Page 23 of Dear Ripley

The card inside was simple. Rich, cream paper that matched the envelope. A small, stylized leaf adorned the front of it.

I shook my head. She’d bought these here. A fuckingleaf.

I flipped it open, hating the clench in my stomach at her familiar handwriting. And how little of it there was.

I’m sorry for intruding. And running away. I promise to steer clear of you for the rest of my trip.

Sorry.

What the hell?

Chapter 9

Alicia

“You’ve got mail,” Harlow said, bounding into my parents’ living room.

She’d been a bundle of excited, upbeat energy since she got back. It had been a long time since I’d seen her like that. I hadn’t even realized how much of her had been eroded away over the years—work, fertility struggles, and an ex who could burn in hell as far as I was concerned… Everything took its toll, I just hadn’t realized how subtle the process was. When you were all just in it every day, it was hard to see it happening. It wasn’t until she returned home, happy, relaxed, and hopeful, that it hit how much of her had been lost in the interim.

I was glad she was back. And, seeing her like that, in this space—letting herself into my parents’ place as she came to see me, all excited over something—gave me the sense that I was back to my old self, too. Or, if I wasn’t there yet, that there was a pathway to it available. One that would be easy to follow.

It was tempting. But so had it been the first time, and I’d seen where that path took me. Sure, you could go home again, rediscover parts of your life you’d forgotten, but you couldn’t really go back. You couldn’t be the exact same person you’d been back then. There was no second chance. No do-over.

Not that I thought I’d want to do things differently. I’d wondered about it for years—whether, if I had the chance to do it all again, would I forgo being with Ripley in order to avoid the hurt that came after? In the end, I couldn’t say I’d do anything differently. Sure, it hurt like hell, but what was love without that? If it hurt, at least I knew I’d loved and been loved.

Harlow brandished a large envelope at me, dragging me back to the present. “Here. It was at the door.”

I took it from her, wondering who’d be sending me anything here. But, sure enough, scrawled across the front—in a messy, rushed script I knew wasn’t her usual handwriting—was my name, written by Ripley.

Weird how even after all this time, in amongst all the things you forgot, little things stuck around. Ripley’s hurried, harried scrawl was one of them.

I thought I might have preferred to forget that one.

I braced myself before tearing it open.

Onto the couch beside me, I tipped the contents out. A small card, the kind that was usually attached to flower deliveries with notes of love, celebration, or gratitude. And a single yellow carnation.

Oh.

Harlow looked puzzled as she sat down at the other end of my parents’ navy blue sofa. “Someone sent you flowers? In an envelope? Weird choice.”

I laughed humorlessly. “No. Someone sent meaflower. In an envelope.”

It was pretty, honestly. Despite being a little crushed, it was still a pretty flower. If I didn’t know the meaning of it, I might have been pleased.

“Who’s it from?” Harlow asked, leaning over to try to catch a glimpse of the card.

“Ripley.”

Harlow paused almost comically, her eyes wide. I could practically hear her brain whirling.

Eventually, she sucked in a deep breath. “Oh my god. She sent you flowers?!”

“She sent meaflower.”

“That’s so romantic.” She picked up the carnation, holding it up in reverence. Weird choice for a yellow carnation. “She sent you a single bloom. Oh my god. That’s the best thing ever.”

I huffed a breath through my nose. “Harlow, I love you, but it’s really not.”

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