Page 6 of Dear Ripley

“Not physically, perhaps.”

She scowled at me, obviously deciding to let it go in light of the news. “How are you feeling?”

I sighed, shrugging. I could continue to play the game, continue pretending everything was okay, but what was the point? Morgan was my best friend and, if I couldn’t talk to her about it, who could I talk to? I wasn’t about to go over to the Burton household—a home that, even after all this time, was horribly familiar—and chat about Alicia coming by and how hard that was.

Morgan reached over the counter, taking my hand and squeezing tightly.

Eventually, I straightened, looked her in the eye, and said, “I’m feeling like I need those pastries you mentioned, like I need to ignore what’s happening to get through everything I need to do today, and then, tonight, too much food, a massive cake, and ranting.”

She smiled in relief. “You got it. Pastries, cake, junk food, ranting—I’ve got you covered.”

I smiled gratefully at her as she bolted for the door, already running off to the bakery for breakfast pastries.

“Hey, Morgan,” I called when she was halfway out of the shop.

“Yeah?” she replied, looking back, her brow creased.

“Thank you.”

She smiled warmly. “Anytime.”

Chapter 3

Alicia

Irealized as I turned slowly in my living room, that you didn’t always know something was weighing you down until it was gone. I’d never let Gabe keep much stuff here, nor had I kept much at his—and shouldn’t that have been a sign?—so it wasn’t as though my apartment looked all that different. It was still tidy, clean, warm neutrals, filled with things I’d purchased, pictures with people who weren’t Gabe, and me.

Perhaps I’d been unfair to him. In my bid to prevent anything like Ripley from happening again, I’d kept him at a distance—I’d kept everybody romantic at a distance. It wasn’t about Gabe, exactly, but it was Gabe it impacted. Five years with someone and you were probably supposed to have pictures of them around your apartment. Something more than the single Polaroid of the two of you from someone else’s wedding that was attached to the fridge. But that was how I protected myself. I didn’t let relationships invade my home so I wouldn’t have to take my home apart again. I wouldn’t need to feel the pain of taking pictures down, replacing them with others, slowly breaking a familiar, formerly happy home into a spiky, unfamiliar wasteland of a relationship.

Of course, Gabe was also a jerk. I was finally willing to actually admit it in the fullest sense. I’d always known he was a little bit like that, but I’d overlooked it. Something about feeling like it was all I deserved, and as though it was right because at least he stayed at the distance I needed. So, perhaps, taking Gabe down wouldn’t have been quite the same level of heartbreak that taking Ripley down had been. Of course it wouldn’t. There were a million miles between what she’d been to me and what Gabe was. But still. I was more than a little happy I hadn’t filled my home with him.

And more than a little happy he was gone.

This wasn’t breaking, burning, agonizing hell like our divorce had been. This was freedom. It was breathing again. It was the loss of the judgemental voice that sat on my back and made everything a little heavier and a little more awful than it needed to be.

I wondered how long my therapist had been waiting for me to get to this realization.

Maybe it was weird to still be more distressed over my divorce than I was over a breakup that had just happened, but I’d learned long ago that, even if Ripley and I weren’t together, she wasn’t going anywhere. And, honestly, I was a little proud of myself for being less torn up over someone significantly meaner than her. For all the things still grieving an old relationship and dating Gabe in the first place said about me, I was certain the relief at having him gone said something better.

It didn’t even bother me that he hadn’t taken it well. I was pretty certain that was growth. It felt a little callous, but I was ready to talk about that in therapy and assess all of the reasons I might feel that way—justified or not. And that was growth too.

Of course, the relief didn’t last long when my eyes landed on the suitcase by the door.

I’d almost been counting on my boss pushing back on taking time off to visit Jackson Point, and I’d definitely been counting on her ensuring I wasn’t going to be away too long. But, apparently, leading with the news that my best friend was finally pregnant and getting out of a homophobic state to move back home to her family was the wrong move. Philippa had practically melted at the news, pulled me into a massive hug—only the second time we’d ever hugged—and gushed about how happy she was for me, Harlow, the baby, and Jackson Point. After which, she’d insisted on me taking two weeks of vacation, followed by remote working for as long as Harlow needed me.

In any other circumstance, I’d probably have been delighted by how accommodating and awesome my boss was. In this circumstance, I really needed someone to tell me I couldn’t be in Jackson Point for long. I needed a reason to escape, something working with me on the fact that being there was a terrible idea. I did not need the red carpet rolling out.

I’d been planning on telling everyone that I had a month. Two weeks of vacation and two weeks working remotely, and then they absolutely needed me back in the office. But some magical terror wasreallyintent on rolling that carpet all the way out, and it was helped, inevitably, by social media.

Philippa had spent all of ten minutes after I left her office looking Harlow up before the two were suddenly BFFs and Harlow knew all about the freedom I was being given to stay in Jackson Point for as long as she needed me. I had half a mind to tell Philippa she’d never get me back if Harlow was calling the shots, but I didn’t want to tempt fate or inadvertently plant the idea of a Jackson Point remote office.

Harlow, of course, was delighted, and, as much as I might complain, I wasn’t a monster. What my best friend wanted, my best friend got. When said best friend was pregnant… well, all bets—and all sense, apparently—were off.

Even if that meant potentially running into Ripley. Something that still made me want to keel over and die.

I pulled my phone out, confident everything was in its place, no traces of Gabe were left, the locks had been changed, and Philippa was completely on board to come in and check the place at least once a week. This place still felt like my home, but it was a home I wasn’t going to see for a few weeks. Or months…

No. No more than two months. I had a job, my place, a whole life here. I’d left Jackson Point on purpose and for a very valid reason. No adorable baby bump or puppy dog eyes were luring me back—from Harlow or anyone else.

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