His Flower [DISCONTINUED]

49: Move to Italy

Hours later, Antonio and I found ourselves curled up in front of my living room fireplace. We were a jumbled heap on the couch, bodies so close that we were practically morphed together. My head laid on his broad shoulder, and he used one hand to play with my curls. His other hand was used to stuff his face with the pity cookies that Jo had baked for him. By now, my aunt had been caught up on everything and left the house to give us some privacy. Although, now that I thought about it, she'd probably just gone in fear that he'd have a breakdown. Jo had a big heart, but she was never really good with emotions.

"Wonder what she puts in these," Antonio offhandedly revelled, munching on his seventh chocolate chip cookie.

I'd been so mesmerized by the crackling of the fireplace and the head massage he was giving me, to even register that he had spoken.

"Butter," I began after a moment, "eggs, flour, baking soda, baking powder, sugar—both brown and white—chocolate chips, mmfh!"

I sent him a heated glare, which I was sure didn't look intimidating with my chipmunk-sized cheeks, thanks to the cookie that Antonio had stuffed into my mouth.

On another day he would've laughed at me. Or perhaps started up an argument. I didn't ask for the recipe list, I could picture him playfully scowling. Though, he was quiet today. I couldn't blame him. There was clearly a lot on his mind. He looked almost conflicted.

"What are you thinking?" I couldn't help but ask.

He looked almost hesitant to answer. "Nothing. Just that, my mother asked me to move in with her."

I was flabbergasted by his nonchalance and sat up straight. "What? That's not nothing!"

He mustered a weak chuckle.

"What's the problem? This is great, isn't it?" I unsurely asked, confused by his lack of enthusiasm.

"She lives in Italy."

Oh.

Oh.

My heart involuntarily hammered. "W-Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Moving in with her?"

I held my breath in anticipation of his response, though all he did was frown at me.

"Well I can't, can I?"

"Of course you can," I insisted, though it didn't sound as encouraging as I wanted it to be.

"The woman is practically a stranger to me," Antonio got up to pace. My eyes followed his tall figure back and forth. "I don't even know her first name."

"But she's not just a stranger. She's your mom!" I couldn't help but exclaim. "And, her name is Sofia."

He cast me a dry look that caused me to smile, even through the intensity of the conversation.

"Even though she is my mother, I can't possibly forgive her so quickly. She left me with him, knowing he had been abusive to her—knowing he could be abusive to me too. She took that chance, and she left me for money."