⋆ s t a r r y n i g h t s &   i n t e r r u p t e d   m o m e n t s  ⋆

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

querencia (n.)
a place from which one's strength is drawn,
where one feels at home; the place where you are your
most authentic self

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

    THE SKY IS DUSTED with dark crushed velvet and several shades of smokey blue when the game finishes. The Lions won and the spirit in the air is palpable, cheerleaders jumping all over the football team, spectators cheering and talking over one another as they exit the stadium. I lean against my car, snapping photos and waiting for Nora, when he taps me on the shoulder.

    His scent washes over me, dark and seductive, and surprisingly without the bad smell of sweat.

    "I'm very curious and partly amazed as to how you managed to escape from your hordes of fans," I tease without moving my face away from the lens.

    "Anything is possible when you want it enough," he responds, his deep voice washing over me and eliciting goosebumps along the back of my neck. He's closer than I originally thought, something I actually don't mind. I can feel the heat radiating off of him as he stands behind me, even though we're not touching.

    I finally lower the camera as few stragglers remain in the parking lot and turn to face him. His hair gleams in the dark, dripping wet from the water that was poured all over the players when they won. His arms are crossed and he towers over me, radiating energy. His posture is one that seems to demand the attention of everything in a two-mile radius. He has mine at least.

    The large floodlights still illuminate the parking lot, highlighting his handsome features. I stare at him for a few moments, the voices around us finally fading as the last few people leave, before my phone pings with a message.

(ignore time stamp, it's like 8)

    I shake my head at Nora's impulsivity and put my phone back in my pocket.

    "Well, I guess that's my cue to go," I say, seeing as Jordan is still watching me, green eyes seeming to search for something I wasn't sure I wanted him to find.

    "Actually, I was hoping you could give me a ride," he shrugs, rubbing his palm on the back of his neck, "mine kind of ditched me." I give shoot him a sidelong glance, taking note of his sheepish expression. Deciding against giving him a hard time, I unlock the car and climb in.

"Come on," I beckon, starting the ignition. I can't say for sure, but I think I see him do an air fist bump, causing me to chuckle quietly to myself. He throws his duffel bag into the back, hoisting himself into the passenger seat.

"Can we go over to your place?", he asks as I pull out of the lot. Looking at him sideways, I can clearly see the pain in his eyes, warning me not to ask why. So I don't question him and simply nod. The ride passes by mostly in a comfortable silence, the quiet songs on the radio playing in the background. When I pull into the driveway, I see that my parents are not home, yet again. The dark windows seem to mock me as we enter, another reminder of my loneliness.

"You can shower in the bathroom down the hall," I say, startling him as he stares at the pictures on the wall. He nods tiredly and walks away in quick strides. I move to where he was previously standing, looking at the photos I'd ignored for a long time.

     One shows my mother leaning over me at a table, paint smeared in thick lines over both of our faces, holding up my hand dripping in blue-green. It's back from when she was teaching me to finger paint. My nose is wrinkled in concentration, eyes caught between laughter and confusion. Another is a shot of the back of my mother and father on either side of me as we walk down the beach, each holding one of my hands in theirs. The final one is a picture of my father swinging me into the air when I was five. My face is lit up in the angelic glee of childhood, the glimmers of unabashed happiness and pure joy reminiscent of earlier days.

Its been a while since I've smiled like that.

I shrug and turn away, pushing down the familiar sting of hurt that comes every time I see that photo. I am far from ungrateful, and I know that I'm very blessed to have such loving parents, but sometimes I find myself staring out the window and seeing a random wildflower or a fragment of a rock, stirring up old memories, and missing them. Missing them so much that my heart physically hurts, wishing that I could see them more often. That maybe one day, when I pull into the driveway, the lights would already be on, music playing through an open window, and maybe, just maybe, my father twirling my mother around like he so often used to.

When Jordan exits the bathroom, I hear his feet padding across the wood floors behind me as I make some of my signature sandwiches.

    "If it's not too much, what's the story behind those photos, Bumble? You seemed so shaken when you saw me looking at them," his voice rumbles from near the wall, where I can sense he's staring at them again.

    I don't know why I choose to open up to him at that particular moment, maybe it was just a part of his nature, to seem so trustworthy and nonjudgmental. Without turning around, I answer him truthfully.

    "Sometimes," I start, my voice raw, "I feel so ungrateful and selfish for wanting more of my parent's time. I get that so many other kids are way more unlucky than me, in that their parents are gone or dead, but I still find myself missing them so much. They don't realize it, but they prioritize their work and passion way over raising me, and throughout the years I've had to raise myself. I just want them to realize that one day they won't have a daughter waiting at home for them and maybe to show a little more interest in me, you know?" I feel so vulnerable in confiding in him. This may seem menial and stupid to some people, but it's a big deal to me.

    "I get it," he answers after a few seconds, probably not expecting such a serious answer. I can feel tears threatening to escape, so I casually brush the back of my hand against my eyes. As if he can sense my feelings, he tries to lighten the mood.

"You didn't have to cook you know".  His deep voice feels like it is right up against my ear, and I wonder why he keeps insisting on coming so close to talk to me. I whirl around, ready to scold him for creeping up on me, but my words freeze in my throat.

    He's so close I can see the sea green shards and gold flecks swirling in his irises. I can see a droplet of water from his wet hair sliding down the edge of his face, running over his skin. His musky scent envelopes me, sharp with sheer masculinity. It's spicy and woody all at once, making me weak at the knees. His muscular arms brush against mine and rest on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. I'm almost afraid to breathe, scared to ruin this moment that had snuck up on me so unexpectedly. He leans forward, inching impossibly closer, his eyes roaming my face for any signs of hesitation.

    His minty breath mingles with my own as he gets closer, closer, and closer....

    But at the jingle of keys in the doorway, we both spring apart as if we are on fire.

    Of course they have to return home now.

    I find myself cursing fate, but at the same time, unsure of what had just happened. Confusion swirls around my head as I lean back against the counter, trying to get my bearings. A thousand feelings are scattered across the plane of my mind, each a jagged shard of broken glass.

All I know is that I can still feel his breath on my lips, his eyes boring into my soul, the faint whisper of an almost-kiss. I don't even know what I want at this point, but I also know that this moment will keep replaying over and over in my head until I can figure out.