Page 39 of First Echo

"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, vintagephotographs of the mountain in its early days, strings of small white lights crisscrossing the ceiling.

"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."

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