Page 6 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Her former best friend looked mostly the same. Her dyed blonde hair fell in soft, pillowy waves around her face and shoulders, a point which Blake absolutely took notice of, considering that she hadn’t been able to afford a salon visit in months. And Blake couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Stephanie had recently had a new round of Botox. It was hard to tell, considering the way that Stephanie’s face was a little frozen in place could just be because she was playing possum, hoping that Blake would go on her way and spare them both the discomfort of fake pleasantries.

Nope. No such luck.

Blake was out of fucks to give.

“Doing a little weekend shopping?” she asked, staying rooted in place.

Stephanie looked past her again, and for a second, Blake wondered if Stephanie was honest-to-god considering running the cart straight through her.

Cleanup on aisle four: Blake Bettencourt’s mangled life—and limbs.

“Blake,” Stephanie whined, a petulant cross between annoyance and frustration in her tone. “I just popped in for a few things before I pick up Brax.”

Blake saw Stephanie’s daughter, Bella, weekly at dance class, but she’d only seen Braxton in passing since Christmas. Given that he was a few months shy of five, that was a lot of time in his little life she’d missed out on. Her heart clenched uncomfortably. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s . . .” She could tell from the way Stephanie’s face lit up talking about Brax that she was going to answer Blake like she was a real person, a former confidante and friend. But then Stephanie thought better of it, her mouth closing quickly. Instead, she cut her cart at an angle and started pushing it diagonally across the narrow aisle. “I need to get going, but it was so good to see you.”

Yeah, she’d definitely had a new round of Botox done. Maybe a little work on her eyes, too.

At least she didn’t have the audacity to lie and say they should get together soon or any of the superficial pleasantries that people pass between one another in church pews and grocery store aisles.

There were rules in towns like Cypress Falls, ingrained in little girls from the time of birth. Don’t cause scenes. Don’t bring attention to yourself unless it’s for the right reasons.

Blake didn’t bother looking for Stephanie again. There was no point. Instead, she went in the opposite direction, heading to the far side of the store, where they stocked the wine.

This year, a new rule had been added to the unwritten charter of Cypress Falls. Or, at the very least, the charter enshrined by the people her life had revolved around for the last decade: Blake Bettencourt, formerly Blake Duvall, was officially persona non grata, courtesy of her ex-husband and his family’s influence in this godforsaken town.

Stooping down, she grabbed two bottles from a bottom-shelf label—a white and a red.

And now, even as she felt the twinge of embarrassment that had been following her since December, she stood up tall, refusing to be run out of the place she’d always called home.

Maybe, somewhere along the way, she’d pick up the pieces of her life, too.

CHAPTER THREE

The sky was still bright when Blake pulled onto the cypress-lined street, her truck groaning with the effort of the tight turn.

She passed by lines of homes that looked similar to the one she lived in. They were all single-story, with either brick or siding, and they had some version of an overhang in the front for a porch. A few had double garage doors, though you’d be hard-pressed to fit more than one SUV in there. This neighborhood had been built before the adage “Everything’s bigger in Texas” had really taken root.

At one point, this neighborhood had probably had another name. Over the years, whatever it had been called had given way to an easier descriptor, something to orient people to the place where the little, single-story ranches were tucked away on a sleepy street.

These days, the area of town she called home was referred to as The Towers, which was funny, mostly because of the size of the houses. If someone came looking for a high-rise—or even an apartment building at all—they were in for a rude awakening. In reality, the square mile of perfectly rectangular plots had gotten its name because of the two large water towers at the end of the next street over, both looming and painted with the Cypress Falls town logo.

Blake parked her truck short of her house’s one-car garage door, festooned with dings from years of neighborhood kids playing basketball in and near the driveway. After running into Stephanie, she didn’t have the energy to think about all the small updates she wanted to do to make her rental a little more homey.

In spite of the work that needed to be done, she was grateful to have a place to call home again. The Jacksons—DeeDee and Raymond—had decided to move to Florida to be with their daughter, who’d had a difficult pregnancy and had recently given birth to twins. They could have made a killing on a short-term rental site, even with the lack of updates to the home, so she was doubly grateful that Holland had mentioned it to her one day at the dance studio, knowing that she was looking for a place.

Maybe the Jacksons would decide to sell at some point or ultimately come back to Cypress Falls, but Blake couldn’t worry about that right now. Her life had become putting one foot in front of the other and taking things day by day.

As evidenced by the way she hopped down from her truck and shut the door without thinking, already walking around the front hood to grab the bag of groceries from the passenger’s seat.

She almost didn’t clock what she was hearing, exhaustion beginning to roll through her body in waves that made her want to curl up on the sofa and fall asleep immediately.

Except . . .

She craned her head toward the house to the right, where the screen door was closed but the front door was open, so that it was possible to hear what was happening inside.

Blake hadn’t met the neighbors yet, given that she worked at Gumby’s every day and then spent at least half of her weeknights at the dance studio.