Page 17 of The Right Kind of Wrong

The punctuated tsk of Sylvia’s tongue came first, like she was considering saying no, before she finally acquiesced. “I’ll have the pieces packed and shipped to you. But I will require weekly updates on your progress.”

Monroe could agree to that, even if she didn’t like it. The push and pull and all that. Sylvia needed to feel like she was getting something out of this, too. Otherwise, she’d sit in her too-big home and stew over their conversation.

Monroe didn’t need more calls like this one in her future. “That seems more than fair,” she lied.

“I’ll be in touch,” Sylvia said before ending the call.

Monroe was suddenly left alone with the sounds of katydids rusting in the cypress trees, audible over the rumble of thunder that wouldn’t materialize into rain. It was the sky wailing into the growing darkness, overheated and trying to rid itself of some of the moisture to no avail.

She knew what it felt like to try and shed a skin that just wouldn’t come off.

“Dammit,” she heard suddenly, from the neighbor’s yard, followed by a groan. “This stupid door.”

Immediately, she knew that it was Blake’s voice. It held a light, airy tone that, even when she was swearing, had the unmistakable Texan lilt of a life lived in Cypress Falls.

Cocking her head, Monroe could hear the sound of metal scraping against itself, likely a misaligned runner on the screen, either due to humidity or wear.

And sure, Monroe wasn’t exactly the social type, but the dressing-down Blake Bettencourt had received from that woman in the park still echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t curious about what had caused it.

If nothing else, it would distract her from the weeks of Sylvia’s annoying prodding that she had to look forward to.

And from the difficulty of leaving Maisie at daycare tomorrow.

“Hello?” she called. “Blake?”

Their yards were separated by a line of thin trees, with enough space between them to walk through while still providing the illusion of privacy on a night like tonight.

How much of her own conversation, exactly, had Blake heard?

Blake appeared between two of the trees, her hands held up in surrender. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I promise.” Then, she looked around, taking in the backyard space. “Oh my god, this is gorgeous. I didn’t think that anything could rival the interior of your house, but I was wrong.”

She came closer, and Monroe could see that her eyes were a little glassy, either because she’d been drinking or crying. Maybe both.

Monroe herself tried not to preen from the praise, given how hard she’d worked to make this backyard vision a reality for her mom.

Monroe held up her empty bottle. “I’m grabbing another beer. Do you want one?”

They were obviously going to keep running into one another, and a truce was very likely in order. Plus, the Blake she remembered would never intentionally do anything to cause trouble. She was probably the most by-the-book person Monroe remembered from high school.

A smile slid over Blake’s face, like she’d just been offered something far rarer than a local Texas lager that was available at every bar and corner store within a hundred miles. “If it’s not an imposition.”

It took effort, but Monroe didn’t snort-laugh at Blake’s words, which were so Cypress Falls. “I’ll be right back. I’m Monroe, by the way.”

Quietly, she slipped inside the house and grabbed two bottles, returning back to the porch where Blake, who’d showered and put on a different outfit from the day’s earlier tank top and shorts, had situated herself on the sofa.

Monroe was handing her the beer when she felt Blake’s focus shift to her, suddenly less interested in the landscaping around them.

It was . . . a lot, the way her dark eyes scanned Monroe’s face. She hadn’t been looked at this way in a very long time, and heat rolled through her body at the idea of having Blake’s undivided focus.

Blake Bettencourt, in high school, had been magnetic—and not just because of her looks. She was one of those popular yet kind girls who never seemed to have a bad word to say about anyone.

She was all of the positive Southern stereotypes personified—and that was a very important point to put on it, given all the ways in which living here could be awful. She was a good girl, who’d always done the right thing. She was in pageants. She volunteered. She went to church every Sunday and on some Wednesdays, which Monroe only knew because of her childhood best friend, who’d attended the same one.

If Monroe had wanted to fit in in Cypress Falls, Blake would have been the type of girl to emulate. Instead, Monroe had holed up in the art room—or at home—and had disappeared into creating a world that didn’t much mirror the one she’d been living in.

But Blake as an adult? She was something else. Monroe couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but her whole body was buzzing with awareness as Blake continued to look at her like Monroe had every ounce of her focus.

She could feel Blake’s eyes sliding across her face, taking in Monroe’s full eyebrows, her blue eyes, the way her hair was spilling out of her ponytail, given the Texas heat and humidity that still hadn’t let up tonight.