Page 63 of Dear Ripley

And now, I must do actual work. I’m certain you have things to be doing too. Harlow surely needs help with something adorable and baby-related.

I lay on my bed, staring at the letter. It hadn’t even been six hours after getting my letter that Ripley had replied. Something about that fact did things to my heart—things it absolutely should not be doing.

Something about the tone, how casual, fun, and relaxed she seemed, also made me feel things I shouldn’t. I knew Ripley, and this was her in a good mood. This was her almost flirty. Which didn’t really make any sense. We still didn’t talk to each other, there was still so much painful history between us. Plus, the change had been so sudden. It didn’t really make any sense. Maybe she’d been replaced by an imposter.

Or, maybe I didn’t really know her very well at all anymore.

My brain spun and spun, trying desperately to make sense of it. In the end, I supposed there was no way to know the answer without asking her, and I wasn’t about to do that. But, maybe, it might have been related to the change in tone in my letter.

So far, it had felt like we were always on the defensive or apologizing. In my last letter, I’d been a little more fun than usual, hadn’t I? I’d danced around the sunflowers thing, desperately curious to see her reaction. I’d mentioned Ekundayo and Joel and the monstrous popcorn-ice cream combination—the one she was wrong about.

If I’d known it would be that easy to fall into a familiar, friendly, comfortable pattern with Ripley—even just in letters—I’d probably have done it earlier.

Who was I kidding? I’ddefinitelyhave done it earlier.

Part of me thought I should wait to reply, be cool, or at least make it seem like we didn’t need to reply to each other the minute a letter was dropped off. But I didn’t want to. And neither, it seemed, did she. I’d dropped my previous letter off early in the morning before she’d be at work, and before most people would be up and about—the last thing I needed was people speculating about me writing love letters to my ex-wife.

Not that they were love letters.

But, I’d dropped the letter off early, she’d arrived, read it, written a reply, and now returned it, seemingly, in her lunch break. Two letters exchanged before lunchtime. Was it excessive to go for a third before dinner?

I mean, it would be convenient, at least, I’d be walking past the shop on my way to Didi’s with Harlow, so I could reasonably drop it off on the way.

Of course, doing so would require the confidence to either drop it off at the door with Ripley inside, potentially watching, or, losing all sense of reality entirely, and going inside to drop it off with her directly. Despite the significant thawing of relations in our letters, I didn’t think we were quite at that point yet.

I moved to the desk. Despite the fact that the room had been made over by my parents into the artfully inoffensive guest room—from the teenage whirlwind I’d left it—something about sitting at the desk with my new favorite pen, and overthinking what I was writing in a quest to make it perfect, came with the sense of nostalgia. It was like living a dream where I’d gone back to being a kid, doing my homework at the desk my parents had erected for me years ago.

Maybe the words should have come with less ease. Maybe I should have overthought them more. Maybe all of this was a terrible idea because it wasn’t just Ripley—I was flirty in these letters now, too. And, still, I knew if we tried to talk in person, it would be awkward, stilted at best, or silent at worst.

But, the words came easily, so I let them. Maybe it wasn’t just the desk that was like going back in time, maybe, as we wrote each other letters, it could be like we were too, like it was us from over a decade ago. We didn’t have to label anything or add any pressure. We could talk about light, easy topics. And maybe that would help us heal the past, move on from it all. Maybe, in some weird, roundabout way that probably made no sense at all, if I just let myself write to Ripley as if we were friends, I’d actually be able to let her go. Then, perhaps, we’d finally be able to be friends.

Don’t let Ekundayo make you try it! Even if you have to spend money on it, don’t get lured in by a shiny view. I promise there’s no substance to back it up, only disappointment and disgust.

It is definitely your fault, though, and we both know it. I’m sure that will be of some deep comfort to you when you’re explaining to your accountant why a significant portion of your budget was spent on ice cream and popcorn—two items entirely unrelated to floristry, I’d imagine.

Reading between the lines, I sense we might both be thinking the same thing about Ekundayo and a certain Mr. Burton, though. Terrible ice cream tastes aside—actually, no. Terrible ice cream tastes fully considered, maybe it’s a sign that the pair are meant to be. I can’t imagine there are too many people out there who think popcorn with ice cream is the delicacy those two seem to think it is.

And it’s not like it stops there. I have to admit, there definitely seems to be an… energy when the pair are together. I mean, I sat through an entire movie with them and they started out sitting too close to be just friends, and yet, somehow, still managed to move even closer together before it ended.

I think they’d be good together. There. I said it. Joel’s being weirdly shy and cagey about it, but he seems so obvious, I can only imagine Ekundayo already knows how he feels, and they’re both doing some ridiculous dance around each other for no real reason.

Though, of course, it’s not always easy to acknowledge how someone else feels, especially if you’re into them too. All that worry that you’re just seeing what you want to see.

Basically, all of this is a long way of asking whether you know if Ekundayo is actually interested? If so, perhaps I can give Joel a push in the right direction.

As to your last point, I do, indeed, have fabulous baby-related things to be doing. Things that can be discussed over pancakes and milkshakes at Didi’s while certain other people are stuck working…

It was too much. Of course it was. It was flirty, and overly friendly, and way too close to the dynamic we’d had in the past. But, with the door now opened, it seemed there was no way to shut myself down and not write to her like that.

It was only a few letters. It was okay if it was only that, right? We were using the letters to deal with things unspoken between us, and this was how we’d always been together. What other way were we going to talk to one another? Nothing would ever get resolved if we were as awkward on paper as we were in person.

And I had promised Harlow I was going to be around. This was the way to that.

I folded the letter—not daring to reread my words—and got ready to leave. The drive inside of me to get the letter to Ripley immediately was ridiculous, overwhelming, and more than a little dangerous.

I wanted to believe this was the way towards indifference and friendship, and no more awkwardly lingering feelings, but what hope did I have of that being true if I felt like this? I’d always thought Icarus was a fool, but who was I to judge as I flew infinitely too close to something I knew could burn?

Even knowing the risks, and with the nervous apprehension filling my stomach, I couldn’t change my mind. Every part of me knew talking to Ripley like this was going to cause the whole thing to come crashing down, but that wasn’t enough to stop me. Somehow, it was quite the opposite. Knowing that it would all end badly just made it more compelling now. The drive to get the letters to her before she rethought everything, to have these few moments, was stronger than the fear and the doubt, ample as they were.

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