Page 30 of The Right Kind of Wrong

There was a realism to her words that Blake envied. Monroe owned who she was and wasn’t going to be made to feel less-than because of it.

Outwardly, Blake had—superficially, anyway—had it all. And still, she couldn’t think about the past without feeling a little nauseous.

Then, Monroe added, “We had an art class together our sophomore year. Noah used to show up and try to get you to cut class with him.”

Unfortunately, Blake remembered it well. “The powers of proximity, even if Noah’s calling the shots, only extended so far. I’d have never gotten away with skipping class, even if it was at his behest. It was another thing I think he just wanted to see if he could get me to do.”

But she also remembered: “You were so incredibly talented, even back then. It doesn’t surprise me that you went on to do art professionally.”

Was Monroe blushing? Blake found that she quite liked the idea of throwing her off-balance. It felt, at the very least, like it was evening out their dynamic.

Monroe leaned against the arm of her chair, tucking both of her legs underneath her. “Art was an escape for me. I’m lucky that I could make a living from it.”

“And you do? Art, full-time, that is,” Blake clarified. She’d never met a professional artist before. They definitely didn’t frequent the Duvalls’ social circle. That only had room for politicians, CEOs, and anyone else who kneeled to the ethos that capitalism was king.

“Since I graduated. I do a mix of commercial work and shows, but I’ve been lucky. Definitely luckier than most,” she said humbly, like that wasn’t an insane accomplishment in its own right.

“Then what the hell are you doing back here?” Blake teased, not realizing where she’d misstepped. But she knew that she had, given how Monroe’s face fell into something serious, somber in a way that tugged anxiously at Blake’s heart.

Monroe glanced toward the yard, where Maisie had set up residence under one of the cypress trees and looked like she was holding a Barbie town council meeting.

It was clear that whatever Monroe was about to say, she didn’t want Maisie to hear it. “My mom was raising Maisie. A few weeks ago, she passed away unexpectedly.”

Blake held her hand up to her heart. “Monroe, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.” She felt out of her depth, fumbling as she asked, “What about Maisie’s parents?”

Which was also an incredibly stupid thing to bring up, judging by the dour look that crossed Monroe’s face again. Blake wasn’t sure that she was going to get an answer until Monroe said, “Her dad, the fucking idiot that he is, is in prison for at least the next decade. And her mom was fully out of the picture by the time that Maisie was two. Not that she was much help before then either.”

“Dean, right?” Blake had plucked that name from somewhere in the recesses of her mind, where random knowledge from the past lived that she’d never expected to call on again.

She also remembered seeing him in the papers a couple of years ago, though the exact nature of his crimes escaped her. It, like all things in Cypress Falls, had been fodder for a few days before something newer to gossip about had taken its place.

Monroe tipped her beer bottle to Blake. “My older brother, Dean. Father. Felon. Currently doing a multi-decade stint in federal prison. He was moved to Florida last year, which means that Maisie hasn’t seen him in at least that long.”

Blake looked toward Maisie, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness for her. God, what a tough road. It picked at something inside of Blake, a grief that had no discernible edges.

She looked back at Monroe, seeing a depth in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A responsibility that had been thrust on her, whether she’d wanted it or not.

Even if she didn’t want it, she was here, with Maisie, taking care of the little girl because she had no one else, when it was clear that the life that Monroe had spent a decade building definitely wasn’t in Cypress Falls.

Unthinkingly, Blake reached out and took Monroe’s hand, the one dangling over her knee. “I’m so sorry, Monroe. That’s such a shitty hand to be dealt.”

It made Blake feel like her problems were so small in comparison.

“I don’t know that I ever really expected things to end differently for the Lockhart family. At this point, I’m probably living on borrowed time by not being in jail or dead.” She laughed hollowly, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “Anyway, that’s my sob story. What’s yours? And please, leave no detail out. The more depressing, the better.”

Blake didn’t like getting into what had happened with Noah, but she was finding that she wanted to tell Monroe. At least to make her feel a little less alone, given all that she was going through.

She took a draw of beer. “You mean my husband leaving me for his pregnant mistress and presenting me with divorce papers on Christmas Day?”

“No!” Monroe gasped, sitting up straighter.

Dimly, Blake realized that their hands had come apart, and she tucked her arm back to her side, just so that she wasn’t tempted to reach out again.

It was easy to be distracted by the fire that still raced through her veins whenever she thought about it. “Or do you mean finding out that none of our assets were in our name, so there was nothing to be split in the divorce?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Monroe said, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “That cannot be true.”

“It sure is,” Blake confirmed. “The house and the cars were all owned by Duvall Distribution. I walked away with the clothing I owned and a couple of small appliances that I knew Noah wouldn’t know what to do with anyway.”