Page 44 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"I’ve spent ten years perfecting the art of the exit," Atticus says, his voice like gravel. "The second a place starts to feel like a cage, I pack the camera bag and find a new border. I love you. I love what we’ve built here. But I’m terrified that one morning I’ll wake up, feel the weight of three other people's needs, and my first instinct will be to run. I don't know if I'm capable of staying."

The quiet isn't hollow; it’s full. We’ve laid the jagged pieces of our shadows on the table between the artichokes and the dregs of the Frascati. I wait for the rejection, for someone to say it’s too much, too messy, too impossible.

But nobody moves.

Max looks at Amos, a silent communication passing between them—a mutual recognition of the stakes. Then he looks at Atticus, nodding slowly.

"The strange thing is," Max says, voice gaining a new, steadier resonance. "Despite the logistics, I haven't looked up flight schedules for myself once. I’m not looking for the exit."

"Me neither," Amos says, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’ve spent my entire life moving. I really don’t want to go anywhere."

Atticus finally turns his head, his eyes locking onto mine, then drifting to the other two. "I'm terrified of staying," he repeats, his voice lower now. "But I'm more terrified of leaving."

The panic in my chest begins to dull into a strange, vibrating hope. We aren't arguing about who wins. We're positioned at the edge of a cliff, admitting we're afraid of heights, but none of us is stepping back toward the safety of the trees. The conversation is no longer about why this shouldn't work. It’s about the fact that none of us wants it to stop.

The moon hangs low over the Tiber, silvering the terracotta roofs of Trastevere. We sit in the aftermath of our own wreckage, the air cleared of the unspoken. I half-expect the waiter to come by and tell us we have to go, that the restaurant is closing and the fantasy is over, but nobody moves. We are the last souls on the terrace.

Max reaches across the table, his hand palm-up, a silent invitation. Amos covers it with his own, and Atticus rests his hand on top of theirs. I complete the circle, my fingers interlaced with theirs, feeling the distinct heat of each man—the steadywarmth of Max, the restless energy in Amos’s palm, the slight tremor in Atticus’s grip.

We don’t talk about flight paths or visas. We don’t draft a schedule for North Carolina. Instead, the silence turns into something thick and nourishing. The logistics Max mentioned haven't vanished, and the fear Atticus confessed hasn’t evaporated into the Roman night, but they weigh less now. They are just variables in an equation we’ve finally agreed to solve together.

I look at Amos, whose eyes are bright and focused on me, stripped of the deflective humor that usually guards him. He’s not looking for the next disaster to fix; he’s looking at me like he’s already found his destination. Beside him, Max’s expression has smoothed into a quiet, resolute peace. He’s spent a lifetime teaching history, documenting the rise and fall of great things, but tonight he looks like he’s ready to build something new.

And Atticus—the man who makes a living by leaving—hasn't pulled his hand away. He watches the flickering candles, his presence grounded and heavy beside me. He is choosing the discomfort of staying over the ease of the horizon.

A breeze kicks up, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and ancient dust. At last, the buzzing anxiety in my stomach has gone quiet. I spent my whole life afraid of making the wrong choice, paralyzed by the idea that one door closing meant I was trapped forever. But looking at them, I realize there are no doors here. There is only this wide, open terrace under a limitless sky.

The future isn't a cage waiting to catch me; it’s a canvas we’re all holding. We don't have the answers, but as the bells toll once more in the distance, I realize I’m no longer afraid of the dark. We are the light.

28

MAX

The air in thisenotecasmells of damp stone and ancient corks. It is the kind of place that doesn't exist on a map, tucked so deep into a Trastevere alleyway that the Roman sun never quite reaches the floorboards. Amber lamps cast long, sickly shadows across the walls, illuminating grainy photographs of men who died before I was born.

Amos pushes a heavy glass of Sangiovese toward me. He doesn't lead with a joke tonight. He doesn't lean back with his usual practiced ease. He looks tired, the kind of exhaustion that doesn't come from travel, but from the weight of a monumental decision. Beside him, Atticus traces the rim of his glass, his eyes fixed on the label as if it holds a secret code.

We are a strange triptych. A professor, a coordinator, and a drifter.

"I didn't ask you guys here to talk about the program budget," Amos says, his voice low, sliding under the muffled sound of a distant Vespa.

"Clearly," I say. I adjust my glasses, the bridge of my nose slick with the humidity. "The atmosphere suggests something a bit more... seismic."

I take a sip of the wine. It’s sharp and unapologetic. Without Baleigh sitting between us, acting as the sun we all orbit, the gravity in the room feels dangerously high. The silence is punctuated only by the hum of an old refrigerator in the corner. We aren't just colleagues anymore. We are stakeholders in the same impossible heart.

"I’ve spent twenty years studying the way civilizations crumble," I say, setting my glass down with a precise click. "They usually fail because of things left unsaid. Small grievances that turn into rot."

I look at them both, forcing myself not to blink.

"I’m jealous," I say. The word feels jagged in my throat, a confession that strips away my academic mask. "When she’s with you, Amos—when she’s laughing at something I couldn't possibly have said—I feel a cold, sharp pull in my chest. I want to be the one making her light up like that. And with you, Atticus... I see the way she looks at your photos, how she sees a world through your eyes that I can’t show her. It makes me feel old. It makes me feel replaceable."

Saying it doesn't make the jealousy vanish, but it stops it from being a ghost. It is a fact now, sitting on the scarred wood between us.

Amos doesn't laugh. He doesn't deflect. He rolls his sleeves further up his forearms, exposing the tan lines of someone who never stays still. "You think you're the only one? Max, I’m the guy people call when the toilet overflows or the bus breaks down. I’m the 'fun' one. The utility player. Every time I see her listening to you talk about the Medici like you're reciting poetry, I’m terrified I’m just the summer entertainment. I’m scared that when the leaves change and she wants someone to build a life with, she’ll realize a coordinator is just a guy who knows how to pack a suitcase."

He stares into his wine, his optimism finally cracking. "I want to be her home, not just a vacation."

Atticus looks up then. The green of his eyes is muted in the dim light. He looks like he’s bracing for an impact. "I don’t know how to stay," he says, voice a ghost of a whisper. "I’ve spent so long convincing myself that independence is a virtue, but it’s just a cage. I watch her with both of you—the way you, Max, give her a foundation she’s never had, and the way Amos gives her the courage to breathe. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for the moment I wake up and realize I’ve ruined it by not knowing how to be still."