Page 48 of Bad Men's Good Girl

The "old" Amos would have been halfway to the airport already. But that guy didn’t know what it felt like to be part of a set. He didn't know that success could look like staying put.

"The board wants an answer by Friday," I say, voice sounding thin against the stone walls. "It’s everything I told them I wanted during my last review. The prestige, the travel—it's the golden ticket."

Max doesn't offer the expected handshake or a celebratory drink. He leans back, his eyes studying me with that quiet,academic precision that always feels like he’s reading my soul instead of my face.

"You’ve spent your life collecting horizons, Amos," he says softly.

He taps the paper with a blunt finger.

"But I’m not asking about the prestige. Do you actually want it? Do you want to be there, or do you just want to have been chosen?"

The resulting silence isn't comfortable. It’s a vacuum. I see the names on the student manifest—Butler, Baleigh—and I realize I have no idea how to answer a question that simple.

The church bellsof Florence don’t just ring; they vibrate through the bottoms of my shoes, a heavy, rhythmic tolling that marks the death of another day. I’m standing on the balcony of the institute, the Arno snaking through the city like a vein of liquid gold under the deep navy of the twilight sky. The air carries the scent of roasting garlic and ancient dust.

I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen is a harsh, clinical white in the gloom. The "Accept" button for the Director position is right there. One thumb-press and I’m a ghost again. I’m the man in the sleek suit, disappearing into the silver belly of a Boeing 747, untouchable and untethered. It’s the life I’ve perfected. No roots to pull, no hearts to break.

No broken hearts on this side, either.

I look out over the rooftops, toward the direction of Baleigh’s apartment. I think about the way she looks when she’s frustrated, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows that only disappears when she finally laughs. I think about the strange, quiet brotherhood I’ve formed with Max and Atticus—men I should have seen as rivals, but who instead became the only mirrors I’ve ever recognized myself in.

I’ve spent fifteen years running away from the terror of being known.

The wind picks up, cooling the sweat on my neck. In every other city, this was the moment I started mentally packing. I’d be checking the weight of my suitcase and confirming my car to the airport. I’d be thinking about the next skyline. But as I look at the Duomo, its massive dome anchored to the earth by sheer force of will, the thought of leaving feels like a physical ache in my marrow.

I’ve finally found it. The thing I pretended didn’t exist.

I don’t want a new horizon. I want the sunset I’ve already got, shared with the people who actually see me. I want the chaos of staying. I want the laundry, the arguments, and the terrifying beauty of being someone’s first choice.

I lock the screen, the blue light vanishing into the dark. I don't delete the email, but I don't reply either. I just lean against the stone railing, watching the lights of the city flicker on one by one, and I don't feel like I'm standing in a waiting room.

31

BALEIGH

The phone vibrates against the marble countertop, the buzzing sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet of my apartment. I expect a text from Amos about dinner or a photography tip from Atticus. Instead, the screen displays a local area code from back home.

"Leigh? It’s Sherry. I hope I’m not catching you during a tour."

The voice of my old boss sounds like a broadcast from a different planet. I press the phone to my ear, looking out at the terracotta tiles of the neighboring roof.

"Sherry? No, I’m just winding down for the day. Is everything okay?"

"Better than okay," she says, her tone bubbling with that familiar, high-energy professional pep. "The board finally approved the International Liaison Director position. It’s a complete restructuring of the department. New budget, a dedicated staff, and a title that looks incredible on paper. We went through the files, and honestly, Leigh, no one has the field experience you’re gaining right now. It was built for you."

I sit on the bed, the springs creaking. A Director position. Back home, that’s the peak of the mountain. It carries a salary that would let me trade my cramped apartment for a house with a wrap-around porch and a mortgage I don't have to stress over. No more "Assistant" titles. No more proving my worth to committees.

"Immediately upon your return, we could have it finalized," Sherry continues, oblivious to the way my breath hitches. "You’d be the face of the program. You’d have the stability you were worried about before you left. It’s the path we talked about, remember? Five years ahead of schedule."

I stare at my suitcase, currently tucked in the corner. If I say yes, my life snaps back into a neat, predictable shape. I see the beige walls of my old office and the Friday night dinners at the same Italian chain restaurant where the breadsticks are the only thing that changes. It’s the safe harbor I spent twenty-eight years craving.

"I... Sherry, that's incredible. I don't even know what to say."

"Say you're coming home to us," she laughs. "The timing is perfect, isn't it?"

I glance at the stacks of art books Max lent me, and the leather-bound journal Atticus gave me, and the way the golden Italian light is presently painting the room in colors I never knew existed in North Carolina. My heart thumps a heavy, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

Six months ago, this call would have been the answer to every prayer I ever whispered. Now, it seems like an anchor dropped onto a moving ship.