Page 85 of The Right Kind of Wrong

And in spite of the fact that Blake was turning Monroe so inside out that she didn’t know which way was up anymore, shockingly, she was too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

On Wednesdays, Blake didn’t teach classes after work. Which meant that she’d pull into her driveway in the late afternoon, wondering what Monroe was doing over in her house.

Today, she didn’t have to wonder.

The garage door to Monroe’s house was open, and she could see Monroe standing at a table, her hand wrapped around the back of her neck while she rubbed at the muscles there.

She was focusing intently on something, but Blake couldn’t tell from her vantage point what it was.

So, obviously, she was going to find out.

As Monroe’s friend, that was very much in Blake’s purview. Even though her thoughts were decidedly unfriendly—clocking the exposed skin from Monroe’s tank top and the tight fit of her dark jeans—as she made the short trek over to the garage, where Monroe was still unaware that Blake’s truck had rumbled into the driveway.

Whatever she was thinking about was capturing her full attention, which only made Blake walk faster.

Blake crossed the threshold onto the epoxy flooring, figuring that it was time to make Monroe aware of her presence. God knows how long she could just stand there watching her. Because she, personally, would get a great deal of satisfaction out of watching Monroe work. And Monroe, herself, seemed to be lost in thought.

Blake cleared her throat. “What are you working on?”

Monroe’s hand flew to her heart, and she reeled around, eyes wide. “Shit. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.” Blake held up her hands. “I promise that I come in peace. I just got home from work and saw the garage door open.”

And then she stood there, with Monroe in a very similar position, the moment stretching between the two of them.

It was about ten degrees hotter in the garage than outside, without the light breeze, but Monroe had a fan set up in the corner, blowing toward where she was working.

From where Blake stood, she could see what looked like tubing stretched across the table, along with tools that, gun to her head, Blake wouldn’t have been able to name.

Blake couldn’t quite place it, but Monroe was acting differently today. Even more reserved than normal. She hadn’t moved from where she was standing, like maybe she was just waiting for this conversation to finish and for Blake to go back to her own house.

It wasn’t the familiar place that they’d gotten to, which, strangely, only made Blake want to dig in her heels and stay longer. This was not her usual MO at all, considering her life to this point had been all about taking the path of least resistance to keep the peace.

She tried to think about what could have happened to put them off-kilter, if it was about her at all.

Since Saturday, things had been fine.

Sure, Blake had shared her deepest insecurity with Monroe, but then they’d moved past it. As they’d been watching the movies at the drive-in, sometimes her stomach would do an uncomfortable flutter as she realized just how vulnerable she’d been, but she’d tried to ignore it as best she could.

And she’d succeeded, mostly.

Only now, that churning came back with a vengeance, and the only way to placate it was to ask, “Are you okay? You sort of look like . . .” Blake chewed on her lip, trying to find the words. “Well, you don’t exactly look happy.”

Monroe deflated slightly, her exposed shoulders rolling inward, making her stand a little smaller. “Today’s my brother’s birthday. Exactly a month before mine,” she added absently, but Blake filed that tidbit away like it was precious information.

Blake realized what was missing from the scene as she scanned the quiet garage. “Where’s Maisie?”

Monroe slowly wiped her hands on a rag. “She’s at a playdate with one of her daycare friends. She’s getting dropped off in about an hour.”

Of all the dynamics in Monroe’s life, the relationship that she had with her brother was the most unknown to Blake. He was in prison, and it didn’t seem like they’d had a strong relationship before that. However, Monroe was here, taking care of his daughter. Something that wasn’t a short-term ask. Monroe was giving up her entire life to shepherd Maisie into adulthood, and Blake had only heard Monroe mention her brother a couple of times.

She knew that they talked to Dean weekly, during a phone call that he made from prison. And she knew that he’d been moved to Florida last year, making in-person visits difficult.

Sure, Monroe was doing all of this for Maisie, absolutely, but Dean must be a big part of that, too.

Deciding to take a chance, Blake walked a few feet deeper into the garage and leaned on the metal table Monroe had set up as a makeshift workstation. “You don’t talk about Dean much.”