Page 60 of Dear Ripley

For one, glorious moment, I was winning. Then, something in his expression transformed, and I was worried about what he thought he knew.

“Do you like it?” he asked, turning back to Ekundayo.

He laughed, returning the spoon to Joel’s bowl. “It’s not bad. I think you want to eat it before the popcorn gets soggy, but the combination is better than I’d expected.”

Joel smiled genuinely for a second before he shot me that same look again. “Say, didn’t you have something to give to Alicia? A delivery of sorts?”

I narrowed my eyes, watching Joel suspiciously. What was he up to? And did I even want to know?

“Mm. Right. Yes. Sorry.” Ekundayo moved swiftly, patting down his pockets, obviously looking for something. Every muscle in my body curled tightly in the seconds before he pulled his hand back to the space between us.

Held tightly in his grasp was a yellow envelope.

My heart clenched. I didn’t need to ask to know who it was from. Part of me couldn’t believe she’d written back, not really. Ripley and I were actually doing this. We were talking to each other. Sort of. We hadn’t quite mastered talking to each other in person yet, but even on paper was more than I’d have possibly hoped.

They both stared at me as I watched the envelope suspended between us. Part of me wondered whether it was going to disappear, whether I’d gotten it all wrong and it was from someone else. But who else could it possibly be? Jackson Point was a small enough place, but there couldn’t be too many people writing me letters and using Joel and Ekundayo as the delivery service.

I reached out to take it, more from the pressure of social expectations than from wanting to. I wasn’t ready. I did want it—if it actually existed—but I needed more time.

I almost laughed at myself. When I’d dropped my most recent letter at Ripley’s table, unceremoniously and uninvited, I hadn’t given her any time at all to prepare. She’d at least had the decency to send it through someone else.

“We’ll… give you a minute,” Joel said.

His tone was a million miles from the teasing looks he’d been shooting me, so I knew how my expression must have looked. Every muscle in my face was uncooperative, however, so I couldn’t change it no matter how much I wished I could. And I really wished I could.

“But don’t be too long,” he added as they left the room. “I want to start this movie before all the ice cream is gone.”

Ah, so not so bad, then. I at least looked well enough to be bossed around by my little brother.

Yellow was such a sunny color. It brightened spaces, eliciting thoughts of blooming flowers and long summer days. And yet, when it was wrapped around a letter—the contents of which I had no clue of—it somehow became overbearing and stifling.

Of course, the easy thing to do would just be to open it. Rip the seal off and learn what the letter said, know where Ripley was at—was it a reply to my reply? Did she answer the questions I’d had in response to her letter? Did she want the appreciation and sympathy I’d expressed in response to her unbridled and unexpected honesty?

Or was it a cease and desist?

Probably not an official one. Lawyers didn’t send those out in pretty yellow envelopes, delivered by siblings’ almost boyfriends. But it could have been an informal one. Perhaps I’d pushed the intimacy too far, maybe we’d hit her breaking point, and she wanted nothing further to do with me. The envelope was yellow, after all, and the last yellow thing she’d sent me had been very clear in its message.

“Alicia, come on,” Joel whined from the other room. “The ice cream’s melting and we already picked a movie—you get no say because you’re not here.”

My breath hitched uncomfortably. Was it better to put the envelope away, wait until I was alone and had time to grieve? Open it locked in my room later on, with nobody around to see how much Ripley Stone could still break me?

But doing that would mean sitting through a whole movie with Joel and Ekundayo, and their undoubted cuteness that reminded me far too much of a young me and Ripley. Could my heart handle that? If they’d picked a romantic movie, could I sit there pretending to be fine, knowing the love of my life had written me a letter I didn’t know the contents of, that was burning a hole in my pocket?

Couldanyonehandle that?

I didn’t want to go back out there, with Joel and Ekundayo, looking broken, but I had to know.

“One second, sorry,” I called to the other room, my voice weaker than it should have been.

I took a deep breath, feeling it burn in my lungs and my stomach, and slipped my finger under the flap of the envelope. Ripley didn’t lick envelopes—she had a small damp sponge she used for them instead, usually just at the tip of the envelope. She’d sealed this one tight, though, conscious, I was sure, of not giving anyone else the chance to see the message before it made it to me. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

The paper inside was cream and surprisingly soft, with a small sunflower printed at the top. Had she gone out of her way to buy a stationery set for these conversations too? If she had, that had to be a good sign, right?

Even after all these years, and with all the fear, her handwriting was still scarily familiar and comforting.

My eyes glanced at the first line:If you made it past the yellow envelope, you’re every bit as brave as I remember, and I’m glad of it.

My heart raced. Every single part of this could be leading to a negative outcome or a positive one.

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