Page 124 of The Fake Out Flex

"I loved the pre-taped segment. I donated fifty thousand to the organization in your story."

"You did? Wow. That's wonderful. Thank you so much."

"No. Thank you. I could tell you really care about the people you spoke with, that you're genuinely invested. I've felt inspired all day."

She has no idea how much.

Seeing those folks, hearing their stories, gives me hope that Oakey can grow up and lead a normal—or pretty close to normal—life himself.

Another sigh comes through my speaker. "Unfortunately, the segment barely moved the needle. No traction on socials. No major outlet is picking it up. It's crickets central over here."

I clench my jaw and keep my mouth shut to stop myself from blurting something about how frustrating that is. She doesn't need me telling her that—I can hear the hurt and sadness in her voice loud and clear.

"Maybe I'm not cut out for this? Or maybe I should just give in and do what Mom's been pressuring me to do and move to Washington and finally become a real reporter?"

"What do you want to do, Evie?"

She huffs out another sigh. "Honestly? I don't know anymore. I'm so confused. I thought this would be it. That reporting would be my way to make a difference in the world. Something that I enjoyed, was good at, and served a higher purpose. But now I think I've been deluding myself this whole time."

"You haven't. You are a great reporter. You work hard, you're passionate about what you do, and you are talented. So, so talented."

"Thanks. I appreciate you saying that. I've still got a tiny bit of time left, so I'll figure something out.

She says it, but she doesn't sound like she means it.

She's hurt, she's down on herself, and she's doubting her life choices while I'm stuck in Pittsburgh with no way of flying out for another surprise visit.

I hate this.

I want to be with her more than anything. I want to be by her side, figuring this out together. I want to be someone she can depend on.

Someone she can trust.

Someone she can confide in.

And that's when it hits me…

If I want to be that person, it's time I come clean to her about a few things.

Seven years ago, Fraser's bedroom…

"Where have you been?"

My older brother's deep growl scares the life out of me.

"What are you doing here, Trace?" I ask.

He flicks on the light, illuminating my bedroom. He's standing by the door, arms folded, looking majorly peeved.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead. It's an unseasonably hot night. "Why are you in my room?"

"Answer my question."

"No. Newsflash, you're not Dad, so I don't have to tell you anything."

"Yes, you do." He marches over and fists my shirt, giving me a good shake.

I smack his hands away. "What is your problem?"

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