Page 142 of The Fake Out Flex

"You don't have to sound so surprised. Of course I watch them. I'm allowed to, aren't I?"

"Of course. Yeah. It's just…"

When I don't follow that up with anything, she prompts, "It's just, what?"

"Well, didn't you once say morning shows are—and I'm paraphrasing a little here—basically for morons who need to have something on while they get ready for their day?"

"I highly doubt I used the term moron. But to your point, while I may not be the target demographic of The Morning Buzz, I make sure to tune in to watch your segments. Just like I listen to that sad excuse for music Levi's band makes, and I torment myself by watching recaps on YouTube of whatever sad excuse of a reality TV show Harper is producing."

There is so much to unpack in that sentence…so of course I latch on to the most important detail. "You watch YouTube?"

Mom sighs. "I may be old, but I'm not ancient."

I crack a grin. "Louisa showed you, didn't she?"

Mom stifles a smile. "Actually, it was your father. The point remains—I support all my children. Even Laney, who for the life of me, I still can't fathom why she would choose to work as a maid?—"

"She started off as a maid, but now she runs the hotel, Mom."

"Still. It's a waste of her intellect, if you ask me."

Which no one is, I think, but wisely kept to myself.

Two for two, guardsmen. We're on a roll today.

"But back to your request. I'd be more than happy to set up a meeting with Devlin Wilshire. I hear he's on the lookout for a political reporter."

"That'd be great. Thanks, Mom," I mumble into my tea.

I'm grateful for her help. I am. I just wish I wasn't in a position to be asking for it in the first place. Moving to Washington and reporting on politics is the last thing I want to do.

But what other choice do I have?

I've even been considering taking Fraser up on some of the not-so-subtle hints he's been dropping lately and taking a business course so I can sell my bracelets online.

I slurp my tea and finish off the rest of my pastry while Mom sits there, assessing me.

"What's the matter, Evelyn? You don't seem happy. This could be a great opportunity for you. A steppingstone to a real reporting career."

I wipe my hands on the sides of my pants, which earns me a look of mild disgust. "And what if I don't want to be a real reporter?"

"What is that supposed to mean? Why wouldn't you want that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because being the reporter I am now doesn't feel as good as I thought it would. Maybe because I'm starting to question if journalism is even the right career for me. Maybe because I just feel this constant, nonstop pressure from you to wear the right clothes, and go to the right college, and wipe my hands on all the right surfaces. It's…It's too much, Mom."

She stills, save for her eyes, which are doing that darty thing they do whenever she's busy thinking.

Or scheming.

"You feel pressure from me?"

I nod.

"Really?"

"Yeah, Mom. All the time." I pause, placing a hand on my heart. "I just…I just want your approval."

"You have my approval…mostly."

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