Page 3 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Monroe lived in one of the six bedrooms in the home, and this was the one she’d called her own since their official breakup more than two years ago. They’d split up after her second show, which had debuted to rave reviews.

But reviews and a dozen pieces hanging on gallery walls didn’t pay the bills. Or, at least, they didn’t pay the kinds of bills that Monroe had needed to manage, even with Sylvia’s patronage.

When her mom had told her that Dean, Monroe’s brother, had been arrested—a multi-decade prison sentence looming on the horizon—she hadn’t been asking for anything.

That hadn’t stopped Monroe from feeling the overwhelming weight of responsibility when she’d thought about Kendra Lockhart in the trailer that she’d lived in for the last decade—a place that Monroe had once called home, too—along with a then two-year-old Maisie.

Sylvia had absolutely hated it when Monroe had started taking on commercial projects so that she could get her Mom and Maisie into a more stable living situation.

“You’re devaluing your brand,” Sylvia had said with the arrogance of someone who’d never had to pick between breakfast and dinner. Who’d never had to make a truly difficult choice once in her life.

So Monroe had told her—finally—that it wasn’t working. They weren’t working. There was no way that she could focus on her gallery work and her commercial work with Sylvia breathing down her neck on top of it, tsk-ing her constant disapproval at Monroe’s refusal to put her family in the rearview mirror.

The most shocking part had been Sylvia’s acceptance of the breakup, though it had been quickly followed by her even more shocking insistence that Monroe stay and continue working toward her next show, which had already been scheduled for over a year at that point.

And now, she was on the cusp of truly breaking through in the art scene.

Her fourth show would be at The Walker Gallery in New York City, and it would be her most prestigious one yet.

Sylvia would have never stood for being shut out of it.

Annoyance flared through her, but Monroe didn’t stop packing. She couldn’t. If she stopped, she’d likely crumple to the floor and lose it.

It was a surreal thought to realize that the woman she’d dated for almost four years was the last person she wanted to see her in a vulnerable state. And it wasn’t because they’d been nothing more than roommates for years at this point. She’d learned, early on in their relationship, that things worked best when Monroe produced art and kept her emotional outbursts, as Sylvia had called them, to a minimum.

Leave it to Sylvia to want the product without any of the feeling behind it.

Somewhere along the line, Monroe had traded the cage of an expected life of poverty for one that was far more gilded but left her feeling helpless in a surprisingly similar way.

There was no way that they were parting on good terms if Monroe was leaving at all, so she didn’t try to placate Sylvia. It wasn’t until she zipped her suitcase, unsure of what she was actually bringing with her, that she said, “I’m going home.”

Their stares met then, and Sylvia’s lips deepened into a harsh frown. “For how long?”

At least she wasn’t trying to talk Monroe out of it, which would have been a futile exercise anyway.

“I’m not sure.” It was as honest of an answer as she could give. Nothing quite felt real right now, and she wasn’t going to make promises she couldn’t keep.

Sylvia tapped her shoe against the hardwood floors. At least she’d have the chance to have them refinished with Monroe out of town. Or gone. Or whatever she was going to be.

Monroe had come to the East Coast ten years ago with a single suitcase, and now she was leaving with one, too. She liked the symmetry, and it felt strangely befitting, even with all that had happened in between.

It wasn’t until Monroe reached the doorway that Sylvia moved. Briefly, Monroe thought that she was going to hug her, but instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, looking as disapproving as ever.

She didn’t move out of the way, needing to have the last word. “This really isn’t a great time for you to be flouncing off to Pine Pond.”

Monroe nodded, her fingers tightening around the suitcase’s handle. “Sure. I’ll let my mom know at her funeral that she should have picked a more convenient time to drop dead. Any other condolences you’d like for me to pass along to her?”

Sylvia scoffed. “You’re being immature.”

“And you’re being a bitch,” Monroe said before using her larger frame to push past Sylvia, who finally moved out of the way. When Monroe reached the landing, where the ornate circular staircase would take her down to the massive foyer, she turned around, unsurprised to find Sylvia watching her, likely thinking that Monroe was going to come to her senses at any moment.

People didn’t throw away what Monroe had. Sylvia had drilled that into her for years. Access and funding and safety to pursue her creative passions.

But no one had ever accused Monroe of making great decisions, least of all herself. Which meant that her only parting words to Sylvia before she headed down the steps were, “And it’s Cypress Falls. You’ll need to mail my paintings there once I’m a little more settled.”

CHAPTER TWO

Blake was still getting used to the route that took her to the one-story ranch that she now called home, tucked away on a side street near downtown Cypress Falls.