Page 1 of The Renter

Prologue

Thursday, January 6th, 2022

“Wider shoulders,” my cofounder, Derek, says over the phone, being interviewed byGQ. “It’s one reason our core customers are so loyal. When guys buy our button-downs, they either fit or they don’t. But when they fit, they really fit.”

“Would you be able to send a screengrab of year-to-date sales to prove traction?” the reporter asks.

“Is that common?” I chime in. I’ve been quiet during most of this interview, but as Chief Marketing Officer, this question feels odd. “We’ve never had to do that before, and we’ve been featured in plenty of top-tier outlets.”

“It helps with my editors,” the reporter explains.

Derek and I exchange bug-eyed glances across the conference table in our Old Town coworking space, silently debating how to respond. Sales are strong, but we don’t want that information out there. I also need to talk to Derek about the sales data. I’ve found some discrepancies.

We’re saved by an ambulance driving by.Chicago is so loud, but the noise gives me an extra moment to think.

“I don’t think Harris Ventures, our VC, would be comfortable with us publicly discussing sales and growth,” I say after the sirens fade. “I’ll need to check if that’s even an option for us.”

“Looks like we both have some confirming to do.” The reporter laughs, and we both relax slightly, hoping this won’t jeopardize the interview from being published. “Harris Ventures … Congrats again on securing venture capital. When you guys get acquired, make sure I’m on the media list. I’d love to cover that.”

“Thank you!” Derek and I say in an unintended, annoying unison.

As the reporter hangs up, I blankly stare at the conference table. We’ve done dozens of interviews, but something about this one feels off.Or am I overthinking it?We don’t want the world to know how we’ve burned through the three million dollars we raised two years ago. I look back at Derek. He’s still smiling, like he nailed this interview.

“That went well, right?” Derek asks.

“You’re terrible at sticking to the key messages, but otherwise, yeah, that was great.” I stare at him for a moment, debating whether now is the time to have this awkward conversation.

We’ve been on this wild ride for three years, taking an idea and shaping it into a full-fledged business. Shirts, our sustainable menswear company, looks successful on paper, but I’ve been digging into the operations side of the business—Derek’s side—and, as they say, the math isn’t mathing.

“Derek.” I take a deep breath, knowing this will cause a fight. “I was looking at our chart of accounts in QuickBooks and ran a few reports?—”

“Dani,” Derek interrupts, his tone scolding. “You do marketing. I do operations.”

You have a trust fund. I do not, I want to say.

Our business partnership was born out of a drunken night with our mutual friend Brandon Dubois. Years later, I really fucking hate Derek. He’s so entitled. So privileged. This company wouldn’t be where it is today if I wasn’t killing myself every day. He’s been on autopilot for months now, bored with it, while I’m still so passionate about Shirts.

“Shirts has to work,” I remind him. “I’ve put everything I have into it.”

“Don’t look so stressed. We’re fine.”

“Are we? So far this year, our system shows more orders than inventory produced, but we don’t have any pending shipments. It has to be a tagging error, right?”

“Dani, why are you digging into that? That’s not your lane.”

“Because I put one hundred thousand dollars of my own money into this company last year.”

I also hate saying “own money.” I didn’t earn that money—it was given to me by my ex’s brother, but that’s another story. “Everything is my lane,” I yell. “Especially after my cash injection prevented vendors from cutting us off.”

He rolls his eyes. “My family put in two million, and we raised three million from Harris Ventures. Your hundred grand doesn’t give you the right to challenge me on operations.”

“Fuck you.” Another reminder that even though I’m the most valuable person at this company, I only own a small percentage of it. Standing up from the conference table in our coworking space, I remind him, “We’ve also never formalized the paperwork about my cash injection. I need repayment terms, or I need additional shares of Shirts.”

“If you want the legal stuff so badly, hire an attorney to put it together.”

With what money?I want to scream. I’m banking on the dream of us getting acquired, so I’m barely making an entry-level salary here. Technically, I own ten percent of thismenswear brand. Well, I will—if one of two things happens: we sell, or I stay for four years. If I leave before then, my shares don’t vest. That familiar sinking feeling returns.I’m trapped.I have to stay, keep grinding, and continue putting up with Derek’s bullshit.

“We have inventory because of the money I injected,” I remind him. If Shirts fails, I’m fucked.