Page 20 of Love, Morgan

“Stop being so insightful.”

Ironic, really, given that I’d just been mentally screaming at her to bemoreinsightful.

“Whatever you said, I’m sure it’s going to be okay.”

“It’s really not.” I pulled and released the drawstring in my hood over and over.

“Well, you’re going to have to tell me what it was if you want me to weigh in.”

I closed my eyes, imagining myself far away from this place—from Iona. Ripley was right, of course. She was annoying, but she was insightful. I’d called her because I needed to talk about it. I needed someone to tell me it wasn’t that bad, someone to stop me from this weird Iona-fueled rampage I was on, and someone to tell me what the hell was wrong with me so I could make it go away.

I sighed. “Fine. I yelled at her to stop working, to take a break, and then I ran off.”

Ripley was silent for over half a minute. It was a painfully long time to sit in silence.

“Well,” she finally said, “that’s… a choice.”

“I’m going to murder you when I get home.”

She laughed. “No, you’re not.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Did you… explain how you knew she was working?” Her tone was careful, exploratory. She was incorrectly hoping for all the things I hadn’t done.

“I did not.”

“I see.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “So, Iona has no idea who you are, or that you know who she is, and you just showed up to her room, yelled at her to stop working, and ran away again?”

“That about sums it up, yeah. But… she kind of knows who I am? I guess?”

“What does that mean?”

I didn’t want to have this conversation. I needed to stop calling Ripley every time I ran into Iona. “We’re in adjacent bungalows. We… ran into each other on the balcony-deck things last night.”

“Any chance that was a nice, normal introduction?”

“I screamed in her face and we both bolted back inside our own bungalows.”

“Great. Great. Yep. Love that for you. Great. Loads to work with there.”

“Just go apologize,” Alicia called from the background again, a little more awake this time.

I guess I had my answer on whether or not she could hear me.

“Yeah,” Ripley agreed. “Maybe it would help?”

“You think going back to the woman who I’ve stared at, screamed at, and yelled at, and attempting to apologize is a good idea?” I had no interest in seeing the two of them in bed, but I suddenly wished I’d video called just so they could see my expression.

“What’s the alternative?” Alicia asked. “You’re in adjacent rooms, you’re going to see each other, and isn’t it better to face it head-on, make it better, and move on, rather than letting it get worse?”

My distressed and snarky mind wanted to make a comment about how the two of them hadn’t faced things head-on for eight years, and look where that got them. But, first, I understood why they hadn’t, and, second, it had, in the end, gotten them somewhere great, so who was I to complain?

“I doubt she’d even answer the door,” I whispered, realizing as I said it that I was afraid of it being true. I was such a huge fan of hers, but, instead of reacting like a regular fan, I’d terrified the poor woman. Repeatedly.

If the tables were turned, I don’t think I’d answer the door if I saw it was me.

“Write her a letter,” Ripley suggested, far, far too excited by the prospect.

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