Page 27 of First Echo

"This place is nice," she admitted. "How'd you find it?"

"Julian mentioned it earlier today, actually. Said it was too 'local' for his taste, which I took to mean it was probably perfect."

She smiled at that. "Your brother has terrible taste."

"In most things, yes," I agreed, leaning forward slightly. "Except in friends. Sam's actually decent, despite being Julian's best friend since kindergarten."

"And Victoria? Audrey? Are they 'actually decent' too?" Her tone was curious rather than accusatory.

I considered the question seriously. "They're... complicated. Victoria can be vicious, but she's also been there for me during some rough times. Audrey follows Victoria's lead, though I sometimes think she'd be different on her own. And Sophie's actually pretty kind, just desperate to fit in."

"So why do you hang out with them? If they're not always great people?"

It was the same question she'd asked on the ski lift, though her tone was gentler now, less confrontational. The waitress returned with our beers, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts.

"Habit, partly," I said once we were alone again. "We've been friends forever. But also... I don't know. Safety, maybe? There's something secure about having a defined place in the social hierarchy, even if it's not always comfortable."

"Even if it means compromising who you are?" she asked softly.

I took a sip of my beer to avoid answering immediately. The question hit too close to what I'd been wrestling with myself. "I'm not sure I know who I am without all that," I admitted finally. "That probably sounds pathetic."

"No," she said, surprising me. "It sounds human. We all construct identities based on our circumstances, our relationships. The tricky part is figuring out which parts are really us and which parts are just... adaptations."

I studied her face, noticing the thoughtful set of her mouth, the way she seemed to be speaking from personal experience. "Is that why you keep people at a distance? To maintain your 'real' identity?"

She laughed, but there was a note of sadness in it. "More like self-preservation. Can't get hurt if you don't let people close enough to hurt you."

"Because of your mom?"

She nodded slowly. "Partly. Losing her..

.it was like the ground disappeared from under me.

Nothing felt secure anymore." She traced her finger through the condensation on her glass.

"But it was also the way people reacted afterward.

The pity, the awkwardness, the way some friends just..

.faded away. It was easier to pull back than to keep facing all that. "

I'd never thought about grief that way—as something that changed not only your relationship with the person you lost but with everyone else too. The insight made me see Brooke differently, understanding her isolation as a form of protection rather than simply antisocial behavior.

"That sounds lonely," I said quietly.

"It can be, sometimes,” she answered, her honesty disarming. "But it's also safe."

"Safe isn't always better though, is it?"

Our eyes met across the table, and something electric passed between us—a moment of recognition, of unexpected connection. We were so different, Brooke and I, yet in that moment, I felt understood in a way I rarely experienced.

"No," she agreed. "It's not."

We sipped our beers in companionable silence, letting the admission settle between us. Around us, the bar hummed with quiet conversation, occasional laughter, the clink of glasses. It felt separate from the rest of our lives, a bubble of time where normal rules and roles didn't apply.

"So," I said eventually, eager to move to lighter territory. "Snowboarding. Where did you learn?"

The question opened a floodgate. Brooke's face lit up as she talked about learning to snowboard, her early falls and eventual mastery, trips to different mountains.

It was the most animated I'd ever seen her, hands gesturing expressively, eyes bright with enthusiasm.

She talked about her mom teaching her to ski first, then her transition to snowboarding as a teenager, the freedom she felt on the mountain.

I found myself watching her lips as she spoke, the way they curved around certain words, the flash of her teeth when she smiled. There was something mesmerizing about seeing her like this—unguarded, passionate, alive. A strange flutter started in my stomach, a feeling I couldn't quite name.

"Sorry," she said suddenly, noticing my silence. "I'm talking way too much."

"No, don't apologize," I assured her. "It's nice, seeing you excited about something."

That slight blush returned to her cheeks. "Well, what about you? What gets Madeline Hayes excited besides being the queen of the social hierarchy?"

The way she said it—teasing but not mean—made me laugh. "Art," I admitted, thinking of my hidden sketches. "Drawing, painting. I've always loved it, though my parents think it's a waste of time."

"That's why your room is full of art," she remembered. "You're actually good. Like, really good."

"Thanks," I said, feeling an unexpected warmth at her praise. "It's the one thing that feels completely mine, you know? Not influenced by expectations or other people's opinions. Just... me."

"I get that," she nodded. "That's how snowboarding is for me. And reading, I guess."

"We should trade sometime," I suggested impulsively. "You could recommend a book you think I'd actually like, and I could... I don't know, draw something for you."

The idea seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. "You'd draw something for me?"

"Sure, why not?" I tried to sound casual, though the idea of creating something specifically for Brooke made my heart beat a little faster for some reason. "Consider it further apology for being an asshole about your book."

"Deal," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Though we both know I've got the harder task. Finding a book that Madeline Hayes would deign to read? Nearly impossible."

"Oh please, I read," I protested.

"School-assigned books don't count."

"I've read plenty of non-school books!"

"Name three," she challenged, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, realizing I'd walked right into her trap. "Okay, fine, maybe I'm more of a magazine person. But that's still reading."

She laughed, a full, genuine laugh that made something shift in my chest. "I'll find you something good. Something that will blow your mind."

"I look forward to it," I said, surprised to find I meant it.

We ordered another round of beers, falling into an easy conversation that meandered from subject to subject—favorite movies (she loved old classics, I preferred action and romance), music (we both had a secret fondness for '80s hits), places we wanted to travel someday.

It was surprising how easy it was to talk to her, how the time seemed to slip away.

"Okay, I've got one for you," I said after our third beer, feeling warm and slightly buzzed. "Best memory from childhood. Go."

She thought for a moment, her eyes drifting to the middle distance. "My tenth birthday. My parents surprised me with a weekend trip to this little cabin by a lake. No special reason, just the three of us swimming and hiking and making s'mores. Simple, but perfect."

The wistfulness in her voice made my heart ache for her. "That sounds really nice."

"It was," she agreed softly. "Your turn."

I searched my memories, trying to find one that felt as genuine as hers. "When I was eight, I got really sick—some kind of flu. I had a high fever, felt terrible. Julian was at a friend's house, and my parents had some charity event they couldn't miss, so our housekeeper was supposed to watch me."

"Sounds like a great memory so far," Brooke said dryly.

"Wait, it gets better," I assured her. "After my parents left, our housekeeper—Lucía—decided I needed more than just medicine.

She brought a TV into my room, something strictly forbidden normally, and we had this impromptu movie marathon.

She made homemade soup, built a fort on my bed with extra blankets, and stayed with me the whole night, even after her shift was supposed to end. "

I smiled at the memory, the feeling of being cared for so completely, so unselfishly.

"When my parents came home and found us both asleep in this ridiculous blanket fort with the TV still on, I thought she'd get in trouble.

But instead, my mom just smiled—not her usual polite smile, but a real one.

She thanked Lucía for taking such good care of me, and after that, things were different. Warmer, somehow. At least for a while."

Brooke was watching me intently, a soft expression on her face. "That's a beautiful memory."

"Yeah," I agreed. "One of my best."

Our eyes met across the table, and I felt that strange flutter again, stronger this time. We'd moved past the superficial conversations of acquaintances, beyond the barbed exchanges of enemies, into something new and undefined.

It was almost midnight when we decided to head back to the resort. Outside, the snow had stopped, leaving everything blanketed in a fresh layer of white that glittered under the streetlights. The air was cold and clear, stars visible in patches between scattered clouds.

"Thanks for dragging me out tonight," Brooke said as we walked. "It was... actually really nice."

"Don't sound so surprised," I teased, bumping my shoulder gently against hers. "I occasionally have good ideas."

"Very occasionally," she agreed with a smile.

We walked in comfortable silence, our breaths forming small clouds that mingled in the space between us.

I was acutely aware of her presence beside me—the soft sound of her footsteps in the snow, the faint smell of her shampoo when the breeze blew just right, the way the moonlight caught in her dark hair.