was half-empty. Low lights. Muted TV over the counter replaying the news on silent. We took a booth in the corner like we always did when things were serious.
Tony didn’t start with the pitch.
He waited until the second beer.
“You remember how my uncle used to flip houses up north?” he said.
“Vaguely. Vermont, right?”
“Yeah. Near Killington. Little town called Pittsfield.”
I shrugged. “Ski country.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table.
“I found a place.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Old farmhouse,” he said. “More like a wreck, actually. Roof’s shot. Porch is rotting. Needs a full gut. But?—”
He held up a finger.
“Twenty acres. Private trails. A pond that freezes in the winter. Barn out back. Five minutes from a small resort. Fifteen from Killington.”
I blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because I want a partner,” he said simply. “And because you’re the only guy I trust not to screw me over.”
I laughed. “Tony, I don’t have money for that. Not after this summer.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
He took a breath.
“I’ll put up the capital. You put in sweat equity. Five grand if you can. Ten if you’re feeling brave. I’ll pay you to help renovate. We flip it in two years, or keep it as a ski rental. Fifty-fifty.”
I stared at him.
“You want me to quit my job and become a mountain hermit?”
“No,” he said. “I want you to stop drowning.”
That landed harder than I expected.
He went on, quieter now.
“You grew up working with your hands, man. You fix engines. You build shit. You light up when you’re not in a suit.”
He gestured vaguely at me.
“Right now, you’re trapped in an apartment full of ghosts. I’m offering you a place with real walls and real work and no memories attached to it.”
