Page 32

"I'm fine," I insisted, though my wrist ached where I'd tried to break my fall. "Just a bruised ego."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded toward the side of the run. "Want to take a break for a minute?"

I was about to refuse, to insist I was perfectly fine and didn't need her concern, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the way she asked without a hint of mockery. Or maybe I just needed a minute to collect myself.

"Sure," I said.

We moved to the edge of the run, finding a spot where we could sit without being in anyone's way. Brooke unclipped her board completely, setting it upside down in the snow so the bindings wouldn't collect ice. I did the same, mimicking her movements.

"So," she said after a moment, "what were you thinking about so hard that you forgot how to snowboard?"

I looked at her, ready to fire back a sarcastic response, but the genuine curiosity in her expression caught me off guard. For a second, I considered telling her the truth—that I was thinking about her, about that strange moment we'd shared on the lift, about how confusing it was to suddenly not hate someone you thought you'd always hate.

"Nothing important," I said instead.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing me. "Right."

We sat in silence, watching other skiers and snowboarders make their way down the mountain. It was strangely peaceful. Sitting here with Brooke without arguing, without the constant tension that usually hung between us.

"You never answered my question," I said suddenly, breaking the silence. "On the lift. About why you don't have friends."

Something shuttered in her expression. "Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind."

"Come on," I pressed. "I answered yours. It's only fair."

"Life isn't fair," she shot back. "Besides, maybe I just prefer my own company. Not everyone needs a crowd to feel validated."

There it was—that wall she always put up, that reflexive sarcasm whenever something got too personal. It frustrated me more than it should have.

"Is it really that hard to give a straight answer for once?" I asked, my voice rising slightly. "Every time anyone tries to have an actual conversation with you, you throw up this... this shield of sarcasm and deflection. It's exhausting."

"I'm exhausting?" she said incredulously. "That's rich coming from you. At least I'm consistent. You're hot one minute, cold the next. One second you're yelling at me for waking you up, the next you're asking personal questions like we're best friends. Pick a lane, Madeline."

"I'm not the one who can't answer a simple question," I snapped. "Maybe if you weren't so closed off all the time, people might actually want to be around you."

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Her face went blank, that careful, controlled expression that hid whatever she was really feeling. But I caught a flash of hurt in her eyes before she masked it.

"You're right," she said, her voice unnervingly quiet. "Maybe that's it."

"Brooke, I didn't mean—"

"No, it's fine." She stood up, reaching for her board. "We should keep going. The run isn't getting any shorter."

"Wait," I said, getting to my feet. "I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. I just... I get frustrated when I feel like I'm the only one trying here."

She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Trying what, exactly?"

What was I trying to do? I wasn't even sure myself. "I don't know. To understand you, I guess."

"Why?" The genuine confusion in her voice surprised me.

"Because..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Because you're not who I thought you were. And that makes me wonder what else I might be wrong about."

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "Look, I'm sorry too. You're right—I deflect. It's a habit. But some questions are harder to answer than others."

"Fair enough," I conceded. "Can we just... move on? Pretend the last five minutes didn't happen?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That eager to forget your outburst, huh?"