Suddenly inspired, I grabbed a piece of paper off my desk and started writing like a man possessed.
Dear Astrid...
I poured out the whole story, telling her everything, putting my very heart on the page, how rotten it all was, how very, very sorry I was that it'd happened to her, how even then, despite my immaturity and stupidity, I knew what an amazing person she was, how I'd always admired her and thought the world of her, noticing how she put her friends first and treated every single person she encountered with kindness and empathy, even if they didn't necessarily deserve it.
My God, what she'd been through was the stuff of nightmares. I couldn't even imagine walking into school as an impressionable young soul and seeing posters like that of myself plastered on every wall.
It was something straight out of a horror movie, something no person, let alone an adolescent, should ever have to deal with.
My throat was tight with emotion as I wrote away, the words flowing freer than they had all those years ago when I'd written the first letter, the passage of time giving me a different perspective, although the sentiment was pretty much the same.
I'd looked her up for a few years after she'd graduated from St. Lucius, knew she went to college and graduated, stayed in NewYork City. But after that, I'd stopped looking, my own guilt trying to erase the stains of my past, not wanting to know how she'd fared.
But all of a sudden, I had to know, this need burning inside me to see if she was okay, to hopefully find out that she hadn't landed in a gutter somewhere, spiraling from the awful misdeeds of others during her formative years.
I knew she came from the famed Stratton family, but I was living proof that wealth and prestige didn't mean shit in the quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Finishing my apology letter, I signed my name and folded it, stuffing it into an envelope, intent on getting this to Astrid as soon as humanly possible.
But first, I had to know about her, where she was now, how she was doing.
And of course, practically speaking, I needed her address.
Please don't be dead.
The terrifying thought popped into my head as I turned to my laptop, dying inside at the idea that she might have passed without knowing how bone-deep my regrets were.
With shaking fingers, I typed her name, misspelling it like a dumbass the first time. But I finally got it right and pressed enter, holding my breath at what I might find.
Please don't be an obituary. Please.
Surely, I would have heard about it if she'd died, right?
My heart pounding, the search page loaded, the top of the screen filled with images of a stunning beauty.
Was that her?
I only gave the photos a quick glance, instead, the urgent need to know that she was still alive consuming my every cell.
Scanning the sites, I didn't see anything too obvious, no legacy page, no sad obit.
A forceful breath blew out of me, relief flooding my veins.Thank fuck. She was still walking this earth.
And now I could at least move on from that worry.
Going down this rabbit hole head first, everything inside me urging me forward, I clicked on the first thing I saw, her very own website.
Well, damn.
And then my lungs seized when I read the tagline—Beauty in Every Dimension—and took in the glossy images filled with women's clothing.
Wait just a goddamn minute.
Astrid Stratton was a fashion designer?
With frantic eyes and a pulse rate like I was running the hundred-yard dash, I took in everything, the photos, the words, the images, scrolling and reading as quickly as I could, inhaling this website, white noise starting to build in my brain as the blood rushed past my ears.
I reached the bottom of the page to see a smiling photo of a stunning brunette. Astrid Stratton. The same gorgeous features, only now more refined, more elegant somehow.
