“It is an emergency,” I say. “We just launched yesterday and someone from WBM emailed and wants to see us today. I wanted to get your advice, like how should I pitch, what should I make sure I say in the meeting.”

“You shouldn’t go.”

Feedback crackles over the otherwise-silent line. My heart drops into my stomach. “What do you mean? This is a huge opportunity for us—”

“It’s not worth it. You should apologize for reaching out prematurely, say you don’t want to waste their time and will contact them when the company is further along.”

“What if we don’t get a chance like this again?”

“I know it’s tempting.” He sighs. “And maybe an experienced entrepreneur could pull off pitching on the fly, but you are eighteen years old and have never pitched a company to investors before. It’s not worth the risk.”

My mouth goes dry. He sounds remarkably like my father.

“Thanks, I guess.” I hang up the phone.

The sinking feeling in my gut turns into a burning fire. I text Roberto and Sara the address and hail an Uber for myself. I’ll need this time to myself to formulate my pitch.

I’ve finessed and rehearsed my speech to journalists, but I thought I’d have more time before I’d actually be trying to sell a part of the company. This is the type of meeting I would have prepared for weeks in advance, if I’d had the chance. Instead, I am jotting ideas in the Notes section of my phone as the car speeds across town.

“Can I have one of these?” I say, taking a water bottle from the cup holder of the car. I unscrew the cap before the driver can answer. I chug it, hoping to drown this hangover a little bit.

“Thanks,” I say, setting the empty bottle back in the cup holder just as he pulls up to the office of Williams, Brown and Moore.

Sara arrives at the same time, also pulling up in an Uber, although not a black car.

She’s putting in her right earring as she steps out. She’s wearing a professional-looking wrap dress and flats, and she seems to have showered since last night, which is more than I can say. Her eyes catch mine.

“I’m going to freaking kill you!” She charges forward and swats my arm.

I can’t help but laugh, because even in her moment of unbridled anger, she still can’t bring herself to swear, opting for the kindergarten teacher–style replacement instead.

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?” she asks. “We’re totally screwed.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, but my voice is shaky. “It’s all about confidence.”

“You smell like bourbon.”