Page 73 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Once it had clicked in her mind, it had slotted in so easily that she’d actually laughed out loud, alone in her house on Sunday morning.

It had struck her, as she’d been having her morning coffee, enjoying watching the sun rise. She’d woken up, after a fitful sleep, having gone home from Monroe’s only hours before.

They’d stayed on the sofa, leaning close, staring at one another, as Maisie had slept between them. Blake had only gone home when Maisie had finally stirred and Monroe had taken her to bed.

Frankly, it had been a perfect night. At least, that’s what she’d been thinking until the idea of more had popped into her mind, unbidden.

What if she’d moved her hand a few inches over so that she could gently scratch up and down Monroe’s arm, watching as the hair stood up like she’d seen it do before, as Monroe revelled at last Saturday’s fireworks?

Or what if she’d leaned in closer so that their breath mingled together, as they shared the same air?

Her stomach had done a somersault when she’d wondered what would have happened if she’d closed the space between them and tasted what Blake just knew were impossibly soft lips.

Would Monroe have kissed her back? Would she have taken Blake’s head in her hands and pulled her close, deepening the moment?

Blake let out a shaky exhale.

Fantasy was one thing, but she was possibly going to see Monroe soon, and she couldn’t let her thoughts grow too out of control.

Finally settled on a shirt, she pulled it over her head, aware of the thump thump thump of her heartbeat as she thought about what that kiss would feel like.

If you asked her, she hadn’t been raised in the most religious household in the world, but anyone outside of Texas probably wouldn’t have seen it that way. Church on Sunday. Bible study on Wednesday. A healthy fear of god that had been instilled in her since birth.

And if he was real—and adhered to the teachings of the Southern Baptist church—he probably wouldn’t much approve of all the places her mind had wandered in the last few days.

Because sitting on the sofa with Monroe, so close that Blake could have leaned forward and kissed those soft, pink lips, had felt more right than anything she’d ever experienced before.

And now that she knew about these feelings that she had toward Monroe, her instinctive reaction was to ignore them. To do everything in her power not to act on the growing, lingering butterflies that took up residence in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought about Monroe—which was often.

Blake didn’t really know what she believed anymore. She hadn’t for a long time. The Duvalls had only bowed down to one god—money. Her parents and sister still went to church on Sundays, but Blake had stopped that practice long ago, once she’d married Noah, much to her parents’ chagrin.

It had never sat well with her, the ideas of subservient women and too much judgment and fighting so hard just to be deemed worthy.

Like Monroe had said on Saturday, life was already hard enough, without people—or gods—making it harder.

Blake had never felt like she needed to ascribe to some sort of higher calling because it would give her the chance to get into a good afterlife.

Being a good person made her feel good. Shouldn’t that have been enough?

Truly, what did it mean about society that people acted like, without an omnipotent power hanging over them, they’d behave much, much differently in the world?

That was all to say that Blake didn’t have a problem with the idea of wanting Monroe. Not in any serious, tangible sense.

If anything, she was reeling from being so blind to her attraction to women for so long. Isn’t that something she should have known about herself?

She’d never felt this way with Noah, even in the early days. Being wanted had felt exciting, but she’d never been so out of her mind that she couldn’t stand the idea of not touching him. She hadn’t fantasized about him when they weren’t together.

She was twenty-eight, and suddenly, love songs that came on the radio made a whole hell of a lot more sense.

Yesterday, she’d been driving home from work and a sappy, lovey-dovey country song had come through her crackling speakers.

And she’d felt it. For the first time, she’d felt it thinking about Monroe.

The wanting. The neediness. The complete upheaval of everything she’d known.

So maybe she didn’t know exactly what she was going to do about it, but she sure as hell knew that she wasn’t going to be keeping herself boxed away.

She’d moved out to the kitchen, eyeing her coffee maker and deciding whether to make another cup when her phone pinged.