Becca.

We sat on the terrace of La Loggia under a white umbrella, a light breeze tickling at the tablecloth and the fabric of the umbrella.

“The boys” stood close by, but I was starting to get used to their presence and allowed them to fade into the background.

“How is the fruit?” James asked me, pointing a fork at the item I’d ordered.

It was some kind of tart, if I had to hazard a guess, but without the crust. “It’s exquisite,” I ...