“Bravo!” I cheered. “What in the heavens above doyoueven know about love, Wynter Kwon?”
“In all transparency,” he said, “nothing at all. And I think I’m okay with that. I don’t think my purpose on earth has anything to do with romantic pursuits.”
“Then what is it?” I wondered.
“What is what?”
“Your purpose here.”
“To stay on the ice as long as I can,” he explained. “As long as I can.”
“Can I ask you something?” I wondered, glancing up at the streak of white in his hair.
“Yes.”
“Why do you and the girls all have white stripes in your hair?” I asked, curiosity bubbling over. He smiled almost as if he knew I’d been dying to ask.
“What answer would you like?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe that you’re all magic!” I proposed, and his eyes glistened at my words. “Are you magic?”
“I don’t think so… but maybe if that was what you wanted, it could be true somehow.” He pondered. “Do you want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a condition called poliosis. It’s genetic,” he explained.
“Are you sick?” I gasped, confusion overwhelming me, and he laughed so hard tears collected in his eyes.
“What?”
“Of course we’re not ill, Yesoh. It’s just a condition where pigment is absent in the hair—and sometimes the underlying skin—creating a natural streak.” He clarified, and my cheeks burned in embarrassment.
“Oh.” I sighed in relief. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright. You can ask whatever you want,” he nodded. Then paused. “Mostly.”
“Do you think that in every lifetime you have lots of sisters?” I asked.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you think that in every lifetime you have lots of brothers?”
“Hopefully not!” I chuckled. “Do you think that in every lifetime you’re a figure skater?”
He paused, then glanced at the credenza, swallowing hard.
“I think that in every lifetime, I’m on thin ice,” he concluded.
But deep down in my heart, I was praying to every God I knew existed that in every lifetime, Mr. Kwon decided to move away from Nottingham and buy the little house on Clementine Street—that in every lifetime, there was some way, somehow, that led me right to Wynter.
11
Slippery Start
Many would’ve dubbed me an idiot for asking an Olympic gold medalist—the one who holds the world record for the youngest figure skating champion in the world—to be the one to teach me how to skate. But if anyone could guide a ballerina on the ice, it would be him.
I got up early that morning, did my skincare routine, and sat through an interrogation from Sydney about my intended whereabouts.
“You’vegotto be kidding me,” she gasped, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “I can’t believe you actually managed to convince him to do this.”
