Page 81 of Dear Ripley

“Ugh. Fine. You can go in the other room.”

“Because you can’t?”

“It’s my house,” she said, flopping back onto the correct part of the sofa for sitting. “Be quick about it.”

Part of me wanted to refuse to move. If I didn’t move, they couldn’t make me, I wouldn’t read the letter, and they wouldn’t be able to ask about it.

But the other part of me needed to know. Apparently whatever was in the letter was good. Ripley had written to me and, regardless, I wanted to know what she had to say, especially since it was good. At least according to Morgan, who was seemingly fit to burst at any second from the excitement. Despite what she said when she was frustrated at not getting her way, Morgan did actually like me. There was no way she’d be that excited and eager if Ripley had told her the letter was a rejection.

I stood up, taking the letter and my coffee with me to the kitchen. The door clicked as I shut it behind me, not nearly soundproof enough to block out Morgan’s complaints about me being so private and secretive. But that wasn’t my main priority.

I sat at the breakfast bar, my heart and my head terrified, excited, and pounding painfully.

Black coffee, Ripley, and nerves stretched so tight they might snap. Wasn’t this familiar?

Alicia,

Have you noticed how we don’t address these letters to one another? Unless you did in your last. That would be embarrassing, but hey, in all of the Ellie-related chaos, I didn’t get a chance to read it yet. So, if you did address it to me, we’re going to pretend that didn’t happen. Just for the duration and purpose of this letter.

I’ve thought a lot about why we don’t address each other, and what I’ve figured out is that it’s a form of protection. If I don’t address you, I can pretend the letter’s not for you. It’s like a diary. Something I write for myself that nobody else is ever going to read or know about, so it doesn’t really matter what I say. But that’s not reality, is it? The letters are for you. Everything I say in them is for you. And I realized that I don’t want to pretend anymore.

I was thinking about the way things fell apart with us. It wasn’t because I stopped loving you—I’m not even sure it was because you stopped loving me. I thought it was—I thought you did—but, now, I’m not so sure about that. It was because we stopped talking. For so long, we’d been amazing at communicating with each other. I told you almost everything. I was happy to listen to every little thing you wanted to tell me. But, then, some random day, things got tough. Life got busy and hard, bad moods happened, doubt crept in and ruined things. And we stopped talking.

The more things we bottled up, the more we felt we had to bottle up, and eventually, inevitably, there was nothing left to say besides small talk. The stuff a marriage isn’t built upon.

You’re probably wondering why I’m talking about this, which would be a fair thing to wonder, honestly. Maybe you’ve been thinking the same things. Maybe you haven’t. I don’t think I’m doing a great job explaining what I’m thinking, sorry. Please see above comments about our communication style, and also the last eight years where we have said a sum total of zero words to one another.

What I mean to say is, back then, communication struggled and we didn’t really try anything together. We were both scared and naive. In many ways, we were still kids. We hadn’t lived the challenges of a relationship before. Nobody had taught us how to handle these things. Now, though, we’re adults. We’ve got more experience. We’ve survived a horrific divorce. We’ve lived a little more life. And we know what it’s like to live without each other. As such, I’ve decided to give honesty and communication a little go. You can join me in that, or not, no pressure. I know we’ve kind of been doing that in these letters anyway, but I’m talking about a conscious decision to be open with each other, to really try. You need to make this decision for yourself, no judgment either way. I promise. But, if you decide to come with me, keep reading.

If you decide not to, I respect your decision and genuinely wish you well.

If you’re not sure, keep the rest of this letter until you are. It’s not going anywhere. And neither am I.

I sank down the fridge to the floor. My heart was pounding, my muscles simultaneously weak and tense, and my eyes streamed with tears. So many emotions flooded through me that I didn’t know what to do with them.

I did, however, know which option I wanted to choose. I had to do this with her. We’d been dancing around this thing and now she was being brave—braver than I was. She was writing the path forward for us. She was giving me an incredible gift, and I wasn’t going to abandon her again.

I wiped my eyes and focused on seeing her words through the sheen of tears.

If you’re still here—or you’ve come back—thank you. You can read this and pretend you didn’t, of course, but I’m still grateful for you reading it.

So, the honesty. Not as easy in practice as it seemed in my head. But, hey, nothing worth having ever came easy, huh?

The truth is, I’m scared. Seeing you again has been so many things—good and bad—and that’s okay, but it is terrifying. I know the past gets easily covered in rose-colored tints, but I also know how much I loved you, how great some of the times we had together were. And, as much as I’ve told myself I want to forget them, I don’t. That’s the truth of the matter.

I don’t think I want to forget the bad times, either. They come to everyone and, sure, you’ve got to hope they don’t destroy you—I guess we messed that one up, whoops—but they’re part of you, of your life. And, if I forgot the bad times, I’d be forgetting the things I want to fix. I’d be forgetting the things that got us here.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but I do know that you’re going to be around. I don’t want to be the thing that keeps you away from Harlow and the baby. I don’t want to be the thing that keeps you away from your home. So, I guess, I’m hoping we can figure out a way forward, to be around each other more. And we’ve got some things to work through—including the fact that letters are still the only way I know how to actually communicate with you—but I want to try.

I hope you’ll try with me, but, if you don’t, I hope you’ll at least know you’re welcome in Jackson Point. I can avoid you, we can figure something out, but please don’t miss out on your best friend and honorary niece for me. I want you to be happy, and I know you wouldn’t be without them.

Ripley.

My breath came quick and shallow, painful in its physicality and in the way it clawed at my emotions and memories. Ripley had, in the space of one letter, given me so much.

I didn’t know where we were going to end up either, but I knew one thing. It might have been the only thing I knew, but it was also the only thing I needed to know: I wanted to try. With her.

Chapter 28

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