*Caterina*
Antonio Junior—even the name left a bad taste in my mouth, like swallowing gasoline and just like lighting a match right after, my anger exploded inside of my chest, an uncontrollable fire that burned with injustice and hatred.
I stared blankly at the counter of the kitchen as the white milk splashed around into the glass cup before me. It was only filled halfway before the carton was empty, and I made a mental note to pick some up tomorrow.
Mom liked to drink milk. It was a habit she told me she formed when I was a kid. The only way to get me to drink milk was to have a glass herself. Once I saw her drink it, I would as well.
“Cat, we need to talk,” Elio reminded me, his whole presence behind me like a heater.
I was acutely aware of every movement of his, every shift of his body, even the way his hand naturally gravitated to hover above my waist, too hesitant to touch but a reminder that he was right there.
