Page 22 of First Echo

brOOKE

I 'd woken before my alarm, that familiar excitement of a fresh powder day making it impossible to stay in bed.

In the dim light, I could just make out Madeline's sleeping form.

She looked different when she slept—younger, less guarded.

I moved quietly through the room, not wanting to wake her.

Truth be told, I enjoyed these early morning escapes.

No one to deal with, just me and the mountain.

The resort was still quiet when I arrived, just a few serious skiers and snowboarders heading out for first tracks. I'd already gotten in several runs, each one better than the last. The snow was perfect—that ideal combination of grip and glide that makes for effortless carving down the mountain.

I was heading up for one more run before the crowds arrived when suddenly I wasn't alone anymore.

I don't know who was more surprised—me or Madeline.

She slid into the seat beside me, looking just as startled as I felt.

For a moment, we both sat in shock, neither quite ready to acknowledge what had just happened.

My helmet rested on the seat beside me, leaving nothing between us but the uncomfortable silence.

"You left without waking me. Again," Madeline finally said, breaking the silence.

Of course that would be the first thing she said. Not "good morning" or "nice day for snowboarding." Just straight to accusations. Typical Madeline.

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to be your personal alarm clock," I replied, adjusting my beanie against the cold.

"That's not the point," she snapped. "It's just... rude. To keep disappearing like that."

"Rude?" I raised an eyebrow. "What's rude is expecting your roommate to wait around for you to wake up. Some of us actually like to make the most of the day."

Her cheeks flushed pink. "I never asked you to wait around. But a simple 'hey, I'm heading out' wouldn't kill you."

"You were asleep," I pointed out. "What was I supposed to do, shake you awake at five in the morning just to tell you I'm leaving?"

"You could leave a note or something." She tugged at her jacket zipper, pulling it higher.

"A note," I repeated flatly. "Right. 'Dear Madeline, gone snowboarding. Try not to fall on your face again. Best wishes, Brooke.'"

She fought back a smile at that, the corner of her mouth twitching despite her obvious attempt to maintain her annoyance. "You're impossible," she muttered, shifting away as much as the narrow lift seat would allow.

"I'm impossible?" The laugh that escaped me held no humor. "That's rich coming from you. You've spent the past few weeks making it abundantly clear you don't want anything to do with me. Now suddenly you care where I am and what I'm doing?"

"I don't care," she insisted, though something in her voice suggested otherwise. "I just think it's common courtesy to—"

"To what? Treat you like you're the center of the universe? News flash, Madeline: you're not."

Something in my stomach twisted at her words. Her demand for courtesy seemed hypocritical after weeks of barely acknowledging my existence. Yet a tiny voice in my head—one that sounded suspiciously like my mom—whispered that maybe I could have been more considerate.

We fell into silence again, both staring ahead at the mountain stretched out below us. The only sounds were the mechanical whirring of the lift and the distant shouts of skiers. My heart was hammering, though I wasn't sure if it was from anger or something else.

The lift swayed slightly in the wind, causing our shoulders to brush against each other. I shifted away quickly, pretending to adjust my position.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The silence grew heavier, more awkward. I found myself sneaking glances at her profile—the slight upturn of her nose, the way her blonde hair escaped from beneath her helmet, the curve of her jaw. I'd never really looked at her before, not like this.

Eventually, our eyes met. For once, there were no sharp words, no defenses—just blue eyes meeting brown.

I could see flecks of darker blue in her irises, tiny details I'd never noticed before.

I wondered if she could see the dark green ring around my pupils, something my mom used to say made my eyes unique.

Thirty seconds of silent staring was about twenty-nine seconds too long for comfort.

"If I didn't know better," I finally said, "I'd think you actually missed me this morning."

A startled laugh escaped her. "In your dreams, Winters."

"Oh absolutely," I said with exaggerated seriousness. "I lie awake at night dreaming of quality time with Madeline Hayes. It's truly the highlight of my imaginary social calendar."

She laughed again—not the practiced laugh she used around her friends, but something genuine that transformed her face. She looked different when she really laughed, younger and more genuine. For a second, I caught a glimpse of who she might be without all the social pressure and expectations.

"You're such a smart-ass," she said, but there was no bite to her words now.

"Better than being a dumb-ass," I replied automatically.

That set us both off, our laughter hanging in the cold air between us. It was strange, this momentary truce. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed like this with anyone.

When our laughter subsided, something had changed. The tension was still there, but different now. The lift continued its slow ascent. We probably had about five more minutes before we reached the top.

"About your question last night," Madeline said suddenly, her voice quieter. "Why I'm friends with them..."

I looked at her, surprised. I hadn't expected an answer, especially not here.

"It's complicated," she continued, staring at her gloved hands. "We've been friends since forever, you know? Victoria and I were in the same kindergarten class. Julian's my twin, obviously. And the others... it's just always been that way. It's easy. Comfortable."

The way she said "comfortable" made it sound like a prison sentence.

"Even when they're not actually good friends?" I asked carefully.

She shrugged. "They're not all bad. And besides... who else would I be friends with? It's not like you can just... start over in high school. Everyone already knows who you are, who you're supposed to be."

Her words hit home harder than I wanted to admit. After my mom died, I became "the girl whose mother died," and that label shaped everything. The pitying looks, the whispers, the way conversations would die when I approached—it was suffocating.

"Maybe you can," I said softly. "Start over, I mean. Maybe not with everyone, but... with someone."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, something shifting in her expression. I saw a flash of the real Madeline—the one who had laughed during our snowball fight, who had picked up snowboarding with surprising determination, who sometimes seemed lost inside her own perfect life.

Before she could respond, her expression changed.

"So what's your excuse?" she asked, her tone lighter but with a curious edge. "Why don't you have friends? And don't give me some sarcastic non-answer. I answered your question."

The question caught me off guard. My mind raced for a response—something witty, something dismissive, something that wouldn't reveal too much. But images flashed through my head: my mother's funeral, the awkward condolences, the whispers that followed me through hallways.

I'd always kept to myself, even before my mom died. I preferred books to people, found more comfort in solitude than in forced social interaction. But after she was gone, those walls grew higher. Stronger. It wasn't just preference anymore; it was protection.

Maybe that's what Madeline and I had in common—we were both hiding, just in different ways. She hid in plain sight, surrounded by people but never truly seen. I hid in solitude, keeping everyone at a distance so they couldn't hurt me.

For a brief, disorienting moment, I wanted to tell her this. Maybe it was the mountain air, or the way she'd been honest with me. Whatever the reason, I found myself on the verge of opening up.

But then the lift station appeared ahead, saving me from having to answer.

"Oh, would you look at that," I said, relief washing over me. "We're here."

Madeline gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing, but she didn't push it. We both prepared to disembark, gathering our gear.

"You're not getting off that easy," she warned, but there was no real threat in her voice. "This conversation isn't over."

"Isn't it?" I asked innocently, sliding forward as the lift reached the exit point.

We pushed off the lift, gliding in opposite directions—Madeline to the right, me to the left. I knelt to strap my free foot into my binding, perhaps focusing more intently than necessary on the task.

"Need help with that?" Madeline called over, surprising me again.

"I've been doing this since I was ten," I replied. "I think I can manage."

"Just trying to be helpful," she said with a small shrug.

"Wow, Madeline Hayes being helpful. Alert the media."

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile. "You know, you're not as funny as you think you are."

"And you're not as intimidating as you think you are," I shot back.

"I don't try to be intimidating."

I looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Right. And I don't try to be sarcastic."

That got another genuine laugh out of her. It was becoming addictive, making her laugh like that.

When I finished with my bindings and stood up, she was still there, waiting. For a moment, I thought she might suggest we take a run together. The idea was both appealing and terrifying.

"You know," she said, adjusting her poles, "you're actually not terrible company when you're not being a complete jerk."

"High praise coming from the queen of jerks," I replied, but there was no real heat in my words.

"I deserved that," she admitted with a small nod. "Well... see you around, I guess."

She lifted a hand in a small wave, then pushed off down the slope. Her form was surprisingly good for someone who'd just started snowboarding yesterday. I watched her go, feeling unexpectedly conflicted.

Part of me was relieved to return to my solitude. Another part—a part I wasn't ready to acknowledge—felt disappointed as she disappeared down the mountain.

I secured my helmet and pulled my goggles down. The mountain was waiting, ready to help me forget everything except the feeling of flying down its slopes. That should be enough. It had always been enough before.

I pushed off, feeling the familiar rush as my board cut through the snow. Wind whipped past my face, carrying away my troubled thoughts. For a moment, I was free—no complications, no confusing feelings, just me and the mountain.

But even as I carved my way down the slope, one question lingered: Why couldn't I have just answered her?

The truth was simple: I was afraid. Afraid of letting people get close.

I'd always kept my distance from others, but after Mom died, it became more than a habit—it became a shield.

When you lose someone you love, you learn how deep pain can cut.

It was easier to stay isolated than risk that wound again.

Except somehow, without my permission, Madeline Hayes had started to matter. And that terrified me more than I wanted to admit.

I leaned into a turn, focusing on the physical sensation to clear my head. For now, at least, I could outrun my feelings. I could lose myself in the mountain.

The rest would have to wait. Today, I would ride.