Sinclair had given up on him and Astrid a long time ago— and probably sooner than he cared to recall. It had been an era where a false sense of invincibility had led Sinclair to take on too much simply to risk failure. What should have been the one thing that would outlive every victory and every mistake, what Sinclair had wanted above all else, was risked by the ignorance of his youth. She could have been everything, but he believed he had it all either way.
Charlotte had to be some second chance, a twisted sense of it. Astrid had some how still given him everything even if it wasn't her, but it wasn't guaranteed to be his. The world fit in her small hand, hardly cut with the wrinkles of a notion of greed to hold so tightly. Not like his hands, and he could only hope she would stray from the same line of fate Sinclair had bound himself to.
He knew what was between him and Astrid was long gone, but there was a chance for something new with Charlotte tethered between them. It would be far from the same thing, and he tried to let her know whenever he could. He would be different, and it was beyond any desire. It was solely the only condition for all of it. He had tried to make his amends, but there was one night in question he left out of every letter he'd been told to send her way or any moment of reconciliation they found between the two. It was the largest crack— and Sinclair didn't remember a single moment of it.
"I don't," He said, the crackle of the cigarette upon inhale louder than his voice. "I don't, Astrid, I've told you— and that's what I've apologized for over and over again. I've done a lot, probably the worst things I've done, and I can't remember any of it but I believe you."
He still carried the rubble of that night in his back pocket, aware of the dirt from that crumble every time he spoke to her. A taste of ash sat in his mouth and was never as easy to breathe around her in some moments. He could never know why, but he always carried the fault.
"I only ever wanted to hurt you back then."
It was a damning confession, but Sinclair knew the truth was hardly ever comforting. He couldn't remember it, but he'd taken it upon himself to prove that he could never fall. That night, he'd feigned more than sobriety but trust and gotten behind the wheel with Astrid. It was only after he'd taken two red lights that it became evident that he'd twisted her faith in him. Everything else remained barely lit, black road and black memory. They'd gotten home, and the crash Astrid anticipated from what she'd already endured played out differently in that living room. Sinclair still had the scar under his foot from the glass he stepped on, never quite sure who had broken what. What mattered most was that Astrid had walked away, but it was hardly unscathed.
He looked back to the living room, trying to remember but it was just shadows of what he'd been told that climbed those stairs and threw open the doors. He wasn't sure what was said, but Sinclair knew how vile he could be. Those intentions still lied in his chest, dormant and molded over but still there.
"I can't change that, and I shouldn't," Sinclair said. "I did those things and I'll have to live with them one way or another. I won't do them to her, Astrid. I promise. I don't want her to ever think I can, either, and that's all I'll ever ask of you with her. I don't want her to ever know, please. My amends are with you, and everyone else. I'll be making up for it my whole life, and making sure I never have to do that with her."
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