I look around and spot the J-shaped constellation. Scorpius indeed. Nearby, I recognize another grouping of stars forming a teapot shape. “Sagittarius.”
“Lyra,” he adds.
“Aquila,” I say, finding the ten-star structure resembling a flying bird.
“Corona Borealis.”
I start to feel a challenge with every constellation he mentions. Is this a repeat of junior year Astronomy? Well, I got a 102 percent on the final when Colton got a ninety-nine. He’s barking up the wrong tree. “Serpens.”
“Ophiuchus.”
“Cygnus.”
“Hydrus.”
I call him out. “We can’t even see that in the sky right now.”
“Who said it had to be in our line of sight?” he counters.
“Okay, challenge accepted.”
We go on for several minutes, playing constellation ping-pong until my brain feels withered like one big constellation raisin. Trust Colton to turn everything into a competition. I finally relent for his ego’s sake, and totally not because I ran out of constellations and started making up names two turns ago.
I tune back into the churning waves, getting lost in my thoughts until Colton speaks, surprising me with his words. “You did well … in the Black Box Elimination.”
I look over at him, slack-jawed. Was that a compliment from Colton Downing? I wait for a follow-up jab.
Colton runs a hand through his hair, and fortunately for him, there are no mirrors around, or else he’d be horrified by the torrent of little hairs sticking up in every direction. “That singing thing was … it was crazy, but smart.”
Colton keeps his eyes trained on the stars. My hands fidget in front of my knees as I think about what it would be like if he made genuine eye contact while saying that. It would just feel … well, different.
Not knowing how to handle his sincere words, I break the genuineness with something lighter. “You never knew I could sing so well, huh?”
Colton smirks, and I watch the tension in his shoulders seep out of him as he relaxes back on his elbows, making a new imprint in the sand. “For a moment there, I was unsure if I was listening to a yowling cat or someone singing.”
I chuckle, feeling my own shoulders relax. “Hey, if I’m a yowling cat, then together our voices make up a pretty formidable cat choir.”
Colton’s smile grows. “I was never one for singing in front of audiences … or just ever.”
Once again, silence falls between us until Colton starts laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Our singing—it just reminded me of this time with my brother, Will. But it’s nothing…”
I try to relax back into stargazing mode, but when Colton laughs again, I perk up. “Okay, well, now I’ve gotta know.”
He smiles and seems to look off into a distant memory. “Once my mom made me and my brother sing the national anthem at a Colorado Rockies game. I was so excited to be on the field with the baseball players, especially Jim McDabree.”
I tilt my head. “Jim McDabree?”
“He was a pitcher with this huge mop of red hair. Anyway, I just remember watching him in awe as we sang from the pitcher’s mound, and the next thing I knew I was singing ‘and the rocket’s red hair.’ After that, Will and I were goners. We couldn’t keep it together. We laughed straight through the rest of the song.”
I chuckle, thinking of Colton, normally so poised and proper in public, breaking down while singing in front of his cherished baseball team. Until today, I didn’t even know Colton was capable of breaking down in public. Somehow this story makes Colton seem a little less perfect, and a little more relatable.
“And what did your mom say after she saw that?” I envision the tenderhearted, but likely horrified, Mrs. Downing.
“Oh, she was definitely humiliated at first, but once we’d all gotten in the car after the game, she’d had a good laugh.” Colton’s eyes seem to twinkle with the memory.
