The morning air was chilly and crisp. After a little while apart from Antonio, I decided to come outside and check up on him. As I lingered behind the wooden bench he sat on, the sound of his deep and smooth voice caused me to jump.

"How long do you plan on standing there?"

I slowly blinked. "How did you even know I was there?"

He turned around to glance at me with a smirk. "You walk with a certain skip in your step."

"I do not," I disagreed.

"You do."

"Well great," I finally plopped down next to him. "Now I'll think I look like a bunny when I walk."

"You do," he jokingly mused. "I mean, you've certainly got the height and the hop."

I laughed in disbelief and smacked his shoulder. "You're the meanest boyfriend I've ever had!"

"I'm the only boyfriend you've ever had, Flower," he slyly grinned, ruffling my brown hair.

I playfully rolled my eyes and fixed my curls before glancing back at him. The smile slowly slipped off his face after a few seconds, and he gazed off at the parking lot.

"Y'know, at times when I'm stressed out like this, I usually smoke."

I gently sighed and looked up. "Well, are you gonna smoke?"

"Nah," he replied without missing a beat. "A certain someone made me realize I should quit."

I shyly smiled. While I'd noticed that he'd quit his smoking habit for quite some time, I hadn't realized that he'd done it because of me.

"Did you talk to her, Flower?"

I paused at his abrupt question and curiously stared at him. "Who? Your mother?"

He faced me and silently nodded.

"Yes, I spoke to her. Just for a bit," I admitted, feeling as though I'd betrayed him in some way. Though, he wasn't the slightest bit mad. In fact, there was a distinct emotion on his face. Was he... nervous?

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he gulped. "What's she like? Is-Is she nice?"

I gazed at him for a moment before looking down at my lap. "Yeah, she's nice. She told me a bit about herself. Asked for my name. Even called me sweetheart in Italian," I listed, slightly giggling at the end.

Antonio chuckled, though it faded rather quickly. I could tell he'd been hoping for me to say something else. "I wish she wasn't."

"Wasn't what?" I asked. "Nice?"

"Yeah. I wish she was a cold hearted bitch," he bluntly said, words unfiltered. "That'd make things a lot easier, because it would've made sense, y'know? She'd have left me because she was a selfish prick. But she's not. Instead, she's nice. She's fucking nice. Which makes me wonder, why? Why the hell did she leave me? Why didn't she-she–"

His voice cracked, and he abruptly cut himself off.

"I don't know why it affects me so much," he murmured with a downcast head shake, eyes glossing over.

"Oh, Antonio," I softly whispered, clutching onto him as tears escaped his eyes.

He buried his face into the crook of my shoulder, and gripped onto me as if I were his life source. I could feel his ragged breath fan my skin as his shoulders shook in suppressed cries. I comfortingly rubbed his back up and down, my fingers rippling over his back muscles.

My eyes watered at his clear pain, though I bit my lip to force any tears back. Most would disagree, but I knew Antonio was a pure soul. No matter how many people he'd fought, or how many cigarettes he'd smoked, at the end of the day, he was just a teenage boy—a boy who'd been forced to endure too much.

"It's funny," Antonio bitterly chuckled into my shoulder. "My father died, and I feel comfortable with it. What kind of person does that make me?"

"A sane person," I firmly looked into his eyes, cupping his face with my hands. "You have every right to feel the way you feel about your parents."

I planted a gentle kiss on Antonio's rough lips. He melted into my touch and his breath involuntarily slowed down. Though, he slightly leaned away to give me a suspicious stare. "I sense a but coming."

"There is no but. I just think that you should talk to your mother," I hesitantly voiced. "Now I'm not saying you have to forgive her or anything, just... listen to what she has to say. Learning the truth can help you heal."

"The truth?" Antonio stared at me, scepticism written all over his face. "What exactly did you two talk about while I was gone?"

"Go talk to her," I avoided his question, because the story wasn't mine to tell–it was Sofia's.

With a hesitant glance my way, Antonio obliged and stood up. After a couple steps in the direction of the hospital, he confusedly faced me.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked.

"I think I should give you two some privacy," I answered honestly, gazing back at him. "Just... call me if you need me."

We shared an unreadable look, and he didn't say anything. Just silently nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets before walking into the hospital, apprehensive to see his mother for the second time ever.

• • •

"He lied to me," was the first thing Antonio said when he'd emerged from the hospital, half an hour later. "My father told me that she'd stolen his money and disappeared. He never told me he hurt or threatened her. Never told me he bribed her. Never told me that she tried reaching out to me. I should've known he was lying!" He scoffed, looking livid as he resumed his seat next to me on the brown bench.

I offhandedly rummaged my hand through his messy hair, as his words replayed in my head.

"Wait," I paused, confusion seeping into my pores. "She tried reaching out to you?"

"Don't stop."

"What?"

"Just... keep playing my hair," he urged, looking slightly embarrassed to admit my random act comforted him. Once I began weaving my fingers through his dark hair once more, he relaxed and continued speaking. "And, yeah, she began to send me monthly letters once I turned ten. She stopped by the time I turned sixteen because I never answered–or rather, I never saw. My father must've hid them. He just keeps messing with me, even in death," Antonio wryly laughed.

I let out a light breath in shock. Sofia had left that part out. Was she embarrassed? Neglected by the fact that her son never responded to her letters? Little did she know, it wasn't by choice.

After a moment's silence, Antonio spoke again, slow and surprised. "I can't believe he's gone. Will you come with me to see him... just one last time?"

I slowly glanced at him in surprise. "Are you sure you want me there?"

"I can't see him alone, Flower," Antonio whispered.

"Okay," I placed a hand over his. "I'll come with you."

And that I did. Minutes later, Antonio and I found ourselves standing in the hospital room his father resided in. His abusive father. His dead father.

The man lay still, ghastly pale and unmoving. Even in death, he still had a permanent scowl etched onto his face. My stomach turned queasy, and Antonio's must've as well, because he suddenly turned pale and sat down in the hospital chair, as though he was too weak to even stand up.

"What if I'm like him?"

My breath hitched at the abrupt question and I turned to face Antonio, who was already looking at me.

"I mean, what if I'm angry like him, and hateful–abusive," Antonio quietly spoke to me, looking almost afraid.

"You're not," I said fiercely, sitting down next to him. "I know you. You would never abuse someone."

"But I've been violent before," he choked out. "You've seen me. With Buzz and his lackeys–I can't even count how many fist fights I've gotten into."

"Well everyone's capable of violence. But you would never hurt someone you love. I'm positive of it," I insisted, peering up at him.

Silence resonated after my words, but I knew Antonio had heard me loud and clear from the way he relievedly exhaled and nodded.

He stood up, staring at the hospital bed his father lay in. There was no hatred on his face as he spoke his last words to the man who'd raised him. "I will never be like you."

With that, Antonio weaved his fingers through mine and walked out of the room, never looking back.

• • •