It doesn’t take long to find a good spot where the lights from the camp are at our backs. We can still hear people, but it’s not as loud. Lennon spreads out the rainfly, and we sit on it picnic-style. I flick off the light on my headlamp. The stars are amazing out here. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to seeing them this way, without light pollution from the city. Thousands upon thousands of them, glittering points of light. It’s as if I’m looking at an entirely different sky.
“Look,” I say, pointing up at a wispy white trail. “The Milky Way. You can’t see that at home without a telescope. Not even at the observatory.”
Lennon takes off his headlamp and leans back on his palms. “It looks unreal. I know it’s not, but my mind doesn’t want to accept that this isn’t some fake, projected light show.”
No projection could look like this. We both stare up at the sky for a long moment. “I don’t even think I want to use the telescope,” I say. “I think I just want to look at them. Is that weird?”
“Not at all. It’s not every day you get to see all this.”
My phone still has a little charge on it, and I quickly turn on the screen to use it as a flashlight in order to see where to move my telescope. That’s when I notice something.
“We have service!”
“Well, what do you know?” Lennon says, taking out his phone. “Oh, look. I’ve got texts from the Brettster.”
“You do?” My only texts are from Mom and Avani.
“He’s apologizing for leaving us. Well, it’s sort of a nonapology. Oh, wait. He’s taking it back. No . . . He’s apologizing again. Aren’t Reagan’s parents in Switzerland, or something?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because he’s not making any sense. Now he’s blaming Reagan for ditching us. I think? He’s an atrocious speller, by the way.”
“How many texts did he send?” I say, glancing at his screen.
“One, two, three, four . . . eight. And the last one is asking if I can get him weed again.”
“Again?”
“He’s already asked once. He’s laboring under the false presumption that because my dad was in a band, I somehow have unlimited access to drugs. I swear, Brett is the absolute worst. I’m not even responding.”
Avani’s message is just confirming that she’s leaving for the star party tomorrow and will see me there. I quickly decide to tell her that I’m with Lennon, backpacking through the park—super casual, no details—and asking if it’s okay that he rides home with us. After she confirms, and I tell her when we’ll be arriving, I read my mom’s message: I’m glad you called today. Please stay safe and text me when you get to Condor Peak. If you ever want to talk about anything, you know I’m here, right?
Why does she keep saying this? I replay our phone conversation in my head and something starts to bother me. “I left that photo book in my desk at home.”
“What?” Lennon says, switching his phone off.
“I’m worried that my mom might have found it. She keeps asking me if there’s anything I want to tell her, like she’s trying to get me to confess to something. And it’s either that photo book, or she knows I’m here with you.”
“How would she know?”
“Do your parents know that we’re alone right now?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, actually. They’re pretty happy about it.”
They are?
“Look,” he says, “they know your parents don’t realize you’re here with me, but they wouldn’t go run and tell your mom that. They know we’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”
“Then it must be the photo book,” I say.
“Was Joy upset?”
“Not particularly. She sounded . . . disappointed.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. “Look, if you want my opinion, I’m betting she already suspected something was up with your dad a long time ago. So if she found the photo book, then she found it. But there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
I know he’s right. Worrying won’t do me any good. It’s just hard to make myself stop. I don’t like feeling unsettled.
But I try not to think about it, shutting off my phone and stuffing it in my pocket. Then I lie on my back and look up at the stars.
Lennon lies down next to me, shoulder to shoulder.
“We’re under the same starry sky,” I say.
“We always are.”
“Not together,” I argue.
“I think we’ve always been together, even when we were apart,” he says, slipping his hand around mine.
“I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes I would look up at the stars and wonder if you were ever looking at them at the same time,” I admit.
“When I looked up at the stars, I saw us. You were the stars, and I was the dark sky behind you.”
“Without dark sky, you couldn’t see the stars.”
“I knew I was useful,” he says.
“You’re essential.”
He makes a happy sound and tucks his arm behind his head. “When we were apart, I would always try to find constellations and imagine you talking about them. Like the Great Cat.”
“The Great Cat? You mean the Great Bear . . . or Leo?”
“Which one is Felis Major?”
“There is no Felis Major. There’s Ursa Major, and that’s the Great Bear. It’s the one with the group of stars that make up the Big Dipper.”
“I could have sworn there was a big cat constellation. The Great Tomcat.”
“Tomcat?” I say, exasperated.
“Could have sworn there was a tomcat constellation with a long tail. Right there.”
“Where?”
He points upward. “Standing on the fence.”
“You mean Taurus?”
“Is Taurus a cat?” he asks.
“It’s a bull!”
“I know,” he says, rolling toward me. “I just wanted to hear you get riled up about stars.”
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” I say with a laugh, poking his ribs repeatedly.
He jumps and tries to grab my finger. “Such a jerk. If I were you, I wouldn’t put up with this crap.”
“Oh? What should I do about it? Leave you out here to find cat constellations while I go back to camp?”
I pretend to get up, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back down. “Noooo.”
“You’re going to make me squish my telescope.”
He picks it up and moves it behind him. “There. Better?”
“Well, now I can’t use it.”
“You weren’t using it anyway. Unless you had plans to spy on the Bible Camp kids up the hill. But I doubt you’re going to see anything sordid, and we both know you like a little skin when you’re spying on—Hey!” He shields himself with one arm, laughing. “Ouch! Stop hitting me! I didn’t spy on you when you were naked. I’m the victim, here.”
“You weren’t naked.”
“Five more seconds and I would’ve been. Would you have looked away if I hadn’t caught you?”
I wait too long to answer.
He grabs me around the waist and pulls me closer. A lot closer. My boobs are pressing against his chest. “Or would you have taken photos?”
“Look,” I say, pointing up at a wispy white trail. “The Milky Way. You can’t see that at home without a telescope. Not even at the observatory.”
Lennon takes off his headlamp and leans back on his palms. “It looks unreal. I know it’s not, but my mind doesn’t want to accept that this isn’t some fake, projected light show.”
No projection could look like this. We both stare up at the sky for a long moment. “I don’t even think I want to use the telescope,” I say. “I think I just want to look at them. Is that weird?”
“Not at all. It’s not every day you get to see all this.”
My phone still has a little charge on it, and I quickly turn on the screen to use it as a flashlight in order to see where to move my telescope. That’s when I notice something.
“We have service!”
“Well, what do you know?” Lennon says, taking out his phone. “Oh, look. I’ve got texts from the Brettster.”
“You do?” My only texts are from Mom and Avani.
“He’s apologizing for leaving us. Well, it’s sort of a nonapology. Oh, wait. He’s taking it back. No . . . He’s apologizing again. Aren’t Reagan’s parents in Switzerland, or something?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because he’s not making any sense. Now he’s blaming Reagan for ditching us. I think? He’s an atrocious speller, by the way.”
“How many texts did he send?” I say, glancing at his screen.
“One, two, three, four . . . eight. And the last one is asking if I can get him weed again.”
“Again?”
“He’s already asked once. He’s laboring under the false presumption that because my dad was in a band, I somehow have unlimited access to drugs. I swear, Brett is the absolute worst. I’m not even responding.”
Avani’s message is just confirming that she’s leaving for the star party tomorrow and will see me there. I quickly decide to tell her that I’m with Lennon, backpacking through the park—super casual, no details—and asking if it’s okay that he rides home with us. After she confirms, and I tell her when we’ll be arriving, I read my mom’s message: I’m glad you called today. Please stay safe and text me when you get to Condor Peak. If you ever want to talk about anything, you know I’m here, right?
Why does she keep saying this? I replay our phone conversation in my head and something starts to bother me. “I left that photo book in my desk at home.”
“What?” Lennon says, switching his phone off.
“I’m worried that my mom might have found it. She keeps asking me if there’s anything I want to tell her, like she’s trying to get me to confess to something. And it’s either that photo book, or she knows I’m here with you.”
“How would she know?”
“Do your parents know that we’re alone right now?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, actually. They’re pretty happy about it.”
They are?
“Look,” he says, “they know your parents don’t realize you’re here with me, but they wouldn’t go run and tell your mom that. They know we’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”
“Then it must be the photo book,” I say.
“Was Joy upset?”
“Not particularly. She sounded . . . disappointed.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. “Look, if you want my opinion, I’m betting she already suspected something was up with your dad a long time ago. So if she found the photo book, then she found it. But there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
I know he’s right. Worrying won’t do me any good. It’s just hard to make myself stop. I don’t like feeling unsettled.
But I try not to think about it, shutting off my phone and stuffing it in my pocket. Then I lie on my back and look up at the stars.
Lennon lies down next to me, shoulder to shoulder.
“We’re under the same starry sky,” I say.
“We always are.”
“Not together,” I argue.
“I think we’ve always been together, even when we were apart,” he says, slipping his hand around mine.
“I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes I would look up at the stars and wonder if you were ever looking at them at the same time,” I admit.
“When I looked up at the stars, I saw us. You were the stars, and I was the dark sky behind you.”
“Without dark sky, you couldn’t see the stars.”
“I knew I was useful,” he says.
“You’re essential.”
He makes a happy sound and tucks his arm behind his head. “When we were apart, I would always try to find constellations and imagine you talking about them. Like the Great Cat.”
“The Great Cat? You mean the Great Bear . . . or Leo?”
“Which one is Felis Major?”
“There is no Felis Major. There’s Ursa Major, and that’s the Great Bear. It’s the one with the group of stars that make up the Big Dipper.”
“I could have sworn there was a big cat constellation. The Great Tomcat.”
“Tomcat?” I say, exasperated.
“Could have sworn there was a tomcat constellation with a long tail. Right there.”
“Where?”
He points upward. “Standing on the fence.”
“You mean Taurus?”
“Is Taurus a cat?” he asks.
“It’s a bull!”
“I know,” he says, rolling toward me. “I just wanted to hear you get riled up about stars.”
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” I say with a laugh, poking his ribs repeatedly.
He jumps and tries to grab my finger. “Such a jerk. If I were you, I wouldn’t put up with this crap.”
“Oh? What should I do about it? Leave you out here to find cat constellations while I go back to camp?”
I pretend to get up, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back down. “Noooo.”
“You’re going to make me squish my telescope.”
He picks it up and moves it behind him. “There. Better?”
“Well, now I can’t use it.”
“You weren’t using it anyway. Unless you had plans to spy on the Bible Camp kids up the hill. But I doubt you’re going to see anything sordid, and we both know you like a little skin when you’re spying on—Hey!” He shields himself with one arm, laughing. “Ouch! Stop hitting me! I didn’t spy on you when you were naked. I’m the victim, here.”
“You weren’t naked.”
“Five more seconds and I would’ve been. Would you have looked away if I hadn’t caught you?”
I wait too long to answer.
He grabs me around the waist and pulls me closer. A lot closer. My boobs are pressing against his chest. “Or would you have taken photos?”
