Page 16 of The Fake Out Flex

"But…"

Knew it.

"When it comes to your segments…" She gives me a double thumbs down.

"Wow. One thumb wasn't enough?"

"'Fraid not, hon. It's pretty bad."

"They tune out?"

"In droves."

"Okay. Um. Wow. I actually repel people enough to get them to turn off their TVs or watch something—anything—else but me."

"You don't repel people. A small, but crucial, detail I want you to remember. This isn't personal. It's about the content."

"But I create the content, so it is very much personal."

"I've been in this game for over twenty years, Ev. Trust me. If it were personal, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd be at your desk packing your belongings into a box."

"Really?"

"Really."

We've reached the wall of windows overlooking the parking lot. I smile at Daisy. She's my car, and I refuse to apologize for giving her a name because naming inanimate objects is totally a thing more people should do.

And if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with Pop-Up Pete, my toaster. I should warn you, though—you don't want to mess with him. Pop-Up is currently embroiled in a long-standing feud with Microwave Mike, and it isn't going well. Pop-Up eviscerates the poor guy every day, reducing him to toast. Ba-da-boom.

My eyes shift to Margo. "Can we walk and not talk for a moment? I need a moment to process."

"Of course, hon."

Margo takes her phone out as we swing back in the direction we came from. My thoughts drift back to something Fraser brought up over dinner at Levi's last week.

I didn't always want a career in journalism. For a while, I was seriously contemplating teaching.

Well, actually, my real childhood dream was to coach a pro hockey team, but that dream is about as likely to happen as growing up and becoming Taylor Swift.

What finally tipped me over the edge to choose journalism was thinking I could reach more people this way than I could in a classroom.

Guess I misjudged that.

And…I thought becoming a reporter would make Mom happy.

I misjudged that one, too.

She's got a contact in Washington and has been on my case for me to leave The Morning Buzz to pursue more hard-hitting stories. What she doesn't understand is that I don't have that drive, the ruthless ambition you need to succeed in such a cut-throat environment. That's not how I'm wired.

Sure, I can be weirdly—some might even say obsessively—competitive and passionate about certain things––like hockey and beating my brother in chili dog-eating contests––but I don't have that same sort of energy when it comes to my reporting career.

And I never wanted my job to take me away from the place I love, the place where I grew up. I moved back to Comfort Bay after college because I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Some people might view returning to their small, quirky hometown as a failure, but it's not for me.

I'm a small-town girl through and through, and Comfort Bay is a very special small town.

It's nestled right on the ocean, so it's got a laid-back coastal vibe. The world-class marina attracts plenty of impressive yachts, making it a logical headquarters for Fraser's Dad's family business.

Main Street is like something straight out of a Hallmark movie set, with brick-paved sidewalks, an array of charming boutiques, a cozy bookstore, a florist, and a quaint diner, run by a guy we call Bear because a) no one knows his real name, and b) his main forms of communication involve pointing, grunting, and the occasional monosyllabic word.

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