Page 35 of First Echo

brOOKE

I pushed through the door to our room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, my mind still buzzing from the race.

Victory had tasted sweet for those brief moments at the finish line—the pure, uncomplicated joy of excelling at something I loved.

But Madeline had been there, cheering, smiling, looking at me like she was proud, and that had ruined everything.

It had pulled me back into the confusing orbit of whatever this was between us, this thing I was trying so desperately to escape.

Her touch still lingered on my wrist, where she'd grabbed me after I'd tried to walk away.

Even now, I could feel the ghost of her fingers, the shock of warmth against my cold skin, the way my pulse had jumped beneath her grip.

No one touched me like that—with intention, with demand. It had caught me completely off guard.

"I thought you made it very clear we're not friends.

" The words had left my lips before I could stop them, sharp-edged with hurt I hadn't meant to reveal.

And the look on her face—confusion giving way to recognition, then a flash of what might have been guilt—had lodged in my chest like a splinter, painful every time I breathed.

I stripped off my snow gear and headed straight for the shower, cranking the water as hot as I could stand it.

Steam filled the small bathroom as I stood under the punishing spray, hoping it might wash away not just the exertion of the day but the lingering sensation of her fingers on my skin, the memory of her eyes following me across the snow.

What did she want from me? One minute she was leaving our room to go to Sam, the next she was looking at me like I was something precious she'd lost. One day she was laughing with me on the slopes, sharing drinks at a bar, looking at me like she could see straight through all my carefully constructed walls.

The next she was back with her perfect friends, her perfect boyfriend, her perfect life where I was just a temporary diversion, an interesting footnote.

I shut off the water with more force than necessary, wrapping myself in a towel that felt too rough against my overheated skin.

Through the foggy mirror, my reflection was blurred—an apt metaphor for how I felt.

Undefined. Unsettled. Caught between the person I'd always been and someone new, someone who let Madeline Hayes under her skin.

Tonight was the last mandatory dinner of the trip, and since it was the final evening, it had a more formal atmosphere than usual.

Typically, I'd wear whatever was comfortable, blend into the background as I always did.

But something rebellious stirred within me as I stood before my open suitcase.

Maybe it was Madeline's dismissal, maybe it was the lingering high of winning the race, or maybe I was just tired of being invisible.

I pulled out a dark blue blouse with a subtle pattern, one I'd packed on a whim.

The silky fabric was cool against my fingers, the cut more form-fitting than my usual baggy clothes, with a V-neck that dipped lower than I typically allowed.

It had been a gift from my mom for my thirteenth birthday, just months before her diagnosis.

She'd picked it with her usual confidence and style, insisting it would eventually bring out the green in my eyes when I grew into it.

"You're more than just a student, Brooke," she'd said, her smile warm and knowing. "More than just a snowboarder. Don't be afraid to let people see that."

I'd never worn it before. After she died, it had been carefully folded away, too precious and painful to look at. But tonight, I pulled it on, feeling both like I was honoring her memory and stepping into a version of myself she'd always seen more clearly than I had.

But tonight, I pulled it on, along with a pair of black pants that actually fit properly.

The girl in the mirror looked different—not just because of the clothes, but because of the determination in her eyes, the slight flush in her cheeks, the tension in her jaw.

She looked like someone with a secret, someone who might not always fade into the background.

I finished getting ready quickly, applying minimal makeup and running a brush through my damp hair before settling on my bed with my book.

I could feel the unfamiliar fabric of the blouse against my skin, a constant reminder of this small act of rebellion.

The words on the page blurred before my eyes, my mind too restless to focus, but the familiar weight of the book in my hands was comforting—a shield against whatever might come next.

Twenty minutes passed before the door opened and Madeline appeared, snowflakes melting in her blonde hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She hesitated when she saw me, her eyes widening slightly before she composed her features into careful indifference.

"Hi," she said, the word dropping into the silence between us like a stone into still water.

I nodded, the barest acknowledgment, keeping my eyes on my book though I couldn't have said what words they were seeing.

I was acutely aware of her moving around the room, the soft sounds of her unpacking things, hanging up her jacket.

The mundane sounds of a shared existence that somehow felt charged with unspoken things.

"Congratulations on the race," she tried again, her voice a careful mix of casual and friendly. "You were really impressive out there."

"Thanks," I replied, not looking up. One word, delivered with the precise amount of polite disinterest I'd perfected over years of keeping people at a distance.

The silence returned, heavier now. I could hear her moving around the room, gathering clothes for her shower. The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, letting my book fall closed.

What was I doing? This cold war between us was exhausting, draining energy I didn't have to spare.

And for what? To protect myself from the inevitable moment when Madeline Hayes realized I wasn't worth her time?

When she returned fully to her perfect boyfriend, her perfect friends, her perfect life where girls like me didn't belong?

Better to end it now. Better to be the one who walked away than the one left behind. Again.

I returned to my book, forcing myself to focus on the familiar story, letting it carry me away from the complications of the present.

The sound of the shower running, the faint smell of Madeline's expensive shampoo seeping under the door, the knowledge that she was so close yet so untouchable—I pushed it all away, retreating into the fictional world between the pages.

When the bathroom door opened twenty minutes later, releasing a cloud of steam and the stronger scent of Madeline's shampoo, I kept my eyes fixed firmly on my book.

But I was aware of her presence like a physical touch against my skin—the rustle of fabric as she moved around the room, the soft padding of her bare feet on the carpet, the subtle warmth that seemed to radiate from her.

I could sense her getting ready for dinner, though I refused to look directly at her.

Just brief glimpses from the corner of my eye—the flash of bare shoulders before she slipped on her dress, the shine of her damp hair as she combed it out, the graceful movements of her hands as she applied makeup at the small vanity.

Eventually, she stood before the mirror, dressed in a simple but elegant black dress that highlighted the curves of her body in ways that made my mouth go dry despite myself.

Her blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light with every movement.

She looked effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking beyond reason, ethereal like a dream I was never meant to wake from.

And I hated myself for noticing. I hated myself for caring. I hated myself for wanting.

She fumbled with a necklace, a delicate gold chain with a small pendant. I watched covertly as she tried unsuccessfully to clasp it behind her neck, her fingers slipping on the tiny mechanism. A small sigh of frustration escaped her, the sound somehow vulnerable in the quiet room.

Then her eyes found mine in the mirror's reflection, catching me watching. I quickly looked back down at my book, but it was too late. The moment stretched, taut with unspoken things.

"Can you help me with this?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral as she held up the necklace without turning around.

I didn't respond immediately, weighing the request against the walls I'd been so carefully constructing. It would be easy to refuse, to maintain the distance I'd imposed between us. But something pulled me forward, step by reluctant step, until I stood directly behind her.

Madeline gathered her hair and lifted it off her neck, exposing the vulnerable curve where it met her shoulder.

I took the necklace from her hand, our fingers brushing in a contact that sent electricity racing up my arm.

My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I was certain she must hear it.

The clasp was indeed small, requiring a delicacy of touch that made my hands feel suddenly clumsy.

I leaned closer, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

I could smell her perfume, stronger now, intoxicating in its proximity.

Something floral and expensive that reminded me of sunlight through leaves.

As I worked the clasp, my fingertips brushed against her skin—soft, warm, impossibly smooth.

I felt her stiffen slightly, a barely perceptible reaction that mirrored the sudden tightness in my own chest. The gold of the necklace caught the light, warm against her skin, the contrast drawing my eye, making me acutely aware of how close we stood, how intimate this simple act had become.