Page 156 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Maisie didn’t need to worry about her aunt getting competitive with her. Monroe’s deep affections focused heavily on a singular person these days.

Two nights ago, after Blake had undressed Monroe and they’d slid into bed, Blake had told her about the unexpected visit from her sister.

Blake had described it as a veritable powder keg finally exploding, but she’d seemed better. Lighter.

And Monroe still wasn’t sure that Grace had done nearly enough that she should so easily be allowed back in Blake’s good graces, but that wasn’t Monroe’s decision to make. If she had it her way, anyone who’d ever caused Blake even a second of hurt would be drawn and quartered.

Plus, she couldn’t love all the goodness in Blake without accepting when it was bestowed upon other people, whether Monroe felt like they were deserving of it or not.

Blake hadn’t slept over last night, on account of needing to finish up some classwork. Denny had started their Saturday bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at an ungodly hour, so she also hadn’t laid eyes on Blake today.

The missing was new for her.

Throughout life, she’d done a good job of looking at what was right in front of her or focusing on clawing her way to the next rung on the ladder.

This? The sensation that it was wrong for Blake to be more than a few feet away, or for Monroe to feel like she was adrift, was entirely new.

Not bad, necessarily.

But scary? Definitely.

Maisie was starting school on Monday. Later next week, all of Monroe’s pieces would be packed up by the white-glove shipping service and sent back to New York.

Which reminded her: “I talked with Natalia yesterday. She’s interested in working with me on a show.”

The idea excited Monroe. A lot. But she didn’t give voice to that excitement. She’d tried to treat it like any old conversation, but inside, she’d felt like floating as Natalia made the official offer.

“Duh,” Denny said, like it was obvious that anyone in the art world would want to work with her so avidly.

But Monroe bucked against that way of thinking. She knew that the second she stopped being humble, life would come for her. Even in the decade that she’d been involved in the professional art scene—even less time as a professional artist, herself—she’d seen dozens of up-and-comers lose traction and fade into obscurity.

Lack of financing. Lack of ideas. The market’s tastes shifting. Drug problems. Being iced out because of some real or perceived slight against someone with influence.

The paths to obsoletion were far more likely than the ones in which a true, sustained career happened.

It still felt a little bit like fate that Maisie, excited by neon, had wanted to go into that gallery, of all places.

She’d never felt like the Lockharts were very lucky people, but that was starting to feel all kinds of untrue lately.

Or maybe she’d just finally opened herself to all the good things in life, even if they happened in unexpected ways.

They’d crossed the main drag of downtown and were headed out toward the falls. Monroe hadn’t thought to ask where they were going.

No time like the present. “Are we going to Slider’s?” she guessed when the roads started to curve in their lazy country way.

Up ahead, the neon drive-in sign came into view, sending a pang straight to Monroe’s chest.

She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that it was her birthday. Having attention focused on her had never been her strong suit, and this year, without her mom, it had been more complicated than she’d expected.

Saying nothing had seemed easier than explaining that.

What could she say, she was a work in progress.

She expected Denny to pass by the drive-in’s entrance, so she was surprised when he slowed down and took the right-hand turn onto the long, gravel drive that led toward the parking lot and giant outdoor screen.

“We’re going to the drive-in?” she asked, an excited flutter mingling with the sadness that had been coming in waves all day.

“If you hate it, just know that it wasn’t my idea,” Denny said as the rows of cars came into view.