Page 26 of First Echo

MADELINE

T ell me everything," I said, watching Brooke carefully. She sat across from me, ice pack pressed against her swollen knuckles, shoulders tense like she was bracing for another hit—though this time, an emotional one.

Part of me couldn't believe what had just happened.

Brooke Winters—quiet, bookish Brooke—had actually punched my brother.

The scene kept replaying in my mind: her fist connecting with Julian's jaw, the stunned silence that followed, the way she'd fled the bar.

There was something almost admirable about it, though I'd never admit that out loud.

"I went looking for you," she finally said, her voice soft. "After dinner. You weren't there, and I... I wanted to apologize for what I said at the café."

She looked at me, a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability—in her eyes. "I asked around, found out you might be at that bar. When I got there, Julian intercepted me before I could reach you."

"And then?"

Brooke's gaze dropped to her injured hand. "He was being Julian. Making comments, blocking my path. I tried to ignore him, but then he..." She hesitated, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "He brought up my mom."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What did he say?"

"That I've been a 'walking ghost' since my mom died. That I'm forgettable. That no one wants to be around me because I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself."

Each word felt like a slap. The casual cruelty of it, the deliberate targeting of what was clearly a deep wound—it was Julian at his worst. I'd seen him do it before, find someone's weak spot and dig in mercilessly, but this felt different. More personal. More vicious.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate but sincere. "Julian can be such an asshole."

"Runs in the family," she replied, but there was a small smile playing at her lips that took the sting out of her words.

I smiled back, acknowledging the jab. "Touché. Though I prefer to think I've been evolving beyond the asshole stage. Slightly."

"Jury's still out on that one."

We both laughed, a brief moment of lightness in the heavy atmosphere. When the laughter faded, I found myself studying her face—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the soft curve of her lips, the genuine warmth that transformed her face when she laughed without restraint.

"Your mom," I said carefully, not wanting to overstep but needing to know. "I heard she passed away a few years ago. I didn't realize until... well, until recently."

Brooke tensed, her body going still. For a moment, I thought she might shut down again, retreat behind that wall of sarcasm and deflection. But then she nodded slowly.

"Four years ago. Cancer." Her voice was steady, but I could hear the effort it took to keep it that way. "It was quick. Too quick, really. By the time they caught it, there wasn't much they could do."

The clinical way she described it couldn't mask the pain underneath. I thought about my own mom, who drove me crazy with her high expectations and constant criticism, but who was very much alive. The idea of losing her, whatever our relationship might be...

"I'm sorry," I said again, because what else could I say? "That must have been incredibly hard."

She shrugged, a gesture meant to seem casual but came across as protective. "It was what it was."

A silence fell between us, not quite uncomfortable but charged with unspoken things. Outside, snow had begun to fall, fat flakes drifting past our window, illuminated by the resort's exterior lights. It made our little room feel isolated, cocooned from the rest of the world.

"That book," I said, suddenly remembering our argument from days ago. "The one I made fun of. It was special to you, wasn't it?"

Brooke glanced at the worn paperback on her nightstand, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, maybe at the fact that I'd remembered or cared enough to ask.

"My mom gave it to me," she said quietly.

"It was one of her favorites. We used to read together all the time, fantasy especially.

She loved escaping into other worlds." A soft, sad smile touched her lips.

"After she died, reading those books felt like.

.. like I could still connect with her somehow. Like we were still sharing something."

The weight of her words settled over me. I thought about how callously I'd dismissed her reading, how I'd mocked something that was clearly a lifeline for her.

"I'm sorry about what I said," I told her, the apology unfamiliar but necessary. "About your book being boring. I didn't know it was important to you, but that's not an excuse. I shouldn't have said it."

She looked at me for a long moment, as if trying to determine my sincerity. "Thanks," she said finally. "It's okay. You couldn't have known."

"Still. I feel bad about it."

"Well, now we're even," she said with a small smile. "You made fun of my book, I punched your brother. Call it square?"

I laughed, surprised by how easy it was to laugh with her. "Deal. Though I think you definitely got the better end of that trade. Julian's had that coming for years."

"Happy to oblige," she replied, her smile widening to reveal a glimpse of perfect teeth.

The ice pack on her hand had turned soft, its cooling effect worn off. She set it aside, flexing her fingers gingerly, wincing slightly at the movement. Her knuckles were red and swollen, likely to bruise spectacularly by morning.

"That looks painful," I observed.

"Worth it," she said firmly, then sighed. "Though I guess I'll be hearing from Mr. Sinclair tomorrow. Punching another student probably violates some trip guidelines."

"Probably," I agreed. "But Julian won't report it officially. His ego couldn't handle admitting a girl punched him in front of everyone."

"Small mercies," she muttered.

We fell into silence again, but it wasn't the tense, loaded silence from earlier today or the awkward silence from our first days as roommates. It was almost... comfortable. Like maybe we'd finally found some common ground, some tentative path toward understanding each other.

I glanced at the clock, surprised to find it was only a little past ten. The night was still young, especially considering most places in town didn't close until much later. An idea formed in my mind, impulsive but appealing.

"Let's get out of here," I said suddenly, standing up.

Brooke looked confused. "What? Where would we go?"

"There's another bar in town, much better than that dive Julian dragged everyone to. The Mountain Goat. No chance of running into anyone from school there."

"And why would we want to go to a bar?"

"Because we've both had a day from hell," I explained, already moving to my suitcase to find something appropriate to wear. "Because we're both wide awake with adrenaline from everything that happened. Because I could use a drink after the day we've had, and I'm guessing you could too."

She hesitated, clearly torn. "I don't know..."

"Come on," I urged, surprising myself with how much I wanted her to say yes. "One drink. If it's terrible, we'll come right back."

Something shifted in her expression—a slight softening, a curiosity, maybe even a touch of excitement. "One drink," she agreed cautiously. "But I'm not changing."

I glanced at her outfit—simple black sweatpants and a hoodie that somehow looked better on her than it had any right to. "Fine. But I am. Give me five minutes."

I ducked into the bathroom with an armful of clothes, quickly applying some light makeup and changing into black jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out my eyes.

I let my hair down from its messy bun, brushing it out so it fell in loose waves around my shoulders.

A touch of lip gloss, a spritz of perfume, and I was ready.

When I emerged, Brooke was waiting by the door, a slight nervousness evident in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

She'd put on a blue beanie and dug up a clean hoodie—still casual, but intentionally so.

She'd even dabbed something on her lips that made them look softer, pinker.

"What?" she asked when she caught me staring.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "You look nice."

A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. "You too," she mumbled, almost inaudibly.

The resort was still bustling when we made our way through the lobby, guests gathered in small groups, enjoying drinks or playing board games by the fire.

We slipped out unnoticed, stepping into the crisp winter night.

Snow was falling more heavily now, blanketing everything in a layer of pristine white.

Our breath formed clouds in the cold air as we made our way along the well-lit path toward town.

"Hope you know where you're going," Brooke said, pulling her beanie lower to cover her ears. "Because all I see is a wall of white."

"Trust me," I replied, then paused. "Actually, don't. That's probably terrible advice."

She laughed, the sound sharp and clear in the quiet night. "At least you're self-aware."

The Mountain Goat was a small, rustic bar tucked away on a side street, with warm yellow light spilling from its windows and a hand-carved wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze.

Inside, it was cozy and surprisingly uncrowded—just a few locals seated at the bar and a couple of tables occupied by what looked like hotel staff unwinding after their shifts.

We found a small booth in the corner, sliding in across from each other. A waitress approached almost immediately, her smile welcoming.

"What can I get you ladies tonight?"

"Whatever local beer you'd recommend," I said, then glanced at Brooke questioningly.

"Same," she echoed with a small nod.

Once the waitress left, Brooke looked around, taking in the decor—old ski equipment mounted on the walls, vintage photographs of the mountain in its early days, strings of small white lights crisscrossing the ceiling.