Page 68 of The Right Kind of Wrong

It made Monroe feel squirmy, and she adjusted on the sofa, remembering that she hadn’t texted Blake back.

With Maisie down for the count, there was really no excuse.

But she didn’t know what to do with someone like Blake. She seemingly wanted nothing except to be a good friend, someone Monroe could lean on amid the chaos of her new life.

So why, then, couldn’t Monroe let her in?

God, the directions that her mind had been going in lately had prompted more self-reflection than she’d done in her entire life.

Her art was about how she saw the world. She liked it that way. She could be turned outward, focused on anything but herself.

It felt like being home again wasn’t leaving her many places to hide.

Even as she’d worked on her art all week, it had been . . . different.

Uncomfortable thoughts had swirled in her mind while she’d been trying to focus on the lines and shadows and contours of what had, a few months ago, felt very clear to her.

Nothing felt clear now.

Not the instability of her childhood. Or losing her mom so unexpectedly. Or being solely responsible for the well-being of another person.

And definitely not Blake, whom Monroe had already let get too close.

The harder Monroe tried to keep her at bay, the closer, it seemed, she idiotically walked toward the fire.

Monroe’s life worked because people needed things from her, not the other way around. Sylvia needed her talent. Her mom needed her financial stability. Maisie needed her to ensure that she was cared for, now that her nana was gone.

Again, she thought about the fact that Blake had so insistently professed that she wanted Monroe’s friendship.

Which was laughable because, besides showing up with coffee and pastries, Monroe didn’t know what she really had to offer. Denny had snuck in through the side door of their youth, before she’d hardened and solidified into the person she’d become in adulthood.

Unfortunately, even if she did yearn for closeness and connection, that was easier said than done.

She plucked her phone out of her pocket and finally sent Blake a response.

Monroe Lockhart - 11:15 a.m.

We’re good over here. Just hunkered down so that Maisie can recover. Hope that you still end up doing something fun this weekend.

“This is not what I meant by doing something fun.” Monroe surveyed Blake, who was standing in the doorway, a container in each hand.

“I made soup,” Blake whispered, leaning forward but not stepping inside.

Monroe could smell the soft, clean scent wafting from Blake. Either her shampoo or body wash or perfume or laundry detergent.

Regardless of what it was, it made her take a small step back so she wasn’t enveloped in it any longer.

“I don’t need to stay,” Blake added, looking at Monroe like she did, in fact, very much want to stay. “I didn’t know if you had time to make anything today, and it seemed like the neighborly thing to do. It’s homemade chicken broth and some chicken noodle soup. I didn’t know where Maisie was at when it came to her appetite.”

Blake was trying to drive her slowly insane.

Monroe opened the door wider. “Well, by all means. Come join the party.”

The vibrant smile that she got in return was like the sun coming out after a summer storm as Blake stepped into the living room.

“Miss Blake,” Maisie yelled from the sofa, where she was sitting up, curled into a big blanket so that it draped over her shoulders. “You comin’ to hang out?”

Blake made an adorable face at Maisie before looking toward Monroe with big, puppy-dog eyes. “If your aunt Monroe doesn’t think it would be too much for you.”