Page 40 of First Echo

"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."

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