Page 50 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Finally, Monroe seemed to take pity on her curiosity. “Denny and I were always, and will always be, just friends. He’s not my type.”

“I hope he knows that,” Blake teased, feeling surprisingly lighter. “Otherwise, he’s in for a depressing reunion.”

Blake wondered about Monroe’s life back in New York. Whether she missed it. God forbid that she and Maisie would one day return to it, once they settled into their relationship with one another.

She didn’t like the achy feeling that wondering about the Lockharts’ long-term plans made appear in her chest, and, intent to distract herself, she asked a possibly even more volatile question.

“So . . . what is your type?” She couldn’t look at Monroe while she said the words. She was embarrassed to have asked it, even though she couldn’t stop herself.

It was an incredibly normal conversation topic, all things considered. She knew what all of her friends had wanted in a partner, and she knew who had missed the mark in their relationships (most of them), with varying degrees of weaponized incompetence or infidelity or emotional dysregulation.

The dating—and marriage—pool in Cypress Falls was not for the faint of heart.

Monroe tilted her head to the side, studying Blake. She pursed her lips and bit at the inside of her cheek. Finally, she said, “Well, I’m a lesbian, so definitely not Denny.”

Her blue eyes bore into Blake, like she was daring her to comment on it.

And Blake did hold her stare, as long as she could, though she had to return her focus to driving as they eased onto the windy roads that would eventually lead to the coffee shop.

Even with her focus back on the road, buildings turning into bramble, Blake was too busy to do anything except feel Monroe’s words lodge in her chest as a fluttery sensation that expanded outward. She’d known, at least, that Monroe wasn’t straight after their conversation in the fort.

And it was completely normal to want to know more. At least, that was her own internal reasoning when she responded, “You mentioned Sylvia the other night. So you two aren’t⁠—”

It was Monroe’s turn to groan. “Absolutely not.”

“But you still work together?” Blake asked, trying to make the pieces fit. It was an unorthodox working relationship, to say the least.

“She was my undergrad professor in art school. We didn’t get together until after I graduated, but it was very clear to me that she was . . . interested before that.” Monroe’s tone was resigned, like she’d made whatever peace she’d needed to a long time ago.

That didn’t stop Blake’s nose from scrunching up. “That’s kinda messed up.”

Monroe laughed. “Yeah, it probably was. But Sylvia opened a lot of doors in the art world for me. There’s no doubt about that. And she sort of acted as my patron, giving me a place to live, buying all of my supplies. She had the access, and I had the talent. We were a team in that respect.”

Blake’s internal voice was screaming for her to disagree with the whole situation, at Monroe practically being groomed, but she bit back her words. Instead, she said, “And you’re still a team? Professionally?”

She hated everything that Monroe was telling her, but she couldn’t help wanting to know more. About Monroe, who’d left home and moved halfway across the country at eighteen, trying to make a better life for herself. Instead of being met with genuine care, it sounded like she’d fallen into the clutches of a woman who wanted to siphon her talent for her own gain.

And Blake knew that Monroe had incredible talent. She’d looked up her pieces, the ones that she could find photos of publicly available on gallery websites or from private collections that had been loaned out. Dozens of beautiful canvases echoed love and pain and loss and instability.

It was like all the things that Monroe didn’t say, she poured into her art. When Blake had gotten home last night, with the lights at Monroe’s house off, she’d gone inside and tried to go to sleep.

But sleep hadn’t come, and before long, she’d found herself scouring the internet for more about Monroe and the life she’d led since leaving Cypress Falls.

“I looked up some of your work last night,” she admitted, as the song on the radio shifted into something slow, crooning through her old speakers.

Monroe’s eyes fixed on her again, darting upward in surprise. “Is that so?” she said before adding, “I figured you were out having a wild weekend. I didn’t see you when I got home.”

Something about Monroe noticing that she’d been out—and commenting on it, on top of that—sent a little thrill through Blake. It felt good to be noticed, after feeling invisible for so long. Still, she tried to maintain her outward calm. “Yesterday was a mess. Holland took me out for a drink. A few actually, after my niece’s birthday party, to help me drown my sorrows.”

That, fairly, earned Blake a confused look. “I don’t know how we got from A to B,” Monroe said, “but you have my attention.”

Blake laughed and slowed her truck as they came up behind a car that was insistent on going at least ten miles below the speed limit. She didn’t mind it one bit, the idea of them having more time together, even though she felt a small pang when she admitted, “My sister invited my ex-husband—and his new wife—to my niece’s birthday party.”

“No!” Monroe said, turning her body fully toward Blake, one of her legs bent so that she could press her shoulder into the passenger seat. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re god’s strongest soldier in this town, Blake Bettencourt. Every single thing you tell me is somehow worse than the worst thing that you’ve told me before.”

Blake waved her away, even as Monroe’s commiseration buoyed her spirits. “That’s the annoying thing about social circles. They don’t like to change, even when something awful happens. Plus, my brother-in-law works for Duvall Distribution. I’m sure that Grace—my sister,” Blake clarified, “didn’t want to miss a chance to suck up to the Duvalls.”

Albeit slowly, they took a curve, and the drive-in theater came into view, still a main attraction during the summer.