Chapter 17
Cruel Reminders
It was practice day, a cool Sunday afternoon.
The rink was a mix of gliding figures, laughter, and the occasional shout as skaters stumbled.
The glass walls let in the late afternoon light, casting a golden glow over the ice.
I adjusted my skates, glancing over at Wynter, who was weaving around effortlessly in that frustratingly composed way of his.
He moved with an elegance that seemed natural, his posture tall and his face set in his usual cool expression.
When he spotted me watching, he coasted over, that hint of amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Alright, let’s see this spin you claim to have been working on,” he said,
I smirked. “Only if you promise to catch me when I fall. I’m not exactly born for this.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” he replied smoothly, with just a trace of a smirk. “But I thought a ballerina wouldn’t be put off by a little challenge. Or am I overestimating you?”
I scoffed, skating a little closer to him. “I don’t get intimidated. And for the record, you make this look absurdly easy.”
“That’s kind of my job, I’ve been skating since I was six,” he shrugged, gliding around me in circles, “suppose I’m simply better built for it, you have to be flexible.”
“Oh, really?” I teased. “How flexible are we talking here?”
He lifted an eyebrow at me, clearly not one to back down. With one smooth movement, he extended a leg up behind him, his balance flawless, holding the position with that insufferable calm. He looked like he could hold it all day if he wanted to.
I gave an appreciative nod. “Alright, show-off. Is that it? I could do that in my sleep.”
He then spun around me before lifting up into the air into a perfect split and still somehow landing on both feet like he was feather-light.
“Oh my God, now I’ve got to do it,” I gushed.
“I mean you can attempt,” he suggested, tilting his head.
I took a deep breath and copied his pose as best I could, extending my arms for balance.
I thought I had it—until my skate wobbled, and I started to tilt.
Before I could go sprawling, I felt Wynter’s hands around my waist, steadying me.
The contact caught me off guard, and I froze, suddenly aware of his touch and the warmth of his hands even in the chilly air of the rink.
I looked up, and his gaze was steady, his usual cool expression softer, his eyes warm with something else. His fingers lingered a moment too long, and I felt my breath hitch.
“Yesoh,” he said quietly, his voice lower than usual.
“Yes?” I barely managed, feeling my cheeks flush.
His hands lit little fire trails along my body, he cleared his throat and let go, pulling back and casting his gaze somewhere over my shoulder, as though searching for his usual mask of composure.
“Perhaps you’d best stick to ballet,” he said, trying for his usual nonchalance, though I could tell he was a little flustered too.
“Maybe,” I replied with a smirk, trying to cover up my own blush. “But if I’m being honest, I’m starting to like life on the ice.”
The tension melted, and we laughed, shaking off the moment.
After we left the rink, we wandered into Central Park, our breath visible in the cold air.
We wanted to go for a walk in the autumn breeze.
Orange dusted the branches of the trees and lay in a blanket over the ground, muffling the city’s usual sounds and giving the park a rare, quiet beauty.
“Yesoh,” Wynter began, glancing down at me as we strolled. “Remember that summer we tried to find that so-called ‘hidden’ swimming hole? Nearly drowned ourselves in the process.”
I laughed, the memory coming back vividly. “You were so sure you’d found it! Meanwhile, I was your cushion when you fell. I was practically bruised all over.”
Wynter’s lips curved in a smirk. “Please, I saved you the trouble of falling in by yourself.”
“You dragged me down with you!” I countered, nudging his shoulder. “Honestly, a gentleman would’ve thanked me for trying to save him.”
His smirk grew. “Yes, well, you were more trouble than help, if I’m honest.”
“Remember when Bae tried to charge people $5 for cups of lemonade?” I chuckled.
“Ah yes well she was adorable and surprisingly successful in her pursuit.”
“Do you miss it?” I couldn’t help but ask,
“Miss what exactly?”
“How things were, all those summers ago?” I clarified, and he glanced ahead almost as if he saw a vision of what was in the distance.
“I try not to.”
“I see.”
We walked on, laughing about other memories, the awkwardness from earlier easing with every step. After a while, I worked up the courage to ask something else I’d been curious about.
“So, Wyn,” I began, careful to keep my voice casual, “your past skating partner…I saw a few clips, was there ever anything more there?”
“Have you been stalking me, Yesoh?” he bantered.
Oh, he had no idea.
“I—uh was just there when Remi was,” I lied; she’d have to forgive me if that ever came up later.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you seemed to have a strong connection on the ice, something that couldn’t be faked.”
He let out a soft laugh. “It’s part of the performance to make it look that way.”
“Oh, okay then.” I swallowed hard.
He paused, his gaze drifting to the snow-covered path ahead. “Katerina and I had a brief fling, well fling to her. It couldn’t work nor last.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is seven years older than me,” he said so casually, and my heart sank.
“Woah, why would—never mind. I get it, I mean, I will get it,” I muttered, “So it was just a fling, did it um, get serious, did it go…far?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks tinting pink. “Don’t make me regret answering that, Yesoh.”
I laughed, nudging him. “Oh, come on! You’re always avoiding questions. It’s only fair you answer one for once.”
He chuckled, though I could tell he was still flustered. “Perhaps someday I’ll satisfy your curiosity, Miss Yeo.”
“Oh, you’re definitely going to, Wyn,” I teased, feeling a little bolder. He rolled his eyes, but I caught a faint smile tugging at his lips.
We strolled in companionable silence, the cool evening air settling between us. But as we rounded a bend, Wynter suddenly stopped, his face going pale. Following his gaze, I saw a poster pinned to a tree, the edges curled and faded that read:
Two Year Anniversary of the Waverly Peak Tragedy.
Wynter’s gaze was fixed on the poster, his expression turning hollow, like the very life had drained from his face. The words Waverly Peak Tragedy seemed to pull him under, as though the poster itself was a haunting reminder, dredging up something dark and unresolved within him.
His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven. I watched his eyes widen, a flicker of dread overtaking the usual calm and stoic look he wore so naturally. He lifted a trembling hand to his mouth, and for a split second, it seemed as if he might double over.
“Wynter,” I said, stepping closer, feeling a pang of worry at how pale he looked. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze still riveted to the poster.
A slight tremor passed through him, as though his whole body were reacting to some invisible weight pressing down on him.
He closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched, and took a deep, shaky breath, but he didn’t seem able to pull himself from whatever memory had seized him.
“Sorry, I don’t feel well,” he said.
“Wynter, talk to me,” I tried again, placing a hand on his arm.
He flinched at my touch, his skin cold and clammy beneath my fingers.
For a brief, vulnerable moment, his face crumpled, an emotion surfacing that I couldn’t quite place—something raw, panicked, even.
But just as quickly, he forced himself to straighten, his eyes flickering away from the poster and fixing on some far-off point, as if by sheer will he could escape whatever it was that had seized him.
“Yesoh,” he managed, his voice hoarse. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and took another unsteady step back. “I need to go.”
“Wait,” I pleaded, stepping in front of him. “Please, don’t just walk away—”
But he wouldn’t look at me, his face twisting with an urgency that bordered on desperation. He turned abruptly, his pace unsteady as he began to walk quickly down the path, his back rigid, shoulders tense.
“Wynter!” I called after him, a shiver running down my spine as I watched him stumble, catch himself, and pick up speed, as if he could somehow outrun whatever ghosts had been unearthed by that faded poster. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back.
I stood there, my breath visible in the cold, watching him disappear down the path, leaving me and the memory of Waverly Peak hanging like a shadow over the maple leaf-covered silence.