“Trust me.” She shot me a look that told me she had no doubt in the statement, and that she wouldn’t be explaining further. “And, that person you’ve always known, you’re still in love with her. Even if some things have changed, that version of Ripley is still in there. She has grown and changed, sure, but she’s not a completely different person. The Ripley you loved is still the bedrock of the Ripley that exists today. And I know you loved the essence of who she is. You loved her like I’ve never seen another person love someone before. Just worshiping everything she’d ever been and ever would be.”
I didn’t want to hear this. I hated hearing it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. I’d always loved Ripley down to the bones of her, in everything she could ever possibly be, every little bit of it, and every little bit of her.
“What’s your point?” I asked, surly.
She breathed a laugh. “My point is that the version of Ripley that you’re in love with still exists. And you’re never going to get to know this version of her if you don’t spend any time around each other. And how would you get back together then?”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not getting back together.”
For a moment, I debated whether I should point out that it was possible to get to know someone without spending time around them—especially if you weren’t really getting to know them, more catching up—but I knew that wouldn’t help my cause. If I made that distinction, Harlow would want more details, more information, and then I’d have to tell her that Ripley and I might be writing to each other. I wasn’t sure how many letters counted as correspondence, but we had some form of contact. I just had to wait to see whether she wrote back to my latest letter. If she did, I figured we’d be officially in conversation with one another.
What happened then, I wasn’t sure, but just the possibility of it all sent a thrill through me that felt somehow illicit.
“That’s what you say now,” Harlow said, prancing out of the bedroom. “But Morgan and I know better.”
“I don’t even know how you managed to rope Morgan into this, if we’re being completely honest.”
She laughed as I followed her back down the hall. “You say that like it was difficult. Morgan’s been watching Ripley, just like I’ve been watching you, and we both know that what you need is to get back together.”
I shook my head. “Morgan’s even more off-base than you are if she thinks Ripley has any interest in me whatsoever.”
She shot a look back at me over her shoulder. “We’ll see.”
She sounded pretty confident. And I really wouldn’t have imagined Morgan doing something Ripley was so totally against, but then, she had essentially thrown her under the bus in front of me and my parents last night, so who was to say how Morgan’s mind worked. I just hoped that, when this whole thing came tumbling down, she hadn’t done anything Ripley couldn’t forgive. I had a lot of patience for Harlow, especially in her idyllic little bubble as she was now. I wasn’t sure whether Ripley’s tolerance was equally as high, but she deserved to have her best friend in her life. No matter how misguided said friend was sometimes.
Then again, she had been friends with Morgan for a very long time. Her ability to put up with absolute chaos was obviously high.
Chapter 18
Ripley
“How are you doing today, Ripley?” my therapist, Genevieve, asked right after the video call connected.
“Oh, just dandy,” I replied, knowing it was a lie, and knowing she’d see right through it.
In truth, I was hoping she’d see right through it. I had stuff I needed to talk about that I didn’twantto have to talk about, and, to get there, I was going to need some coaching and support.
From the way she looked back at me through the screen, I knew she’d gotten the message. A great start.
“How are you?” I asked—somewhat because it was customary and somewhat because I was trying to avoid the thing we were both now aware was happening.
“I’m good, thank you,” she replied. Back when I’d first started seeing her, I wouldn’t have heard the undercurrent in her voice. Now, we were deep enough into our therapeutic relationship that I knew exactly what was coming. “I’m sensing that there’s something bothering you today. Would you like to talk about it?”
“No,” I replied instantly, pouty and moody like I was fourteen again. “But we’re going to have to.”
She adjusted slightly in her seat. “Why are we going to have to?”
The wall behind her was carefully curated—a deep, calming turquoise, with a single piece of incredibly neutral artwork on it. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to depict—just random shapes as far as I could tell—but I had always been certain that the decision to have it that way was purposeful. Nothing to place it too specifically in a home, a place, or any other identifying metric, and nothing the average person would find distracting or bothersome. It was all just very neat, tidy, and inoffensive.
And it was a great place to look when I didn’t want to look her in the eye.
“Because.” I sighed. “Because there’s no avoiding it when I keep running into the problem every time I leave the house, and, contrary to my personal wishes, it seems leaving the house is a must.”
Genevieve watched me, unfazed by my surly mood and words. I’d been seeing her long enough for her to know this wasn’t my default, and for her to see me in a million different moods, so I supposed this was just one of the many.
“Is leaving the house difficult at the moment?” she asked, carefully.
“Ugh. Not in that I’m scared of the outdoors or anything. Just that I don’t want to be running into certain people around town.”