You were two years behind me in high school, and any romantic involvement with you was social suicide. Still.

You had the lightest blond hair and that olive complexion that didn't quite go with those very light blue eyes, and that was what made you so unbelievably good looking. Not that it was your looks that made me dabble in a romance with you, despite the social risks. There was a sweetness to you that told me that although you lived with your dad and not your mom, your mama had loved you and raised you well. A guy that looked like you had never in my experience been so wide open with their feelings. There was just no pretension, defensiveness, or self-consciousness in you. I wonder if your children know that about you.

I met you your first week of high school. I was already a Junior, so I knew the lay of the land and there was no way that you and I were going to be an item. But then there was that night I came over to your father's house, and you answered the door with a whisper and shuttled me in like we were in a movie theater. No one was home except you and Uncle Kenny, but I was most certainly not supposed to be there. So we talked in the living room in the dark, and then you kissed me. It ended abruptly when you heard a noise and stuffed me behind the couch.

"What the fuck?" I whispered loudly. "SHUT UP!" you said. So I did, and thank god, because Uncle Kenny was on the prowl, and he was buck naked and extremely friendly. It took forever for you to convince Uncle Kenny that there were no women in the house, and while you were doing that I fled to my car and drove down the windy road that led from your father's foothill mansion to my lower-middle class tract home.

The next day we went to Denny's with my best friend and her boyfriend, John. When I got back from the bathroom, those two were in hysterics, and you were not happy. Apparently in my absence, John had asked you if we were going out now, and you had told them matter-of-factly that we had nearly had sex the night before. I couldn't help butlaugh myself over that one, and you looked completely crushed. Those two were laughing because they thought there was no way you had a chance, but they couldn't have been more wrong.

Shortly after that, you went to Alaska to live with your mom. I graduated from high school and spent a couple of years at a local college. Then I decided to transfer to a school all the way across the country, and almost immediately after I was accepted, you came back. You had graduated too.

I met you at your apartment. You had changed a lot. The last time I saw you, you were just a bit taller than I was and didn't outweigh me by much. Now you towered over me, looking like a marine on leave. You made a pass at me on the couch, but I was leaving in three days. It seemed ridiculous. I left, and you called me the next day and asked me to go out with you one last time.

You bought a bottle of champagne and we drove to Bonny Dunes and sat in the sand. The next morning, I found a letter on my car. Inside was a dead Monarch butterfly you had found, and you compared it to the nature of love and friendship. It was the single most romantic event of my entire life.

Years later, when I was 25 and drinking myself through a divorce, I called information for the State of Alaska, and I found you. I drunkenly dialed your number, and your wife answered. It had never occured to me that you'd be married, with children, and that me calling could be the worst thing I could ever do to you. I felt so terrible. I told your wife she didn't even have to tell you I had called, and that I was sorry. A couple of hours later you called me back. I was welcomed to call any time, he said, but how could I? I never called again.

But you are on the short list of people I try to find on Google or Facebook every once in a while, just to see how you're doing. And right now, I'm going through this thing that I imagine plagues all women in their 40s where little things like a letter and a dead butterly feel so pivotal and we just want to squeeze all the juice out of it that remains. So I Googled your name, and that's when I found you.

You died three years ago in a motorcycle accident, and you left that wife of yours, your brothers and sisters, and worst of all, your two teenaged girls much too early. I used your real name in writing this because I hope they find this and get just a shred more information about who you really were. You are desperately missed.