Page 33 of The Fake Out Flex

"Who's Pete?" I call back, smiling as I picture her annoyed face, while I continue fixing my hair into an updo.

"That's not funny. Hurry up, please. Fraser will be arriving any minute now."

Ugh. Why did I agree to get ready for the wedding here?

Mom brought it up over dinner last week, slipping it into the conversation so casually that it seamlessly evaded the usual internal defensive line I activate whenever I'm in Mom's presence. These imaginary guys in my head have one job and one job only: to protect me from my mother's incoming barbs.

Or at the very least, warn me they're coming to give me time to plan a counteroffensive.

Clearly, they took a break sometime between mains and dessert, so I was caught off guard. I found myself nodding and the words, "Sure, I'd love to," flying out of my mouth.

So here I am.

In my parent's house.

In my old bathroom.

Getting ready to go to my ex's wedding.

With Fraser as my date.

"I'll be right out, Mom."

I ignore her muffled huff of annoyance on the other side of the door, finish adjusting my hair, and eye the dress I agonized over for months.

Choosing it proved tricky because while I want to look good, at the same time, I don't want to overshadow the bride. As much as I'm looking forward to sticking it to Bryce, this is Mercedes's big day, too. She's done nothing to deserve an ex-girlfriend swanning in and stealing the attention that very much belongs to her today.

So I hunted for a dress that didn't scream center of the universe, but whispered elegance and grace and shove this where the sun don't shine, Bryce.

Tough assignment.

I finally settled on a one-shoulder chiffon lavender midi dress with an asymmetrical neckline.

Occasion appropriate. Classic. Fashionable. And not too showy.

I open the door and step out into my old bedroom.

Mom's inspecting the posters on my wall. On her nose-scrunching disapproval scale, she's somewhere in the four-to-six range—she doesn't mind the hockey players, but it's evident she doesn't approve of or understand any of the album covers. She barely pays any attention to the women in the final frame.

As always, she's the epitome of elegance and sophistication, her meticulously styled hair coiffed to perfection. She's smart with her makeup, always opting for neutral tones that enhance her features. And even when she goes for a casual, around-the-house look, she remains more polished than I could ever hope to be, dressed in a pastel-blue silk blouse with a cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders, crisply tailored navy-blue trousers, and stylish leather flats.

I clear my throat.

She spins around, and her face lights up. "Oh my, Evelyn. You look beautiful."

"Wow. A compliment."

I regret it the second the words fly out of my mouth.

Hello, defensemen? Where are you?

Granted, I hadn't run any drills with them to be on the lookout for praise, but still, twenty-three years as Meredith Freeman's daughter has taught me we need to be prepared for anything.

"Don't sound so surprised," Mom says, walking over to me, her eyes raking over every detail. "I compliment you all the time."

When? I want to scream but decide against it. I don't want to get into a fight with Mom before the wedding. I'm already on edge as it is.

Ah, we made a logical decision. Thanks, defensemen. Teamwork makes the dream work.

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