Page 49 of Bad Men's Good Girl

The FaceTime screen flickers to life, revealing my parents huddled together on their floral sofa. Mom’s face is inches from the lens, her eyes bright with a relief I can feel through the thousands of miles of fiber optic cable.

"Sherry called us, Leigh! She said she couldn't wait to tell us," Mom says, her hands fluttering near her chest. "Director of the whole department. We already told Aunt Myra. Everyone is just so proud."

Dad nods, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He’s already got a yellow legal pad on his lap, a pen hovering over a list of bullet points. "We were looking at those new townhomes over by the creek, honey. If you start in September, you could be moved in before the school year begins. I can head over there this weekend and put down a deposit for you. They’re gated, very secure."

He starts scribbling, the scratch of the pen audible over the speaker. They are building the walls of my life again, brick by brick, using the same blueprints I’d spent my twenties trying to perfect. They talk about retirement contributions, the short commute, and the comfort of having me back for Sunday potlucks. Every word is a soft silk thread, weaving a cocoon around me, promising that I can stop being brave now. I can stop being the girl who rides Vespas through traffic and falls in love with three men at once. I can just be Baleigh again.

"It’s what you worked for, sweetie," Mom adds, her voice a soothing balm. "A real future. No more of this... temporary living."

The chaos of my heart begins to quiet, replaced by the humming vibration of the expected path. The fear of what comes after summer, which has been a constant, jagged tooth in my side, suddenly numbs. In North Carolina, I know who I am. I know which streets lead home. I don't have to wonder if I'm enough for a man like Max, or if I can keep up with a life like Amos’, or if I can ever truly scale the walls Atticus keeps around his soul.

I look at the beautiful, terrifying mess of my Italian life and then back at my father’s legal pad. The temptation of safety is aheavy, warm blanket. Maybe I’m not an explorer. Maybe I’m just a girl who took a very long, very beautiful vacation.

"The deposit isn't much," Dad says, looking up with a hopeful smile. "Should I go ahead and call them?"

The wordyessits on my tongue, tasting like distilled water—flavorless, safe, and exactly what I need to survive. I find myself nodding before I even realize it.

I don’t answer my father. I mutter something about a bad connection and sever the call, the silence of the room suddenly deafening. My skin feels too tight. I grab my bag and my oversized sunglasses, practically running out of the apartment until I’m standing in the heart of the Oltrarno.

Florence is a symphony of noise—clattering mopeds, the melodic lilt of vendors, the heavy scent of roasting coffee—but I move through it like a ghost. I cross the Ponte Santa Trinita, my hand trailing over the warm stone. Just last week, Amos leaned against this very ledge and told me I was the best teammate he’d ever had. Now, the stone feels like a museum artifact, cold and distant. I look toward the Uffizi, where Max first dissected the concept of legacy for me, and then toward the shadowed alleyways where Atticus showed me how to find beauty in the cracks of a crumbling wall.

The voices of my parents and Sherry won’t stop looping.Director. Stability. Retirement. Home.

Every step I take away from the river feels like a betrayal of the woman who arrived here a short time ago. That Baleigh was terrified of the dark; this Baleigh knows which street corner has the best late-night gelato and how to navigate a bus strike without crying. But the gravitational pull of North Carolina is immense. It’s a physical weight on my shoulders, pulling me back toward the safety of the known. Am I an adventurer, or am I just playing dress-up in someone else’s culture?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Max:Found a first edition of the Dante translation we discussed. Yours if you’re free for wine later.

I look at the screen. Ordinarily, I’d be halfway to his door before I finished reading. Today, I can’t even type a reply. If I see him, he’ll read the conflict in the set of my jaw. He’ll ask the right questions, and the truth will spill out. Then Amos will find out, and he’ll try to solve it with a joke that doesn't quite land because he’s scared, too. And Atticus—Atticus will look at me with those observant green eyes and see that I’m already halfway out the door.

I put the phone on silent and shove it into the dark depths of my purse.

I walk past the shops, ignoring the beckoning calls of the leather sellers. I don't go to the cafe where we usually meet. Instead, I duck into a small, anonymous church and sit in the back pew, hiding in the shadows. I’m retreating. I know the signs. When the world gets too loud, I go quiet. I stop choosing. I let the tide of other people's expectations carry me because it’s easier than swimming against the current.

The Director position isn't just a job; it's an exit ramp. And I’m terrified that I’m actually going to take it.

The laptop screen is a harsh, clinical white against the velvet dark of my terrace. It’s the only light out here, casting long, wavering shadows across the terracotta tiles. I keep the return flight confirmation open in one tab and Sherry’s email in the other.Director of International Student Affairs.The words look so solid. They have weight. They have dental insurance and a designated parking spot.

Below me, Florence breathes. It’s a low, rhythmic hum of distant Vespas and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby trattoria. The Duomo sits like a giant, jeweled crown in the valley, its red tiles softened by the moonlight. This citydoesn't offer me a parking spot; it offers me a labyrinth. It doesn't offer me a path; it offers me the chance to get lost until I find something better than a map.

I reach out, my finger hovering over the touchpad. The cursor flickers over the flight details. Departs: August 28th. Seat 14B. A one-way ticket back to the girl I used to be.

My heart hammers a frantic, jagged rhythm. This is the moment where the summer movie is supposed to end with a grand speech, but there’s no audience here. Just the scent of jasmine blooming in the heat and the terrifying realization that I am the one holding the scissors to my own tether.

Living here with Max, Amos, and Atticus has felt like waking up from a long, grey sleep. Max taught me that my mind is a cathedral, something to be built with intention and care. Amos showed me that chaos is just an unscripted adventure. Atticus—he peeled back the layers of my caution until I finally saw the woman underneath.

But the woman underneath is tired. She’s scared that when the Tuscan sun fades, the magic will evaporate, leaving me standing in a foreign country with no safety net and a heart shattered into three distinct pieces.

Sherry’s email is a promise that I don’t have to be brave anymore. I can go back to being "Leigh," the reliable one. I can stop wondering if a future with three men is a miracle or a mistake.

I squint at the stars until my eyes blur. The fear is a cold, familiar hand on my throat, whispering that I’m not built for the climb—I’m built for the valley. I see the "Reply" button, my hand trembling as the safety of the known starts to feel more like a cage than a sanctuary.

32

MAX

Dust particles dance in the late afternoon sun, drifting through my office like tiny, frantic ghosts. Outside the window, the rhythm of the city has shifted. The frantic energy of end of summer has cooled into a thick, bittersweet haze. Suitcases groan against the floorboards in the hallway, their wheels staccato on the tiles. My students are no longer debating Petrarch; they’re debating which leather shops have the best VAT refund and how many bottles of Chianti they can cram into their check-in bags.

The air smells of old paper and the espresso I let go cold an hour ago. I run a pen down the final grade sheet, marking a series of well-earned marks, but my mind is three floors up, wondering if Baleigh is also staring at a half-packed trunk. The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the sharppingof an incoming notification on my laptop.