Page 37 of Dear Ripley

Huh. So, I guess that means I can say whatever I want. Interesting.

Okay, well, if I were to say things to you, to address what you sent me, I guess I’d tell you that it hurt. More than you can imagine. More than I would like to admit—at least outside this letter. I guess that’s not surprising, though. When someone you’ve loved for most of your life sends you such a clear message that they hate you and don’t want you around, it’s bound to hurt, right?

Perhaps my note hurt the same way. I’m sorry if it did. I’m sorry for making you feel like an illness I was trying to avoid catching. You’re not. You are something I need to avoid, but it’s not because you’re diseased or poisonous or toxic, or anything bad. It’s because being around you is still so hard.

Is it supposed to be like that after so much time? Is it supposed to hurt so much when your ex-wife rejects you?

It’s not like you haven’t rejected me before, in far worse ways—for what is divorce if not the ultimate rejection?

I’m pretty sure it’s my least favorite type of rejection. ‘Once upon a time, I loved you so much I could barely breathe with it. These days, I’d like you to fuck off out of my life and let us never see each other again.’ Not exactly the magical love story I’d had planned for us, you know? There’s probably humor in there somewhere. Maybe I’ll find it someday. Eight years hasn’t quite done it. Maybe eighty will?

This is more than I was planning to write, honestly. I really was just trying to get Harlow off my back, but I guess I had some things I needed to say. Maybe I’ll have to write you more letters I’ll never send. Years of therapy and nobody suggested writing you letters I’d never send as a coping strategy. Seems weird now, like such an obvious tool.

But I can’t write too much, Harlow will think she’s onto something, and that… Well, we all know she’s just living on a well-deserved cloud nine right now and everything looks just a little bit nicer in her world.

I’m sorry, Ripley. I’m sorry for the way things ended. I’m sorry for the way they’ve gone the last eight years. And I’m sorry for being back here and hurting you so much. I never, ever meant to hurt you. All I ever wanted for you was to be happy and loved. I’m sorry I lost sight of how I was supposed to do that.

I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t really think.

I stared at the words, taking them in over and over again. It didn’t read like someone who’d been happy we were over, who’d not missed me one bit the last eight years. It read like… like something I’d write to her.

Morgan screamed when the buzzer rang, clearly having been so focused on me that she’d forgotten the rest of the world existed and we were waiting for food.

Honestly, so had I.

“Sorry,” she giggled, jumping up and coming around to face me. Her eyes ran over my expression, her face lighting up. “Oh my god, you’re going to write her back!”

“No, I’m not,” I replied immediately, my voice and legs shaky.

“Oh, you so are,” she laughed, reaching towards the intercom. “And it’s going to be amazing.”

I stood staring at her, the letter in my hand feeling hot and demanding.

Was she right? Was I going to write Alicia back? Something less aggressive and angry this time?

It didn’t seem like a great idea, and it would definitely reveal that Harlow had given me her very private letter. But Alicia had said it herself—writing letters to each other could be powerful, healing. And, maybe, after eight years of nothing and a whole host of feelings therapy hadn’t gotten rid of, maybe writing to each other wasn’t the worst thing we could do.

Chapter 13

Alicia

“The ex has been in touch,” Harlow said.

“Ellie has?” I asked, looking at her in confusion. As far as I knew, Ellie hadn’t been in touch since she fucked her colleague while Harlow was home alone, grieving, and left her. “Why?”

She shrugged, a look on her face that suggested she was trying not to look affected by the contact even though she was definitely affected. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“But if you had to guess?” I prompted.

Ellie was mysterious. She’d gone really hard on proving she loved Harlow when they first got together—constant contact, flowers, neverending social media posts, and a serious reluctance to leave Harlow’s side. It was hard, when someone behaved like that, to see the red flags.

Over the years, she’d loosened up a bit. Their relationship in real life became less intense, and Harlow was more able to do things alone. Online, the barrage of carefully curated ‘we’re so in love’ content continued. But, if you saw them in real life, it was hard not to notice how fake the posts were becoming.

Nothing—no matter how much I’d worried about Harlow—had indicated Ellie was going to cheat, however. That had really been out of left field.

Though, perhaps not. Harlow was shiny, new, and impressive to her when they were early in their relationship. She got to show off having a partner, one who was beautiful, intelligent, friendly, and impressive. Getting married was another milestone we’d all been told we were supposed to hit, that it was a marker of success. Ellie wanted that. She loved the production of the wedding, the people fussing over the two of them, the attention and adoration. And, in the immediate aftermath, the thrill of talking about being a newlywed, of having a new wife, of getting to introduce Harlow as her wife.

And then reality set in, and things went downhill.

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