Chapter 14 #2
“It’s not like she has to explain British culture to us, we could just crack open any history book to know the depths of that,” Wynter joked. “Or drink earl grey tea and have dry humour.”
“Don’t you have that already?” I chuckled.
“Ah, indeed,” he mused. “Can I confess something, just to you, Yesoh, will you keep it between us?”
Oh. Wynter Kwon had asked me to be his vault. My stomach flipped at the opportunity.
“Of course,” I assured him. “I’m no snitch.”
“I miss her.” He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “Despite how terribly everything ended, despite how easily she walked out I still miss her.”
“Oh…” I acknowledged.
“Do you judge me for it?” he wondered, “is it dreadful?”
“Well now that, that’s not my style,” I assured him. “I accept even your dreadful, unacceptable feelings.”
“Thanks,” he responded quietly, his shoulder brushing mine ever so slightly.
I went to the table and cut a piece of pancake onto a tiny plate and approached him, a fork stabbing the piece before lifting it towards his mouth. “Happy Chuseok, Wyn.”
He smiled, letting me feed him a spoonful.
DIARY ENTRY
August 12, Wynter 16 yrs old
My relationship with masculinity has always been like wandering through a maze with invisible walls, like an inherited designer suit that doesn’t quite fit. There are these inferred, but never explicitly stated, rules and regulations that one must follow—I’ve known that from an early age.
Don’t cry, it makes you look weak, play a sport—no, not that one, that’s for girls.
Keep women near you, but don’t be friends only with them because then your sexuality is in question, so be friends with guys instead and keep women around for pleasure.
Never confront insensitive jokes, otherwise you’ll become the next joke.
Don’t spend too much time in the kitchen, go outside, and race cars.
It was all so confusing, especially as someone who was raised entirely differently.
I was raised by a woman who, despite her fleeting nature, instilled a great deal of respect for women in me, and a man who’d have my head on a platter if I was ever out of line.
I was always comfortable in my own gradient of masculinity in my home, until I stepped outside and outside forces got to my head.
The first time I remember feeling different was at a beach party I’d gone to with Jax, Cahya, and Beck the summer we were sixteen.
The beach was buzzing under the night sky, the bonfire casting flickering shadows across the sand.
Beck had wandered off somewhere, probably with her mystery boy.
Laughter and music wove through the night, and the smell of saltwater and smoke filled the air.
Cahya, Jax, and I had barely found a spot to sit when I felt eyes on me—the glances, the giggles, the overly sweet greetings from girls I’d never met.
“Wynter, right?” A girl with a sun-kissed glow and long braids appeared in front of me, smiling too brightly. “I follow you on Instagram. You’re a figure skater right? You’re even prettier in real life.”
Pretty. That word again. I just nodded, offering her a small smile. “I don’t manage my Instagram account but thanks, I guess,” I said, hoping that would be the end of it. But she stayed a second too long, flashing a look back at her friends, who whispered and nudged each other.
“If you wanna get drinks and hang out, my friends and I are here till one.” She winked at me.
“I don’t drink.” I told her, “but thanks for the offer.”
When she finally wandered off, Cahya threw a handful of sand at my feet to grab my attention, laughing but not quite meeting my eyes. “Bro, what is it with you? You’re like a magnet with women. How do you do it?”
I shrugged, not knowing what to say. “I don’t do anything,” I mumbled, glancing down, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks despite myself.
Jax rolled his eyes, taking a swig of his drink. “Yeah, sure. Just shows up and suddenly every girl on the beach is drooling.”
“It’s insane considering you look like that, I didn’t know girls were into it.” Cahya looked perplexed.
“Look like what?” I wondered in confusion.
“You know…” Cahya anticipated, but I just furrowed my eyebrows.
Jax gave me a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I need to start wearing my hair longer, looking all soft and pretty.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Cahya added, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Not all of us get a free pass for looking like a girl.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I wondered. “Pretty sure I look like a guy because straight girls are the ones speaking to me.”
It wasn’t rocket science.
“You look like Nana Komatsu,” Cahya told me, “In Drowning Love to be specific.”
My jaw clenched, but I forced myself to laugh, the way I always did when they made these kinds of comments. “Maybe it’s all in the cheekbones,” I joked, half-heartedly. “Not much I can do about it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jax said, smirking. “But come on, man—don’t you ever wish you looked more, you know…like a guy?”
“What does that even mean?” I shot back, trying to keep my tone light but feeling something twist inside. “Since when is looking like me a bad thing?”
Cahya rolled his eyes. “Dude, we’re just saying—girls are practically throwing themselves at you, maybe it’s the accent too; chicks dig the British thing. And you barely even try. But us? They don’t look twice. And when they do, we don’t get the whole ‘I thought you were a model’ thing.”
I glanced at him, not sure if I wanted to laugh or defend myself. “It’s not like they know me,” I said finally. “They see my face, they like what they see. Doesn’t mean they see me.”
Jax raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “Come on, Wynter. Don’t tell us it’s some deep curse looking like a celebrity or whatever. I mean, you’re practically living on easy mode. They love the ‘pretty boy’ thing.”
Easy mode. I wanted to tell him how wrong he was. How they saw a face they liked but never the person behind it, never the kid who didn’t feel like he measured up, not even close. They saw some image, and all it did was make me feel trapped inside my own skin, a stranger to myself.
But instead, I just shrugged, keeping my face neutral, like always. “Maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, hoping that would be enough to make them let it go.
But Cahya just laughed again, shaking his head. “Man, you can say that because you’ve got it all—the looks, the attention, the whole mysterious vibe. If you’re so over it, feel free to send a few of them our way.”
“What the fuck is you guys’ problem?” Beck intervened, suddenly making an appearance. “No way you’re seriously having a pissing contest at the beach. Grow up.”
“Woah we didn’t mean it in an offensive way,” Jax excused, backing away.
“Boys never do,” Beck seethed, her older sister instinct kicking in in a way that made me chuckle to myself, glancing down.
“He didn’t seem to mind, did you, Wyn?” Cahya asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
“Not necessarily,” I feigned nonchalance.
“Dumbasses the lot of you,” Beck huffed, folding her arms, her blue tank top glittering in the moonlight. “Jax and Cahya for being insensitive pricks and most of all you, Wyn.”
“For what?” I wondered,
“For allowing it; I didn’t raise you to sit there and take it,” Beck declared.
“You didn’t raise me; we kind of have parents—” I almost protested but she gave me that scary older sister look that insinuated that I shouldn’t argue with her. “Nevermind.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, taking Jax’s drink from him and downing it all in one go. “Tequila? And you were the one calling my little brother a bitch. Ridiculous.”
I forced a laugh, joining in with them even though I felt a tightness in my chest, wishing for once that someone would see me the way I wanted to be seen—just me, without all the expectations, without all the labels.
But they were already joking about something else, lost in their own world.
And I sat there, staring into the fire, feeling like I was somewhere far away.
Just then my gaze met that of the last person I expected to see there that day, Yesoh—she had this way of appearing at the most inconvenient times.
Just then, I remembered that there was alcohol at that party, and that if her brother knew she was there he’d lose it on her.
I slowly backed away, and did my best not to be noticed, approaching the younger girl by the mixing table.
“Didn’t your brother tell you to stay home?” I asked, ushering her away from the scene before she could order anything she’d regret.
She wore a pink camisole and white linen pants, her long curls wild and free at her shoulders, a hibiscus claw clip in her hair. She glittered under the clear moonlit dusk.
“Since when do I do what I’m told, Kwon? You’ve got the wrong girl if you’re seeking any kind of obedience outside of the ballet studio.” She snorted a laugh,
“I just don’t think it’s safe for you here.”
“But Beck’s here. Why don’t you focus on dragging her home?” she argued in a way that elicited indescribable frustration out of me.
“Beck is eighteen,” I reminded her, “she does as she pleases; God help anyone who attempts to interfere.”
“Ditto.” She nodded, attempting to head back to the drinks table, but I held her back by the necklace around her neck. “Hey—”
“Wait,” I insisted, trying to deflect. “I uh, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Can’t it wait? A sex on the beach sounds pretty good right about now,” she mused.
“You aren’t even old enough to know what that word means.” I chucked. “And no it can’t.”
“Okay, fine, we can talk by the fire, it’s chilly here,” she suggested, leading the way, grabbing me by my hand, and I couldn’t believe I was being manhandled by a fourteen-year-old girl.