Page 12 of The Right Kind of Wrong

But she’d take what she could get. They both waved to Holland, who was already discussing what the next kid wanted painted on their face, and she gave them both a farewell wink.

It took a couple of minutes, but she and Maisie found a spot under a tree where there was still room, and Monroe laid out the blanket about a hundred feet from the stage.

They left their stuff on the ground and wandered over to the cluster of food trucks.

“Okay, let’s talk food,” Monroe said seriously. She pointed at the trucks situated near the far edge of the park, where they were headed. At least this she felt adept at handling. “Our options are tacos or BBQ.” She craned her neck, looking at the trucks farther down the line as they drew closer. “Or hot dogs. Looks like some pizza and chicken and cheeseburgers. Do any of those sound good?”

Maisie scrunched up her face, clearly unimpressed.

“Okay,” Monroe said quickly. She could do this. She’d been making strides in figuring out how to cook kid-friendly food over the last week with bouts of success, and there had to be something here that would grab Maisie’s attention. “They also have funnel cakes and lemonade?” she chanced before adding, “It’s not exactly a nutritious lunch, but how many times a year does the Wild West Fest happen?”

Her childhood diet had consisted of a lot of chili, frozen foods that she and Dean had heated up in the microwave, and whatever the school had been offering for free lunch, and she’d turned out just fine. Mostly.

“What’s a funnel cake?”

Monroe didn’t have to pretend to look aghast. “You’ve never had a funnel cake?”

Maisie shook her head seriously. “Nana didn’t like me eating junk food.”

Her heart squeezed uncomfortably at the mention of her mom, but she tried not to let it show just in case Maisie was looking to her for how she should feel when talking about Kendra. Hell if Monroe really knew.

But when she really thought about it, it didn’t surprise her that her mom had tried to do things differently with Maisie. And even if Monroe’s childhood hadn’t been easy, she’d loved her mom, and she knew that she’d done her best in spite of the difficult road she’d had to navigate as a single parent with two kids and a high school GED.

Monroe scuffed her boot against the ground, struck by the unfairness of it all. Her mom should be here, enjoying these small moments with Maisie. Monroe should have been here, too, not fucking off in New York and leaving her mom to get more unwell with nowhere to turn for help.

None of the money that she’d made and faithfully sent home had obviously made a difference when it came down to it. And it wasn’t like she’d been at the peak of happiness in New York either, stuck in whatever fucked-up relationship she had going with Sylvia, constantly pulled between making art for expression and art for money. She spent more time than she’d have ever thought schmoozing with gallery owners and tastemakers in the scene, Sylvia insistent that she be connected with the “right” people.

And, frankly, those people sucked. Like, a lot. They were rich and pretentious and couldn’t fathom what not knowing where their next meal was coming from was like.

Her life was a mess. Both of them: her old life and the new one that she’d been thrust into without really knowing whether she could do it.

And the one person she’d wanted to call and ask for advice wouldn’t be able to answer the phone ever again.

They were standing in front of the funnel cake stand without Monroe realizing that she’d walked them here, tears stinging the back of her eyes. She gave Maisie’s hand a quick squeeze and stepped up to the counter. “One funnel cake and two lemonades, please.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The midafternoon sun was beating down on Blake, and she’d be surprised if the part in her hair wasn’t sunburnt. She should have remembered to bring a hat, but then again, she hadn’t thought that she’d be going on five hours without seeing another volunteer to relieve her of her duties.

The Foam Frenzy had been set up in the far southeast corner of the park, and so far, anyone old enough to vote had been steering clear. The parade had been over for hours, and the event was swarming with families, though her lot in life seemed to be wrangling boys between the ages of eight and twelve who were looking for unsupervised trouble. It also didn’t help that she was in the area dubbed on the map as “The Splash Zone,” so no one with any sense would wander through the sprays of water that seemed to be coming from every direction.

Unfortunately, she needed a bathroom—imminently—or these kids were going to get a whole lot more than they’d bargained for today. Add urinating in public to the list of sins this town could hold against her.

She blanched. God, she’d never do that, but boy, would that be a legendary story for years to come.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, then the sidewalk—urgently.

Oh, thank fuck.

“Denny,” she yelled when she saw a familiar-looking man moving down the sidewalk, about twenty feet away from her.

“Oh, hey, Blake,” the mechanic said good-naturedly, trotting over to her like a golden retriever. He took off his cap and wiped a handkerchief across his brow before tucking it into the back pocket of his greasy jeans. “They sure picked a hot one today. Guess that’s good for you?” He gestured around toward the water, seemingly oblivious to the mud and bugs that came with it.

“Sure,” she said before quickly adding, “I have a favor to ask. Can you please hang out here for a couple of minutes while I go figure out where my replacement is? Someone should have been here at least an hour ago, but no one’s come by.”

The hesitation was written across his face at the idea of being in charge of the dozen or so rowdy boys wrestling in the foam. “Um . . .”

At that moment, Blake could well and truly not take no for an answer. She popped up from her chair and put her hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to take her place. “You’re the best. I’ll be ten, no, fifteen minutes, tops. Someone should come back and take your place, and if they don’t, I’ll be back myself.”