Starry Eyes

But when it comes down to it, I’m still left with one indisputable factor.

Luckily for Reagan, I don’t want to my face my parents right now either.

“I’m in,” I confirm.

Reagan smiles for the first time since we walked in here. “All right. We’re going camping in the backcountry. But first I’m going to take a shower and get breakfast. I need grease and yeast. I’ve got a wicked hangover.”

11

* * *

“Which way, my man?” Brett says to Lennon, adjusting his backpack at a crossroad. “There’s no sign.”

“That’s the literal definition of an unmarked trail,” Lennon says.

Brett laughs. “Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right. How did you even find this hidden waterfall, if the trail isn’t marked?”

“I read about it. The waterfall isn’t officially listed on park publications because there are bigger falls that are easier for the public to access from the main trails,” Lennon explains. “This one is inconvenient for the casual day-tripper. And when I originally found it, I was hiking from the opposite direction, so give me a second to find the southbound trail.”

It’s midafternoon. We waited until the last possible moment to leave, all of us loading up on sandwiches at the pavilion for lunch and filling up sport bottles with water. Then we had to hike back to Reagan’s car and drive a couple hours on scary, twisting mountain roads to get to a national park parking lot. From there, we began hiking marked trails toward the waterfall.

And hiking . . .

We’ve spent three hours on the trail now. I’ve never walked so much in my life. But that’s not my biggest worry. I’m starting to wonder how I’ll manage to hike back on my own to catch a bus for the star party later this week.

“This trail isn’t supposed to fork east,” Lennon mutters to himself, examining a GPS map on his phone.

“How are you even getting a signal?” I ask. I’ve checked my phone several times along the way to make sure my mom got my last text explaining not to worry if she didn’t hear from me for a few days. But nope. I might as well be holding a brick for all the good it’s doing me.

“GPS runs independently of cell service,” Lennon explains. “All my digital maps are saved on my phone. But this one is glitchy. Sometimes you can’t trust technology. Luckily, I have a backup.” He puts away his phone and digs out a small leather journal, its black cover bulging. Where my journals are neat and slim, meticulously kept, his is . . . not. Removing an elastic band that keeps the pages closed, he opens it, and I spy a collection of things: folded paper maps, park brochures, and pages filled with Lennon’s distinctive block-letter handwriting and the occasional drawing—trees, wildflowers, trail signs, squirrels. I even catch a glimpse of what appears to be a rough anime-style sketch of Sunny and Mac.

I think of all the maps he drew when we were kids. And the map he made for me, sitting in the bottom of my drawer at home. And I feel a hard pang of nostalgia.

He’s changed in so many ways. But not in this.

This is the Lennon I used to know.

Lennon catches me looking at his journal and quickly removes a folded-up paper map before shutting the cover with a forceful slap.

Silly to feel insulted. What’s in there is none of my business. Not anymore.

He spreads the map over a large rock. Deciphering a tangle of topographic lines, he traces invisible paths with one finger. “Oh, wait. I understand now. Left. We go left.”

“How can you even make heads or tails of that?” Brett says. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as you were that a yurt was a urinal, Mr. I. P. Freely,” Lennon says, folding up the map and refiling it inside his journal.

“Low blow, man,” Brett says.

“I’m just saying, if you piss on my tent, there will be disembowelment.”

Brett grins. “I love how gruesome you are.”

“Turn left,” Lennon tells him in a calm voice, but his gaze is hard as steel. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

“We’re headed left, team,” Brett calls out cheerfully to the group, hands cupped around his mouth. He takes the lead with Reagan. Summer and Kendrick follow, and I lag behind with Lennon.

Even with the weight correctly distributed, my pack is heavy and keeps slipping farther down my back. It’s a killer on legs, a killer on feet. I’m so glad I didn’t get hiking boots like Reagan, because she’s already complaining about new-shoe blisters. Besides, I notice that Lennon is still wearing his black high-tops beneath ripped black jeans, so I’m thinking hiking boots are overkill.

“You need to tighten the hip belt,” Lennon says when I try to shrug my pack higher.

“I thought I already had.” I halt and struggle with the straps. Somehow, I think one of them is stuck.

“May I?” he says, offering a hand.

“Um, okay.”

He steps closer. I inhale his sunny, freshly laundered scent. Long, graceful fingers tinker with the fastener around my waist. His hands are more sinewy than I remember. They used to be friend hands, and now they’re boy hands. It’s strange to have him touching me again. Not bad strange. And it’s not as if his hands are all over me—not that I’d want them to be. It’s just not every day that a guy is touching me, busy concentrating on a task that falls right below my breasts. He’s not even looking at them—not that I’d want him to. At least, I shouldn’t. Damn these overactive ovaries!

Calm down, Everhart, I tell myself. I can’t afford to let my imagination run wild around him. The last time that happened, I ended up in his lap on a park bench with his hands up my shirt.

The strap loosens. “Got it,” he says. “How did you manage to get it knotted like that?”

“I’ve got all kinds of talents,” I say.

He makes an amused noise. “You can be in charge of tying all the tent knots, then.”

“No need. The tents Reagan bought are knot-free. They practically pitch themselves. Or so the guy at the outdoor store said. I think he may have been hitting on Reagan, though. Maybe he was just excited because she was spending so much money.”

“I believe that. Some of your gear is primo. I’d almost be impressed, if I thought for a second that Reagan knew what she was doing.”

With a sharp tug, he tightens the strap on my hip belt, and I gasp.

“Too tight?” he asks.

“Just unexpected. I think it’s okay.”

“It should be snug, but not uncomfortable.” He inspects my shoulder harness. “Okay, now these need tightening. Shouldn’t be a gap here, see?” Warm fingers slip between my shoulder blade and the strap. He wiggles them around to demonstrate, and a wave of shivers rushes down my arm.

“Tighten away,” I tell him. In a weird way, all this methodical touching feels like getting a haircut at the salon. It’s almost sensual, but not quite. Or at least you don’t want it to be. The Norwegian man who cuts my hair is older than my dad and wears a lot of rings that clink together in a disconcerting, yet strangely pleasing way when he’s using scissors. I really don’t want to enjoy sexy feelings around Einar, and I definitely don’t want to enjoy them around Lennon. Best to stop thinking about it.

“So, hey,” I say, forcing my mind to concentrate on other things. “Now that I know some of the crazy noises I heard last night were probably Reagan and Brett trampling through the campground, I feel a little better about our earlier talk. You know, about all the wild animals. I mean, I know it will be different out here, but—”