Page 38 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Their maturity feels like a physical warmth, grounding my frantic nerves. They aren't asking me to bridge the gap; they’re offering to stand in it with me.

The realization crashes over me like a rogue wave, sudden and staggering—I’ve spent my entire existence waiting for someone to hand me a permission slip for my own life. Waiting for the cosmic stamp of approval that would tell me which choices wouldn’t make me a disappointment, which paths wouldn’t earn me hushed whispers over sweet tea on someone’sveranda. Back home, love was treated like the last slice of pecan pie at a church social—carefully divided, only given to those who followed the recipe exactly. Marry the right person before thirty. Pick the right shade of magnolia white for your porch swing. Master your grandmother’s green bean casserole recipe by heart. Happiness wasn’t the goal; fitting neatly into expectations was.

But Amos is watching me with that lopsided grin of his, sunlight catching the laugh lines around his bright blue eyes like he can see straight through to the hurricane of doubts spinning inside me. And Max—steady, thoughtful Max—is observing me with the same focused attention he gives to centuries-old artifacts, like I’m some rare discovery worth his undivided scholarly consideration.

“Feelings don’t come with instruction manuals,” Amos says, drumming his fingers absently against the sun-warmed windowsill. The restless energy he always carries seems magnified now, like he’s physically holding himself back from fixing this for me. “You’re acting like there’s some multiple-choice quiz where you’ll get scolded for circling the wrong answer.”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “That’s literally how adulthood works where I’m from.”

“Says who?” Max’s voice is deep and measured, the way he sounds when he’s dismantling a student’s flawed argument in seminar.

The question hangs between us, heavy.

“The people who were too afraid to color outside the lines,” he continues. He stays perfectly still—no dramatic gestures, no attempt to close the space between us. Just those dark, perceptive eyes holding mine. “Do you think the Medici paused to wonder if their ambitions were ‘proper’? They built an entire renaissance by refusing to accept limitations.”

Amos barks out a laugh. “And died of mercury poisoning from their ‘medicine.’ Look, Baleigh—” He shifts fully toward me now, the golden afternoon light gilding the scruff along his jaw, making him look like some carefree deity of spontaneity. “The only rules are the ones you agree to follow.”

The truth expands in my chest, pressing against my ribs. My whole life, I’ve treated love like some sacred monolith—one soulmate, one predetermined future, one narrow lane of acceptable happiness. But none of the rules from back home—the ones debated over casserole dishes at church socials—could possibly apply here, not with Michelangelo’s David watching over the piazza or the Arno River turning to liquid gold at sunrise.

My knees give out, and I sink onto the rumpled bed, the quilt cool under my trembling fingers. “What if I…” The confession claws its way up my throat. “What if I can’t choose between you?”

The silence isn’t the shocked, judgmental kind I’ve spent life dreading. No slamming doors, no dramatic exits. Just the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan stirring the humid air and Amos releasing a long breath like he’s been waiting years to hear me say it.

“Then we figure it out together.” His voice is softer now, all the usual mischief tempered into something tender. “However messy that looks.”

Max inclines his head in quiet agreement, his glasses catching the light.

The critical voice in my head doesn’t sound like my mother listing all the ways I’m failing. It sounds like me—just me—and what I discover is that I’m not afraid.

24

ATTICUS

Icheck the settings on my Leica twice, then a third time, despite the morning light being perfectly consistent. It’s a nervous tick I haven't succumbed to in a decade. Behind me, the espresso machine in the hotel lobby hisses, a vivid contrast to the quiet hum of the early Roman morning.

Baleigh appears at the top of the stairs, smoothing out an orange sundress that makes her look like a piece of the sun itself. She offers a hesitant smile, the kind that acknowledges the heavy air still lingering from her talks with Max and Amos.

"You're remarkably light on logistics today," she says, stopping a few feet away. She tilts her head, her eyes searching mine—those eyes that seem to change color with every shift of the wind. "No tripod? No shot list?"

"Not today." I shift the weight of my camera bag, my palms uncharacteristically damp. "I want to show you something. Somewhere. It’s close to a five hour trek outside the city, and the train leaves in twenty minutes."

She bites her lip, a habit I’ve grown far too fond of documenting. "Is it for the feature?"

"No." The word comes out blunter than I want it to. I soften my tone, stepping into her space until I can smell the faint, floral scent of her shampoo. "It’s just for us. It’s a place I’ve never taken anyone from the program. Not even Amos. I’d like you to see it."

I wait for the rejection, for her to tell me she needs a day to process everything that’s shifting between the four of us. Instead, she reaches out and brushes a stray thumb against my wrist.

"Okay," she whispers. "Lead the way, Atticus."

The train ride is a blurred montage of olive groves and silver-green hills falling away to the jagged coastline. By the time we step onto the salt-crusted platform, the air has changed. It’s cooler here, sharp with the aroma of brine and drying nets.

We’ve arrived in a village where the houses are stacked like a child’s discarded blocks—terracotta, ochre, and sun-bleached pink clinging to cliffs that dive straight into the turquoise throat of the Mediterranean.

"Beautiful doesn't seem like a big enough word," Baleigh says, leaning against a stone railing as we climb the winding path toward the harbor.

I don't look at the view. I look at her. "I came here ten years ago. Right after I decided I wasn't going back to the States."

I lead her past a small shrine tucked into a limestone niche, toward a crumbling stone bench overlooking the bobbing blue fishing boats. This isn't just a location I’ve scouted. It’s the place where I stopped running and finally started existing. Baleigh watches a group of old men playing cards in the shade of a lemon tree, her expression turning from wonder to a quiet, profound realization. She feels the weight of the history buried in the cobblestones under our feet.