Page 53 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I sound like a brochure for a life I spent the last three months trying to escape. I list the retirement contributions and the proximity to my sister, my voice gaining a brittle, frantic edge. I talk about "professional growth" and "sustainable goals," clinging to the hollow, corporate jargon as if it’s a life raft.

"It’s the most practical decision for my future," I whisper, the rehearsal finally running dry.

I look up, and the devastation is immediate. Max is finally facing me, his expression a mask of profound disappointment. He doesn't see a woman choosing a career; he sees a student failing the most important lesson he tried to teach. He recognizes the retreat.

Atticus leans against the counter, his jaw tight. He knows this look. He probably saw it in the mirror a decade ago before he fled. He sees the bars of the cage I’m walking back into, and the pity in his eyes is sharper than any shout.

But it’s Amos who breaks me. He’s stopped peeling the orange entirely. He just looks wounded, his usual mischievous spark extinguished. He doesn't ask about the salary or the benefits. He stares at me as though I’ve just told him the sun is never coming back up, and he knows—they all know—that I didn’t choose Raleigh. I just chose not to be brave.

“I’m nearly thirty,” I say, voice pitching higher as I pace the small kitchen. “I can’t just live out of a suitcase and hope the universe provides. It’s irresponsible.”

I focus on Max, seeking the approving nod he usually gives for logical reasoning. “Raleigh gives me a mortgage path. I can start a 401k. I won’t have to wonder which continent I’ll be onfor Christmas. That’s what adults do, right? They make choices that involve insurance premiums and proximity to their aging parents.”

Every word feels like a lead weight sinking in my stomach. I think of the flowy sundresses in my trunk and how they’ll look hanging in a claustrophobic suburban closet. I think of the silent, sterile office waiting for me, the beige walls, the fluorescent lights.

“My parents are already looking at townhomes for me,” I add, a desperate attempt to ground the decision in a reality they can't touch. “It’s the only path that doesn't end in a mess.”

Max steps away from the window. The sunlight catches the gray at his temples, highlighting the distinguished, steady man I’ve come to rely on. He doesn’t offer a counter-argument or a lecture on the philosophy of happiness. His gaze is soft, layered with a grief that makes my chest ache.

“There is no nobility in sacrifice if you’re sacrificing the parts of yourself that make you feel alive, Baleigh,” Max says, voice a low, steady hum. “But I respect your agency. If this is the life you’ve decided will fulfill you, I won’t stand in the way of your peace.”

Amos finally drops the mangled orange. He stands, his athletic frame looking strangely small in the dim light. He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, then pulls back, curling his fingers into a fist.

“I get it,” he says, though the crack in his voice betrays him. “The wandering soul thing... it’s exhausting. I can’t blame you for wanting a door that actually locks behind you. I hate it, Leigh. I hate that you’re leaving. But I’m not going to be the guy who begs you to be unhappy just so I can see you every day.”

Atticus doesn't move from the counter. He just nods, a slow, rhythmic movement of his head. He sees me not with anger, but with a haunting recognition.

“Safety is a hell of a drug,” he says quietly. “I recognize the look. You’re choosing the ground because you’re afraid of the fall. I did it for years until the walls got too close. I hope your townhome feels big enough, Baleigh.”

The clatter of breakfast feels like a funeral. We move through the kitchen with a practiced, icy efficiency. Atticus rinses the moka pot, the water hissing against the metal. Amos clears the table, gathering the orange peels into a neat, discarded pile as if erasing evidence of his own presence. Max simply takes his mug and retreats to the terrace, his silhouette blurring against the low-hanging clouds.

Arguments I can handle. I have a script for shouting matches; I can defend my decision with logic and data points until I am blue in the face. But this silence—this quiet, respectful withdrawal—is a serrated blade. They aren’t fighting me because they actually respect my right to be miserable. They are letting me go because they love me enough to let me fail on my own terms.

I stand in the kitchen, clutching a cold dishcloth. Through the doorway, I watch Amos disappear into his bedroom, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoes in my marrow. Atticus walks past me toward the studio, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, his camera bag slung over his shoulder like a burden he is finally ready to carry alone.

I am supposed to feel relieved. The weight of the summer, the impossible choice, the tangled web of three heartbeats—it is all supposed to dissipate the moment I choose the "safe" path. But as the house settles into a hollow, echoing chill, the relief doesn't come.

Instead, a suffocating realization takes root. I have spent my life terrified of making the wrong choice, yet in my desperation to be "sensible," I have made the most catastrophic mistake ofall. I have looked at a future of gray walls and fluorescent lights and called it security simply because it is familiar.

I lean against the counter, my breath coming in shallow hitches. I am the girl from North Carolina again, the one who lives for holidays and dental plans, but the skin of that woman no longer fits. I study my hands, still tanned from the Siena sun, and realize they are shaking. I have exactly what my family wants. I have a promotion, a townhome, and a predictable trajectory. And as the distance between me and the three men in this house grows into a canyon, I realize I have never been more terrified in my life. I am not choosing safety; I am choosing a slow, comfortable death.

35

AMOS

The blue light of my laptop screen is the only thing anchoring me to the room. Outside the windows, the Tyrrhenian Sea is a flat, gray slab under the pre-dawn mist, but inside, I’m already in Tokyo. I click through flight itineraries and housing stipends for the new assignment, my fingers flying over the keys with a frantic, twitchy energy. I need the chaos. I need the logistics of moving three hundred students across a continent to drown out the silence of this house.

Each calendar invitation I send feels like a tactical strike against my own heart.Click.Orientation confirmed.Click.Logistics finalized. It’s progress. It’s my career. It’s exactly the kind of nomadic ladder-climbing I’ve done for a decade. But today, the mechanical tap-tap-tap of the keyboard sounds like a hammer hitting a coffin nail. I’m building a life I already know is empty, just because the woman who filled it for a summer is packing her bags for a townhome in North Carolina.

By eight, the floorboards groan. Max is the first one down, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. He doesn’t offer the usual morning greeting. He just slides into his chair with a stack of fellowship documents, his wire-rim glasses perched low onhis nose. He looks like the professor I met months ago—distinguished, controlled, and entirely unreachable.

Baleigh follows, her hair pulled back in a tight, sensible ponytail that feels like a mourning shroud for her usual curls. She starts on the eggs, the whisk scraping against the bowl with a rhythmic, grating sound.

“You're low on olive oil,” she says flatly.

“I’ll grab some before I head to the airport tomorrow,” Atticus murmurs. He’s leaning against the far counter, shrouded in steam from his coffee. He hasn't looked at his camera once this morning.

“Don’t forget the receipt,” I chime in, trying to force a hint of the old Amos into my tone. “The program budget is a fickle beast.”