Page 52 of First Echo
Brooke crossed the finish line well ahead of the others, carving to a stop in a spray of snow that glittered in the sunlight. Without conscious thought, I found myself clapping, a smile spreading across my face. Pride swelled in my chest—not for anything I had done, but simply for witnessing her excellence, for knowing there was more to Brooke Winters than most people ever bothered to see.
Her curly-hairedfriendreached her first, his face split with a wide grin as he offered a high five. I watched their interaction with that same strange ache, wondering what it would be like to be the one celebrating with her, to share in her moment of triumph.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, Brooke turned. Our eyes met across the crowd, and for a breathtaking moment, everything else fell away. I raised my hand in a small, uncertain wave, the gesture awkward with all the things I couldn't say.
"You were amazing," I called out, the words inadequate but sincere.
Something shifted in her expression, a hardening around the eyes, a tightening of her jaw. And then she turned away, deliberately, unmistakably. She tucked her board under her arm and began walking, her path taking her directly past me as if I were nothing more than air.
The dismissal was so unexpected, so complete, that for a moment I simply stood frozen, unable to process what was happening. Then instinct took over—the girl who'd never been ignored, never been dismissed, reaching out to grab Brooke's wrist before she could disappear entirely.
"Seriously?" I demanded, hurt transforming instantly to anger. "What's your problem? Why are you being rude all of a sudden?"
Brooke stared at me, her eyes cold and detached. But beneath the surface, I could see something trembling, something raw and wounded that belied her composed exterior.
"I thought you made it very clear we're not friends," she said, each word precise as a blade. "Right?"
My own words, thrown back at me like a slap. I stood there, speechless, the ground seeming to shift beneath my feet. What could I say? She was right. Those had been my words, my defense mechanism, my way of maintaining the distance I thought I needed.
Before I could find my voice, Brooke tugged her wrist from my grasp and walked away, her shoulders straight, her steps unhurried. As if the exchange had meant nothing. As if I had meant nothing.
I remained rooted to the spot, a strange hollowness expanding inside me. Around me, the celebration continued—Julian loudly explaining how he would have won if not for a patch of ice, Victoria and Audrey laughing at something onsomeone's phone, Sam waiting patiently for my attention to return.
But all I could see was Brooke walking away. All I could feel was the ghost of her wrist slipping from my fingers, taking with it something I hadn't known I wanted to keep.
I avoided going back to our room for as long as possible, making excuses to stay with Sam and the others until my smile felt painted on and my patience had worn tissue-thin. But as dinner time approached, I couldn't delay any longer. I needed to change, needed to at least attempt to look like the Madeline Hayes everyone expected me to be, even as I felt less and less like her with each passing hour.
The door to room 217 loomed before me, a portal to a confrontation I wasn't sure I was ready for. I stood there for a long moment, key in hand, gathering courage like armor around my faltering heart.
This is ridiculous. It's just Brooke. Just my temporary roommate. Just a girl who means nothing to me.
The lies felt hollow even in my own mind.
I unlocked the door, and pushed the door open, bracing myself for whatever awaited me on the other side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BROOKE
Ipushed 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 butthe 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.
