Page 83 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake nodded right back. “I knew you’d get it. The truck is the same. We can all hang out in the back when it’s parked, but until you don’t use a booster seat anymore, it’s not safe for you to ride in it. It’s what we call a ‘precaution.’ So that something bad doesn’t happen.” Blake held her hand up to her heart and took a small step closer. “I’d be too sad if anything ever happened to you, Maisie. Did you know that?”

Monroe could hear the earnestness in Blake’s words and was quietly affected by them herself.

She could see Maisie wavering, in real time, as her hand dropped from her hip, and she started swaying back and forth, considering the explanation. Finally, she admitted, her hand tugging at one of her braids, “I don’t want to get hurt. I like dance.”

Blake took a slow step closer. She ran her fingers soothingly along Maisie’s temple. “I don’t want that either, kiddo. So can you humor me for tonight and ride with your aunt? I promise you I’ll be right there when we get to the drive-in. Okay?”

And Monroe got it. Really, she did. The overwhelming want to be closer to Blake, consequences be damned. She’d been experiencing a lot of those herself lately.

It seemed like both of the Lockhart women were wrapped around Blake’s finger, much to Monroe’s dismay.

So, at the very least, she appreciated that Blake was sane enough to hold the line for all of them since she and Maisie clearly weren’t capable of doing it on their own.

Once Maisie had understood that the sooner she got in the SUV, the sooner she’d get to hang out with Blake again, it was like they couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

Which meant that they’d found themselves pulling into the drive-in lot right when it opened, still hours before sunset.

The drive-in theater was still the mostly no-frills experience Monroe remembered. The parking lot was a combination of gravel and grass in some spots, where extra cars would fill in on especially busy nights. There was still a playground over on one side, and Maisie was currently running around on it with one of the girls who she knew from daycare.

They’d parked side by side next to the jungle gym so that Maisie could burn off some energy before the movies, which would run far past her bedtime anyway.

Blake had gone to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and Monroe was leaning against the edge of the truck, watching Maisie.

She took a few seconds to look toward what she considered the real showstopper of classic Americana, over to where Blake had headed.

On the other side of the parking lot was a small building with a snack stand and an old neon sign highlighting what they sold. Monroe, as a kid, had thought that it was the height of cool. It was part of what had made her so interested in art. She would stare at it from one of the lawn chairs they’d placed in front of her mom’s car—when they were lucky enough that her mom had a car—and gaze at the glow, mesmerized.

It had been one of the first things that she’d ever tried to draw, though she’d struggled to capture the brightness and vividness of something she’d only ever seen on television before.

They hadn’t come to the drive-in theater often. Even back then, it was a luxury that her family couldn’t afford. It was a special occasion type of night, reserved for Monroe’s birthday, usually, which meant she had to wait almost the entire summer to know whether or not she’d have the chance to go, depending on how they were doing financially.

Not that her mom ever explained it that way.

Her focus dropped down from the neon sign when she clocked Blake’s familiar stride, walking along the cars, which were now steadily filling the parking lot.

She was carrying a huge tub of popcorn, grabbing pieces and popping them into her mouth as she walked. When she was close enough that she didn’t have to yell, she said, “I was worried this wouldn’t hold up to the test of time, but I was sorely mistaken. Want some?” She extended the bucket toward Monroe once she had walked around the truck.

Monroe grabbed a piece, salt and butter coating her fingers. Classic. She let the flavors melt in her mouth, and she let out an indulgent groan.

“Good, right?” Blake asked, eyeing her.

“There has to be something addictive in this.” Monroe popped another piece into her mouth, taking special care not to look at the sheen on Blake’s lips.

“Must be. All the best things are,” Blake quipped back, leaning next to Monroe against the truck. She gestured toward Maisie, who was climbing up a metal ladder, en route to the slide. “Seems like disaster was averted.”

“Thanks to you,” Monroe pointed out. She was absolutely going to give credit where credit was due. If Blake hadn’t intervened, she’d probably still be at the house, trying to negotiate with Maisie. “You’re really good with her. All the kids at dance, too.”

“Not really.” Blake took more popcorn, a handful, and shoved it in her mouth, trying to shrug off the compliment.

That didn’t sit right with Monroe. Sure, they didn’t need to throw Blake a parade or anything because she’d averted a five-year-old’s tantrum, but Monroe didn’t like how dismissive Blake was about the things that made her a good person—a good friend.

Monroe was finding it helpful to remind herself of their status whenever a chance presented itself. It was keeping her tethered a little bit more to reality, at least so that she didn’t do anything insane like lean over and brush her lips across Blake’s, just to taste the salt on them.

She could deny herself while also hyping Blake up. She contained multitudes like that.

“Blake . . .” Monroe challenged, wanting her to really listen. Their conversation from last weekend, when Blake had told her it seemed like her only value had come from being Noah Duvall’s wife, echoed in her mind.

God, what a ridiculous thing for Blake to think.