Becca.
Italy was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. History radiated off of every building, the Roman statuary and architecture were exquisite, and the weather was beautiful. From the moment we touched down at the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola, when I hadn’t been helping Layla mind the children, I’d been glued to my window, staring out at the Tuscan city of Florence.
We took several dark sedans. I was again sitting next to Layla in the back seat of one, a child each in our arms. James was the front passenger, and Tony drove again.
My father and stepmother were in another car.
The windows on all the sedans were heavily tinted, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate the view from my side of the glass.
“Having fun?” James asked from the front seat.
I realized then he’d been glancing back from time to time, always seeing me pressing my face to the window like a kid outside a candy shop. “It’s okay,” I said indifferently.
