Sorry, Bro
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Synopsis
From new best friend to girl of her dreams. Sorry, Bro is an #ownvoices debut rom-com - a bisexual My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
When Nar’s boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her a San Francisco bar, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance.
Enter her mother who wants Nar to settle down with a nice Armenian boy. Armed with a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked men, she convinces Nar to attend 'Explore Armenia', a month-long festival of events in the city. But it’s not the parentally-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye - it’s Erebuni, a cool and intriguing young woman fully intouch with her heritage. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her guide, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure.
Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual.
A funny, heartfelt and deeply relatable rom com about family, cultural identity, queer love, and the process of self-discovery that continues into adulthood as identities evolve, all in a fresh, humorous voice.
Praise for Sorry, Bro:
'As I read [Sorry, Bro], I kept cackling out loud, I sometimes couldn't because I would be laughing so hard. But underneath the humour is such an important story of love between two women and the journey to rediscovering Armenian culture and heritage.' - Jesse Q. Sutanto, author of Dial A for Aunties
'Sorry, Bro explores bisexuality, culture, and self-discovery through moments that will make you laugh out loud. This new writer brings a fresh take on self-identity, with a story that will capture both your heart and sense of humour.' - Diva Magazine
'With this radiantly ravishing debut, Taleen Voskuni beautifully illustrates the courage it can take to be your own true self and risk everything for love.' - Booklist—Starred Review
Release date: January 31, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Print pages: 368
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Sorry, Bro
Taleen Voskuni
Chapter 1
Arrows, like words, once darted, do not return.
Նետն ու խօսքը դուրս թռչելեն վերջ ալ ետ չեն դարնար:
—Armenian Proverb
I squeeze past a group of rowdy tech boys and a waitress dressed in a traditional German folk costume, similar to the one I own, thanks to a gift from my boyfriend, Trevor, and the beer maiden fetish he won’t admit he has. Polka music blasts through the speakers. Patrons are pounding on tables and singing. The stuffiness in this restaurant is second only to sitting in a hot car with all the doors and windows shut.
I’m late to meet Trevor, but what else is new? It’s hard to pull away from my family and the bonds of duty (in this case, setting up for my cousin Diana’s bridal shower). My hands are aching from handling bushels of thorny crinkle roses and darting them into flower arrangements. I rub them together, hoping for some relief.
I spot Trevor. He’s tapping wildly at his phone, wearing his work-concentration face, which is impressive because we are in the midst of a sausage-fest polka party. He’s sporting his usual precision American Psycho hair (his words, not mine) and is wearing a quarter-zip pullover even though it’s a million degrees. He looks every part the hot evil San Francisco tech lawyer he is,
minus the evil, because Trevor is a teddy bear who just happens to enjoy following the letter of the law of patents. I slam into the seat opposite him and immediately shout my apologies.
His face lights up, and for some reason, that makes this guilt sit in my gut.
“Schatzie! You are sizzling. Total smokeshow. Glad you remembered to dress up.”
I don’t remember him asking me to dress up, but luckily I put on my red power dress earlier today in an attempt to impress my boss and pitch him a serious story instead of the usual fluff I’m assigned. I ended up filming the following news segment: “Ingrown Toenails: A Silent Killer? Local Doctor Weighs In.” So yeah, the outfit didn’t work. The memory of my boss publicly shooting down my pitch with such casual cruelty sets my nerves on edge.
I scoot the clunky wooden chair close to the table. “You know how the family is. Can’t get down to business. Have to gossip and nag for an hour before anything can get done.”
I don’t know why I’m ragging on them. Sure, Mom kept bugging me about going to some super-important Armenian event happening this month (eye roll), and Tantig Sona could not stop complaining about the heat, but there was a moment—when the late-afternoon June light hit the room and everything and everyone glowed yellow under it, the flora filling the space with the scent of buttercream cake—when I felt peaceful. We finished the arrangements, but there was still so much more setup, and I felt terrible for leaving them and feel terrible for being so late to this date.
“Oh, I know. Your crazy Armenian family. Loudest group of women in the continental US. That shower tomorrow—what are the little gifts you give out to people?”
I half smile because it’s not his fault; I talk smack on them constantly, so that’s what he internalizes. But also, how can he joke about loudness when this restaurant is his favorite one in the city? A cowbell rings over and over, and a flock of beer maidens parade out from the back, holding boots of beer for another techie group in the corner.
Trevor gazes at the display fondly, and I hope he’s not about to recount the hijinks of Oktoberfest 2009 again.
Before he gets a chance, I quickly answer, “The favors.”
“Favors. You’re giving out bedazzled earplugs to everyone, right?”
He chuckles to himself, and it jarringly reminds me of my work nemesis, Mark. Yuck, no. Trevor is nothing like Mark, who strong-arms his way into getting any piece with real merit, then smiles at the newsroom all self-satisfied. On camera, he’ll ask rude invasive questions to people who’ve experienced trauma, but the boss seems to eat it up. To distract myself from the thought of Trevor being anything like him, I scan the menu. “So, I’m thinking the jäger chicken—”
“I already ordered for us—the two-person sausage extravaganza. And a surprise.”
I hate surprises. My hope is that he’s referring to the apple strudel on the dessert menu, a huge departure from his usual lingonberry tart. Or maybe he bought one of the deer heads on the wall. They’re cool, if sad, and he’s been talking about making an offer on one. I give him a wan smile and start fanning myself with the menu like Tantig Sona.
“It feels special that we’re at Diekkengräber’s tonight, ja?” Trevor’s only a quarter German, and his last name, Milken, is Irish, but he was a German major, studied in Munich, and is still fluent. So naturally he pronounces the restaurant name with a perfect accent and not how I pronounce it, which is a variant of “dick grabber.”
“Ja,” I respond, trying to smile, assuming he means because he’s headed off on a twelve-hour flight to Germany tomorrow. He’s assisting one of the partners on this patent litigation case with an electric bike manufacturer. It’s a big deal for him. I need to
pull myself together for his sake. I’m exhausted from a full day of shooting and editing—despite the uninspiring material—then dashing over to help with the shower, then navigating an hour of hair-pulling traffic to make it to the city. But he’s been talking up our dick grabber date for weeks, and I am wearing my red dress, and it’s Friday, and I’m only twenty-seven, so I should have the energy for this.
“I’m going to miss you so much, schatzie,” he says, his voice icky-sweet. Under the table, his hand squeezes my knee a little too hard. I don’t wince.
The pet name means “treasure” in German, which is cute, but he’s stopped saying my real name, Nareh, or even my nickname, Nar.
“Me, too,” I say, conscious of how I sound, trying to match his tone. “But you’ll be back soon.”
“Three weeks,” he says, shaken.
The rest of June and into early July. It should seem long, but I have this feeling that almost a month of being away from him is going to fly by.
“I keep pretending it’s shorter,” I say. I don’t know why I lie. I guess I want to make him happy.
A waitress sets a bottle of champagne and two glasses in front of us. The label says Cristal 2010, and I feel like the heat is getting to me, because that would be, like, a $500 bottle. Christ,
it’s five years old; it might be pricier. Then I see the Cheshire grin on Trevor’s face.
“Are we celebrating your trip? That’s an”—I stumble over the words—“extravagant goodbye gesture.”
Looking sly as hell, he says, “Oh, we’re celebrating something all right.”
He stands up and wedges himself between our table and our neighbor’s, his butt knocking over a beer stein, which he doesn’t notice because it’s deafening in here, and then he’s in front of me, kneeling down. And oh my God, he pulls out a dark blue box, and my blood is rushing in my ears. I’m gripping the seat of my chair like it’s the only thing keeping me from slipping to the floor. He opens the box, and the woman at the table next to us gasps because the diamond is fucking huge—no other way to say it—and I know he’s done something stupid, like taken the three months’ salary rule too literally, because he makes a lot pre-tax, but he owes a wild amount of student debt, and that makes me think of my dad and the secret second mortgage he left us with when he died, and I don’t want to be thinking about that right now.
Trevor is beaming. “Nareh Bedrossian.” He spits out my last name like it’s been through a wood chipper. “Will you be my wife? Will you be Nareh Milken?”
Half the restaurant is staring at me, and the other half is still partying and scream-laughing and shoving each other. Milken. Oh God, there are going to be even more jokes about my boobs for the rest of my life. Or I can get a breast-reduction surgery. No, Mom would kill me.
“Does—did you tell my mom already?”
His smile falters a bit, but he keeps it up. “No, I didn’t want your mom to get in the way of this beautiful thing. Our union.”
Then he swivels around and makes some kind of “come here” arm gesture, and now the heat is definitely making me hallucinate because I swear I see Mark H. Shephard, my number one work nemesis, shoving patrons out of the way with his KTVA mic and a cameraman with the massive camera setup they usually reserve for the big stories, and he’s charging toward me and smears the mic across my face so that I get my berry lipstick all over it. Trevor and Mark high-five each other, which makes my stomach roil, and Trevor presses his forehead to mine and asks, “What do you say, schatzie?”
The antlered dead deer face stares at me, and I wish I were suspended above everything like him. No more decisions, no more failures, no more disappointing people, no more . . .
I’m slipping down, down, and the last thing I feel is a dead weight against the back of my skull.
Trevor’s face is in front of mine, and he is wide-eyed and panicking and spitting as he talks, and oh God, it’s all coming back to me when I see Mark hovering in the background. He’s actually laughing while strangers press against one another to get a look at the girl who fainted.
“We have to go,” I whisper to Trevor.
Trevor lifts me off the ground and my vision momentarily blurs. People I’ve never met are asking if I’m okay, and I give them a TV smile and tell them I’m fine, thank you. My head clears, and I squeeze my way out of the restaurant, making sure to slam specifically into Mark and not say a word to him when he shouts, “Hey!” Because really? I’m pissed. And not just at Mark for laughing at me, but at Trevor and his idea of a romantic proposal—at this restaurant, with all its drunk patrons—and partly at myself for . . . for . . . I don’t know what for! But I did something wrong, and I’ll figure it out, and there will be punishment.
I’m outside and it’s instantly cold. The fog washes over everything, layer after layer engulfing us like waves. Somewhere in the Marina a horn blows long and deep. It may be an idyllic warm June in the rest of the United States, but this is San Francisco, where summer means unrelenting fog and misty winds. Trevor is behind me, the front door of the restaurant jingling behind him. I have to get to one of our cars before the humidity ruins my blowout. On the way in I brought a scarf to wrap around my hair, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back into that restaurant right now. It’ll be in the lost and found tomorrow.
Trevor is tracking me. I hear the pound-pound of his feet, but I don’t look back, not yet. “Schatzie! Talk to me.”
I reach my car, swing open my door, and turn to him. “Get in.” The fog and streetlights have colored everything a grayish yellow.
As he shifts inside, I see he’s holding the champagne bottle. Priorities.
This is Trevor, my boyfriend of five years—four and a half, more precisely—who has been a source of such kindness in my life, who I’m about to hurt so badly. But inside, I’m screaming. I have to.
“You’re leaving tomorrow for almost a month and you spring this on me?”
He seems relieved. “I couldn’t wait until I got back,” he says, grasping my hand. It’s warm and sweaty. “I’m too excited about
us, our future. And it’s a little romantic—your fiancé’s abroad, you’re back home, awaiting his return.”
While I am totally into romance, something about that seems gross. He has this idea that I’m going to be pining for him while he’s gallivanting around. God, the whole thing. The way he proposed, bringing Mark into it, the cameras, that awful restaurant. And now, him thinking this was romantic. Before I can think, my mouth spits out, plainly, also terrifyingly without emotion, “Maybe it’s good you’re going to be gone for a month.”
His index finger runs up and down the neck of the bottle. I realize the year he chose, 2010, is when we first started dating. His voice is uncertain. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder. You get it.”
That’s the problem: I don’t get it. And he doesn’t get me. There have been moments of connection, though, right? Like that time I caught an eye disease from TechCrunch Disrupt and he sent me a bouquet of irises so I could feel better about not being able to work until my eye stopped resembling a bloody murder scene. That was nice. But what else? His disaster of a proposal is making me rethink everything. I have been happy with him. I have. I mean, it’s true, I recently started watching reruns of Big Love, the Mormon polygamist show, because the wives’ obsession with their husband inspired me to be a better girlfriend. I never stopped to think that was probably a cry for help. I need to tell him no. Everything in me is shouting no, one giant chorus of no.
But I’m scared to voice it. I can’t bear to look at his face, his cute ski slope nose, his eyes tired from casework. His beautiful features always pull me back in. His face has this innocence about it that always makes me trust that he’s acting from a genuine place of care.
Then I open my mouth. “No.” I glance down at my fingernails, my just-chipping manicure. I’m going to have to touch it up before the bridal shower tomorrow. “No, I mean—I need that time to think. About this, and us.”
I’m actually doing this. Part of me is like, What the hell is wrong with you? He’s sweet and smart and loyal and adores you. But there’s a but that I can’t quite articulate, and it has something to do with him not telling my mom, about her getting in the way, as he said.
He’s frozen. “Are you serious?”
I nod, then he covers his eyes, and he might be crying or trying not to cry, but I’m not going to say anything about it. The night is reverent in this momentary silence, only the streetlamps and blurry red taillights in the distance. I hold my breath, waiting for him.
At once he uncovers his face, sniffs loudly like he snuffed out his crying. “This is all my fault. I should have talked to you about it. I wanted to make it this huge thing. Katie told me I should take you out to a restaurant that means something to us, do a grand gesture, something unforgettable that would make a great story.” He pauses. “I guess we got the story part down.”
Of course Katie had something to do with this. Katie is the law librarian at his firm and happens to be his work bestie, and I’ve been to enough firm-sponsored baseball games with them to know she’s completely in love with Trevor (but he brushes me off whenever I mention it, saying she’s just friendly). I sort of hate her but also don’t at all. She’s super smart, snide, and unabashedly dorky, and I trust Trevor. That trust, it should be enough for a marriage. But thinking the word marriage turns my stomach.
“That’s what Katie wants for her proposal,” I say.
I shiver, the coldness inside the car finally hitting me. I want to turn it on, but that feels rude.
“You really mean this. I’m leaving. Three weeks is a long time off. That’s calling it quits.”
“No,” I say quickly. The thought of being alone, actually alone, is terrifying. Neither of us wants that. “I need to figure some things out, and I promise it’s not you.”
I shouldn’t have been so emphatic about the it’s not you part, because he definitely has something to do with it. He pulls out the dark blue box again, doesn’t open it. His voice is low. “Do you have any idea how much I spent on this ring? I did this for you. I want you to be happy.”
But I never asked for that. There’s the memory of my dad again, always trying to keep up with the white guys at the country club and saddling us with debt that we only discovered after he passed. God, no. He pries out the ring, reaches for my hand, and I want to pull it away, but it happens so fast, his bony fingers already vising my hand, and he slides the ring up to the knuckle, where it doesn’t budge. Out of pure instinct, I pull the ring over the hump; like, I can’t let it flop off my finger, and I don’t want Trevor to ram it on. I’m shocked at how perfectly it fits. It is stunning, honestly. But . . .
Then—oh no—Trevor wraps me into a hug, as if my fitting on the ring was some type of agreement. But his hug is gentle. His neatly shorn neck hairs prickle my nose. He smells like man soap, cool pine mountains, and I’m remembering why we’ve survived all these years. Maybe I’m being unfair. I know what the judges on Reddit would say: “Off to the relationship dungeon with you.” But Reddit, ugh, the only time I posted there I asked for diet and exercise advice along with a faceless photo and got “If she lost
20–30 pounds I’d consider hitting it.” That shouldn’t be my moral compass. Still, I want to give Trevor an out. With my right hand, I play with the ring’s band. “If this is too much to ask, you can break it off with me now,” I say. “But I’d like this time to think while you’re abroad. Then we can, uh, reconvene.”
“This isn’t Model UN.” At once he grabs the champagne bottle and pops the cork with a practiced hand. I jump at the bang of it. The bottle steams, and he doesn’t wait for it to subside before he raises it and takes an uncouth gulp, then another. He doesn’t offer me any, not that I would take it right now. “Damn it. What did I do wrong? Just the timing?”
I can’t help myself. “Bringing Mark into this, for one. I despise Mark.”
“You talk about him all the time. Figured he was your Katie.”
A flare of envy sparks in me at the familiar way he talks about her. Followed by annoyance. I can’t believe he doesn’t see it. The way she leans her head toward him when she’s speaking. The eye contact she never breaks with him, only him. The lavish Christmas gifts she always buys him, I remember, spying the Fitbit on his wrist. “Katie is in love with you,” I mutter.
He takes another swig from the bottle, and I smell it now, the fermented grapes rotting in there for five years. The car door clacks open then, and he’s halfway out of the car.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you. And you know what? You want your freedom, you got it. You don’t get to break up with me. I’m breaking up with you,” he barks, but as soon as it’s out, his face falters, like he didn’t plan his words and is shocked by the sentiment. He adds, less fervently, “You know, for a month anyway.” He doesn’t leave, suspended like he wants to see how I’ll react. I lean toward him and strain a muscle on my side, like a cord snapped. I massage it vigorously and am about to plead or rant or get some more clarification, but all I sputter is an “Uh” before he interrupts me. “This champagne is amazing by the way. You missed out.”
He shuts the car door with some measure of grace. I look down at my finger. The ring is still there, dull, unshining in the fog.
Chapter 2
2
When the well is dried up, then its value is known.
Ջրհորը չորնալէն վերջ յարգը կը ճանչցուի:
—Armenian Proverb
“Nareh! You missed this entire table.” My mom’s voice crashes into me, breaking my reverie.
It’s the morning after Trevor’s proposal, and I’m at the country club, setting up for Diana’s shower. I’d normally be snapping photos of the setup, posting the perfectly curated photos to Instagram (my thirty thousand followers love flower content), but instead I’ve been letting my mom freely boss me around. My mind is wading through the vast, chaotic waters of last night, trying to make sense of everything. What I said that couldn’t be unsaid. Why I didn’t shout yes and press Trevor into a tight hug. What it means, particularly in terms of my relationship status. How the only thing grounding me is how bone-tight my dress is. Anything with a zipper is just hell on me; why do I do this to myself?
But in a way I’m grateful for the distraction. My mom and I have created something artistic and compelling. An hour ago, this
was a husk of a room (okay, a naturally beautiful husk with classic full-panel wainscoting), but we’ve transformed it into an indoor garden party. Delicate pink tablecloths, champagne charger plates, and bone-white china, with gold utensils lining each table. Our bouquets sit as centerpieces, with silk ribbons tumbling around tea candles and gold pomegranates. It’s Pinterest paradise and Diana is going to love it (and at some point I’ll hopefully snap out of zombie mode long enough to take a decent flat lay photo of the tablescape).
“And,” Mom says, waving a bridal shower game card at me, “you gave doubles all over the place. Where is your head?”
Guests are going to be arriving soon, so I’m not surprised my mom’s patience is fraying. Even in her frustration, she’s so pretty. She’s wearing a turquoise shift dress with a long gold necklace. Anytime my mom’s in bright blue and gold she seems like Cleopatra to me. Her hair’s the same as always, dyed dark brown, parted down the middle, stick-straight, fighting against its wavy curls, voluminous on top and slicked back behind her ears with TRESemmé Level 4 spray. Mine’s similar, but longer, and I curl mine after straightening it. Hair occupies a lot of our lives.
My darling grandma Nene is here, too, in a green floral dress. She’s been looking bored as hell because she refuses to help with activities as frivolous as decorating (lucky). Hearing my mom chastise me, she perks up and holds my hand for a moment. It’s cool and wrinkle-soft. Then she relaxes back into her seat, where she’s reading Proust in the original French—God, I wish I had one ounce of her class.
I need to tell my mom about Trevor. I should have brought it up earlier, but I needed to process it myself first. Still, I’m getting nowhere on my own. I keep my voice casual, as if the situation is entirely hypothetical.
“What would you say if I told you Trevor proposed to me?”
“Proposed?” she says with a sharp burst of an R trill. She sets the cards down on the table. “When did this . . . ? You’re telling me now?”
Nene glances up from her book at my mom’s outburst, then settles back into it. I dust some lint off the tablecloth. “Last night, when we went out.”
“You’ve had this secret all morning? Kept it from me? It is unbelievable.” She picks the cards back up, sets them down. Then, she stares at my hands. “Where’s your ring?”
Without thinking, I touch my ring finger. I left the ring at home, but it feels more circumstantial, like I happened to be wearing it when he stormed off. I texted Trevor this morning before he took off, and he never responded. I guess we’re
definitely on a break. I mean, I didn’t accept the man’s proposal. I can’t blame him for dumping me, temporarily or not.
“I took it off because I didn’t want to take the spotlight away from Diana, but also mostly because I didn’t say yes.”
She waits a beat, absorbing my final words, then all her features lighten. She crosses herself twice and says, “Thanks to God. He was not right for you, my hokees.”
Then, as if nothing happened, she starts placing the rest of the game cards on the final table. I trail after her, almost indignant.
“Well I didn’t say no. And Dad always liked him.”
That’s an understatement. Dad fawned over Trevor. Thought he was exactly the type of guy I should be with, a real all-American boy who had a regular barber and wore boat shoes. And Trevor was with me the night Dad died. He saw me entirely undone and showed me so much kindness many months later when I was tired of holding up my glossy facade all day. Remembering that makes my stomach feel tight. That’s what a person should want out of a relationship. Right?
My mom sighs. “Trevor grew up how your Dad wanted to grow up. He wished he was Trevor, tall and American with university degrees.” Early on, Dad took to him so quickly. He would clap Trevor on the back twice and call him “my boy,” and every part of his face would swell, his moustache spreading wide across his mouth. I miss that expression of his—the pride in me for choosing so well. My stomach turns at what Dad would think now.
She continues. “Anyway, it is your life. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m only saying my opinion about you together.” Then she walks over to the dessert table to straighten out the cupcakes I previously arranged.
In other words, because she agrees with my decision not to accept Trevor’s proposal, she’s not going to launch into the usual opinions. Nothing’s stopped her before: lamenting how he joked that her sarmas looked like deep-sea slugs, or how she always wanted me to be with a classy man, or how some people just didn’t look like a couple. She would also pull some random guys’ names out of thin air, like a Sako Berberian or a Armen Shamlian, and say how they were impressive young men whose parents were pharmacists or professors, and wow, they were still bachelors; how lucky a girl would be to bag one of them. She’s never outright tried to stop me from being with Trevor, because he is handsome, with a promising career, and those virtues go a long way in my mom’s book. But she’s always been passive-aggressive about him.
Then I wonder if my mom’s thoughts on Trevor did secretly sink their hooks into me. If that was the real reason I turned him
down last night. She’s always been there, hovering around my every decision, but with Trevor, I thought I blocked her out. A white guy, an odar; talk about him all you want, it’s not going to change my mind. But God, of course she got into my head. There it is again—this party dress feels suffocating.
My mom spins around all of a sudden. “Wait. Is he not in Denmark right now?”
“Germany.” His first love.
“He works hard, and he’ll get far. That’s one good thing about him.” She’s giving me whiplash with her Trevor takes, but that’s Mom. She straightens out the ribbons on a nearby table. “So what are you going to do during this time? Make a pro and con list like in that show? You know, with the blond woman. Tall? Sometimes her hair looks oily on top—”
She interrupts herself, like she’s been possessed. Her hand is stopped over a piece of golden pomegranate decor.
“You will go to Explore Armenia,” she whispers.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about that big Armenian event that happens every three years, the one she was nagging me about yesterday. Must have been the pomegranate that reminded her—Armenians are obsessed with them, a symbol of fertility and abundance. We have five of them in our house, a modest number.
“Uh, yeah, we’re going to that final event.” I inwardly groan thinking about how my mom has signed me up for some overpriced, boring-as-nails banquet. But a small part of me rustles for attention, reminding me that Mom is finally going out again after Dad’s passing, and I should be supportive of this.
Plus, the keynote speaker is going to be Congresswoman Susan Grove, who represents the fourteenth congressional district, which is the one my newsroom covers. She’s a quarter Armenian and tends to champion Armenian causes, so somehow the Explore Armenia committee ensnared her into showing up at their party. Mark (evil Mark) usually sits in the press pit when she gives announcements, but I’ve never gotten to meet her. What if I could cover the banquet? She might be willing to give a quote. Ugh, that’s stupid, though. I’m dreaming that I could land an exclusive interview with a congresswoman. That’s “out of my lane,” as my boss would say.
My mom is smiling now, ...
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