Page 86 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Monroe shrugged, her eyes landing everywhere but on Blake. “It’s not like there’s that much new information to update anyone on. Most of our conversations are about what Maisie has going on or the two of them talking.”

Blake looked down at the table. “What are you working on?”

“I’m making Maisie a neon sign for her room. Except that unless I get really into glassblowing, it’s going to be made with LED lights instead.”

Upon closer inspection, Blake could see that the tubes were hollow, with an ‘M’ that had taken shape already on the far side of the table, affixed to clear backing that ran another two feet across. Presumably, it was waiting for more tubing to be run across it, spelling Maisie’s name.

Gun to her head, Blake could at least guess on that one.

She shifted sideways so that she and Monroe stood on the same side of the table, both looking down at it. “Mind if I watch?”

It was hard to think of anything that she’d find more gratifying than watching Monroe mold the plastic tube into cursive script, to see how she worked when she was creating something.

Blake wasn’t an especially creative person. She’d always liked numbers more than ideas. And she’d never been great at visualizing anything into conception. It was probably why it had been so easy for her to accept the plan that other people had for her life; she couldn’t imagine it clearly anyway.

Or maybe that was because she hadn’t wanted to let herself imagine what she’d actually wanted it to be. It wasn’t going to be what anyone in her life wanted for her.

“How voyeuristic of you,” Monroe said without looking at her as she began to work again.

The word sent a little thrill down Blake’s spine, making her even warmer, but she didn’t comment on it.

Instead, for about a minute, Blake did just watch. Monroe’s arms. Her hands. A few times, she snuck glances at Monroe’s face, which was deep in focus as she tested the creation of the cursive scrawl.

“I’m doing it freehand, so it’s a lot more trial and error,” Monroe explained as what looked like a perfectly formed lowercase ‘a’ to Blake was uncurled to start again.

“Did Maisie ask you to make this?” Blake spoke quietly, trying not to disrupt Monroe’s process.

“No. I got the idea from the drive-in this weekend. I always loved that sign. Dean did, too.” There was an edge of anguish in Monroe’s voice, and Blake felt like it very much had to do with her brother.

She wouldn’t press Monroe to talk about him, but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be here if Monroe decided she wanted to share anything else.

They fell back into silence as the cursive ‘a’ took shape again. Blake made sure not to lean too far toward Monroe; if their arms brushed together, it might throw Monroe off. Which was really hard, considering how soft the contours of Monroe’s body were, just begging to be leaned against.

“Dean always stole me art supplies when I was young and just starting out. I mean, he never admitted that he stole them, but I’d come home and there would be a new set of drawing pencils on my pillow or really nice paper. They were things that we’d never have been able to afford.” Monroe smiled, though her lips dropped into a frown when she said, “He always told me that the art fairy must have brought them.”

Blake ran her hand along the acrylic backing, the smooth edges flush against her fingertips. “Sounds like he was one of your earliest fans.”

“He made everything so fun,” Monroe said wistfully as she continued manipulating the tubing. “My mom always worked two jobs, and since he was older, a lot of my summers were spent with Dean in charge. He was constantly coming home with random pieces of junk that he’d found or tools that he borrowed, if not outright stole.”

“Like the games he made up,” Blake said, remembering their conversation from the carnival.

“Yeah, like those,” Monroe said quietly, her voice etched with sadness. “I think that he would have been genuinely happy living in Cypress Falls, working hourly jobs to make enough money to survive, tinkering around with his projects. And look, I have no false notions that my brother was a saint, but it just sucks that he stupidly threw his own life away. That he’s missing out on Maisie’s life.”

Blake’s lips twitched. Dean was going to be in prison for at least the rest of Maisie’s childhood, which meant that something had gone very awry. So either Monroe didn’t know her brother as well as she thought she did or he’d gotten caught up in something bigger than he’d expected.

“Someone got hurt?” Blake asked, knowing that this story already had an unhappy ending.

Dean, in Florida, was living proof of that. Before she even knew about any other damage that had been done.

“Can you hand me that soldering iron?” Monroe asked. She pointed to a tool that looked like a large pen.

Blake picked it up by the base and handed it to Monroe, their fingertips brushing as she did. She felt the spark from the contact and wondered if Monroe noticed it, too.

She didn’t especially mind if Monroe didn’t. This—Monroe opening up to her—was just as potent as any physical connection between them.

With something to occupy her hands, Monroe started speaking again. “Things got harder when Maisie was born. He and Josie—Maisie’s mom—hadn’t been together for long when she got pregnant. At that point, they both lived with my mom, in the trailer park out near the edge of town.”

Blake knew of it, but she’d never been there herself. A cluster of single-wides with a long, gravel road connecting them as a community. It didn’t have a great reputation, but then again, she was sure that just as much crime was happening in other parts of town. Consequences were just enforced more harshly there.