Page 88 of Dear Ripley

“Even in the darkness,” she finally continued, “it can be hard to name the things we want. If they’re important enough to be life-changing, even the darkness doesn’t protect us from all of the voices telling us to rein ourselves in, to think carefully before we rock the boat, to understand the consequences of complete honesty.”

The room felt hot and low on oxygen. Every breath felt as though I was dying, desperate. The thing I needed was no longer oxygen, but to know exactly what Alicia meant, to reach the other side of the fear barrier and see what total honesty was for her in this moment.

My head was spinning. Morgan and Harlow no longer existed.Nothingexisted except Alicia and me and this moment, and every part of my body pulsed and tingled with it.

“Consequences aren’t always bad, you know?” I whispered, quieter than before. I was playing with fire. So close to being burned, and yet, unable to resist the pull of its glow.

She breathed another laugh, confirming she’d heard my whispered words. “People seldom use that word to mean anything positive, though, do they?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Doesn’t it?”

I felt sick and eager and desperate. My head pounded in a way I didn’t think I’d ever felt before. “No. If, say, two people happen to be on the same page, the consequence of complete honesty might be complete agreement.”

We stared at each other. There was just enough light to know that was what we were doing, even if the consequence of almost complete darkness was an inability to make out every tiny detail of the other’s face. As much as I wanted to analyze the micro details and features and movements of her expression, I was grateful for the darkness. She was right—I wouldn’t have been this bold in the daylight.

“And what if they aren’t in complete agreement?” she asked, nervousness filling her voice, even at a whisper.

“Well, you never know unless you ask, right?” I replied. They were words her mother had used a million times over the years. They were also bolder than I was actually feeling. My heart told me we were on the same page, but my mind reminded me that this could be her way of telling me she wanted to continue with no contact. In light of the way Harlow needed both of us right now, I imagined that could cause the level of anxiety she was currently expressing.

Surely she knew I wouldn’t abandon Harlow, no matter what was happening with us?

Eight years ago, she’d have known that. But eight years was a long time.

She pulled her knees in tighter to her chest. “I think I have heard that somewhere before.”

I laughed, the sound breathless and painful, and I didn’t care at all. The only thing I needed was to hear her next words.

It took a minute before she whispered, “What if one of them asks for something, and the other can’t give it?”

My muscles locked down. My heart and my mind wanted to flee. I took as deep a breath as I could manage—it wasn’t much. “Is what they can give something less?”

My face burned as I waited for her reply, grateful again for the darkness.

I could almost hear the cogs turning in her head. I was sure she could hear the ones in mine.

Eight years, so much hurt and regret, and it all came down to this. We were, finally, figuring out communication again, and it was so much more terrifying than I’d ever have imagined. So much more wonderful, too. Even in the moment between question and answer, in the unknown, in the happiness and dread, I knew that this was better than what we’d had for the last eight years.

She sucked in a breath. “No.”

Chapter 31

Alicia

Iknew I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Ripley and I had been whispering for a reason, but, in my defense, it was the only way I was getting that word out. A war between wanting to keep my answer deep inside, where nobody could ever find it, and the need to yell it out loud for everyone to hear had waged in the seconds before I got the sound out.

Two letters. It wasn’t even an especially long word, but it changed everything.

Of course, winning the battle with answering, while part of me lived in terror, meant it came out too loud, almost as a growl. One that managed to wake Morgan up.

“What are you doing?” she whined, startling both of us. “I’m trying to sleep. Why are you talking?”

“Sorry,” Ripley replied immediately, a tension in her voice that I hadn’t heard in years. “We just both woke up and… startled each other.”

“Weirdos. Go to sleep and hush. I am always gorgeous, but I want my beauty sleep.”

Ripley laughed. In her sleepy state, Morgan wouldn’t have noticed how breathless and broken it sounded, but I definitely did. I remembered that sound. It had been buried deep in my memory, packed up with all of the things I tried not to think about, all the ways I loved and missed Ripley. But here it was, in Morgan’s living room, eight years after our divorce. And that, more than anything, told me I’d given her the correct answer.

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