Page 25 of First Echo

The bar erupted in gasps and shouts. Julian staggered back, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with disbelief. Sam jumped forward, putting himself between us, while Victoria shrieked something unintelligible.

And there was Madeline, frozen at the edge of the commotion, her eyes locked with mine in a moment of perfect, stunned understanding.

I didn't wait for Julian to recover or for anyone to say anything.

I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, bursting out into the cold night air, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

My hand throbbed, already beginning to swell, but I barely noticed as I half-walked, half-ran back to the resort.

By the time I reached our room, I was shaking, both from the cold and from the aftermath of adrenaline. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, cradling my injured hand against my chest.

What had I done? I never lost control like that, never let anyone get to me so completely. Julian's words shouldn't have mattered. He was just an ignorant jerk who didn't know the first thing about me. So why did it hurt so much?

Because he'd found the exact right spot, the raw, unhealed wound I tried so hard to protect.

Because he'd made me feel exposed, vulnerable, seen in all the ways I didn't want to be seen.

And because, deep down, a small part of me feared he might be right.

That I was forgettable. That I'd vanish completely if I wasn't careful.

Eventually, I dragged myself to my feet and into the bathroom. I turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it, hoping the steam and heat would wash away the memory of Julian's words, the feeling of my fist connecting with his face, the look in Madeline's eyes.

I stood under the scalding water until my skin turned pink, until the heat had melted away some of the tension in my shoulders.

I was carefully not thinking about what would happen next—how Julian would retaliate, what Madeline would say when she eventually returned.

I just focused on the water, the steam, the momentary escape.

I'd just turned off the shower when I heard the door to our room open and close. My heart jumped into my throat. Madeline was back. I stood frozen, water dripping onto the bathroom floor, suddenly unsure what to do.

After a moment of indecision, I quickly dried off and put on my sweatpants and hoodie, then cautiously opened the bathroom door, letting a cloud of steam escape into the cooler bedroom. Madeline was sitting on her bed, looking at me with an expression I couldn't read.

Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out something, then tossed it across the room to me. I caught it reflexively with my injured hand, wincing at the flare of pain. It was a small instant ice pack.

"For your hand," she said simply.

I stared at the ice pack, then at her, surprise washing over me. After everything—our fight at the café, me punching her brother—this was the last thing I expected.

"Thanks," I managed, my voice raspier than I intended.

I activated the ice pack and pressed it against my swollen knuckles. The cold sent a shock through my system, but the relief was almost immediate.

Madeline was still in the same spot, as if she hadn't moved at all. I sat down on my own bed, facing her, the ice pack pressed to my hand.

"You left the bar," I said, stating the obvious because I didn't know where else to start.

She nodded. "Right after you did."

"Oh." I hadn't expected that. "I thought you'd stay with..."

"With who? Julian? After what he said to you?" She shook her head, a flash of anger crossing her face. "No way."

Madeline looked at me for a long moment, her blue eyes searching my face. "Why did you come looking for me at the bar?"

"Who said I was looking for you?" I said defensively, the response automatic. Old habits.

She raised an eyebrow, skepticism written across her face. "Please. Why else would you, of all people, voluntarily walk into a crowded bar? You hate people."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She had a point.

"To apologize," I admitted with a sigh. "I felt bad about how we left things."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "So your plan was to find me and apologize, but instead you ended up punching my brother in the face?"

"Not exactly how I planned it, no." I couldn't help the tiny smile that mirrored hers. "I'm sorry I hit Julian," I added, though the words lacked conviction.

"No, you're not," she replied instantly.

I met her eyes, the smile growing despite myself. "No, I'm not."

We shared a moment of surprising solidarity, a quiet understanding passing between us. Then her expression grew serious again.

"I know why you hit him," she said, leaning forward slightly. "But what exactly happened before you hit him? How did it start?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implications. I looked down at my injured hand, watching the ice pack slowly melt against my skin. The confrontation with Julian played through my mind again, a mixture of anger and hurt rising like a tide. Where would I even begin?

"Brooke," Madeline said softly, drawing my attention back to her. "Tell me everything."