Connor
It was our last day in Tuscany, and I was trying to memorize everything.
The way the sun hit the stone of the vineyard. The way the air smelled like dry earth and grapes and rosemary from the bushes along the path. The way Edward looked when he was trying very hard not to get sunburned again.
We were sitting on a private balcony that overlooked the whole valley. White linen tablecloth between us, a big sun umbrella casting shade over Edward's head. Two wine glasses, half full. A plate of cold meats and cheeses I couldn't name if someone paid me. Bread still warm from the oven.
It was quiet up here. Below us, the vineyard stretched out in perfect rows, green and endless. Beyond that, the Tuscan hills rolled like they'd been painted. The village from the photos was in the distance, terracotta roofs and cypress trees pointing at the sky.
I had a tan.
