Page 80 of The Right Kind of Wrong

“Aunt Monroe?” Maisie asked, popping into the living room. She’d been in the bathroom brushing her teeth and “gettin’ ready for her big night,” as she’d explained to Monroe twenty minutes ago.

Monroe would have found it endearing how much Maisie had taken to Blake if it didn’t also cause a prickle of anxiety to work its way through her.

For as difficult as Monroe’s life had been at certain points, she’d always had to look out for herself first and foremost.

This—her responsibility for Maisie’s well-being and stability and comfort—was uncharted territory. Another in a long list of things she didn’t want to fuck up where her niece was concerned.

“What is it, hon?” she forced herself to respond, taking her hand away from the wall and flexing her fingers before dropping her arm down to her side.

“Can you braid my hair?” Maisie asked, lacing her fingers together and swinging her arms.

“Absolutely, kiddo,” she agreed quickly, happy to have somewhere to put her restless energy.

It hadn’t been spent finishing her pieces. That was a path to nowhere for the rest of the week—time she really didn’t have to spare.

Maisie skipped over to the sofa and sat down, facing sideways so that Monroe could sit behind her. Monroe knew that she wasn’t as good as this as her mom had been. Definitely not, judging from the pictures she’d seen of Maisie over the years with her hair in French braids. And especially not, based on the faces and sounds of discontent that Maisie made whenever Monroe tried to keep the strands together, sometimes accidentally pulling too hard.

Maisie held up her fingers. “Two, please.”

Monroe sat down behind her and scratched her scalp. “Two braids, coming right up.”

She had started to separate Maisie’s head of curly hair into parts when her niece said, “Like how Miss Blake wears them?”

Monroe frowned. French braids were already out of her area of expertise, but she’d learned. Fishtail braids were a whole new level entirely. “I don’t know how to do those, sweetie.”

Maisie twisted her tiny body around to look at Monroe, blue eyes big. “Can we ask her if she can help?”

Now, Monroe bit her lip.

They’d texted a couple of times, and yeah, Monroe was literally going to be seeing her in less than an hour, but she was all turned around on the etiquette of their friendship now.

Blake hadn’t said that she wanted more.

In fact, she’d been surprisingly understanding when Monroe had put a stop to things in the truck on Wednesday.

Which had taken a fortitude Monroe hadn’t known that she, herself, possessed.

Clearly she didn’t, since she was still thinking about that damn kiss, even days later.

But on some level, Blake had to understand that this was a bad idea, too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been so agreeable to putting a stop to things. Right?

Right?!

Also, since when was Blake Bettencourt queer?

Monroe hadn’t even had the chance to start unpacking that little factoid yet, even as the truth of it had literally kissed her right in the face.

A wave of guilt washed over her. A friend would be there for someone who was exploring their sexuality. Even if that friend had kissed her.

Right?

Right?!

Oh god, she had to stop asking herself whether she agreed with herself.

She scrubbed her hands down her face, willing away her confusion. It was a futile effort.

“Aunt Monroe?” Maisie’s small voice pulled her attention back into the room. Her niece sat in front of her, biting at the inside of her cheek, uncertain. “Are you okay?”