Page 6 of Bad Men's Good Girl

He offers a small, measured smile that doesn't reach for pity—it offers respect.

"See you tomorrow, Baleigh. Don't go looking for the math until you're already in the air."

The Piazza della Signoria hums with a restless, golden heat as the sun dips behind the stone silhouettes of the city. I weave through the tourists, but my mind is still back in that shadowed lecture hall, vibrating with the resonance of Max’s voice.

Amos makes me laugh; he’s a breath of fresh air in a room that’s been sealed shut for years. There is an ease to him that makes the chaos of Italy feel like a playground. But Max—Max feels like a destination. He didn’t just look at me; he looked through the layers of Southern politeness and small-town expectations I’ve worn like armor. He didn’t offer a joke to lighten the mood; he offered a mirror.

I stop by the edge of a fountain, the spray of water cool against my flushed skin.

Is it easier to live within the cage?

His question haunts the rhythm of my footsteps. Back home, I knew exactly who I was meant to be. I was the reliable daughter, the steady assistant, the girl who never made waves. Here, in the span of forty-eight hours, two men have stripped those labels away. Amos sees a partner in crime, someone to tumble into adventures with. Max sees a woman holding her breath, waiting for permission to begin.

The sky turns a crisp, cinematic violet. The street performers strike up a violin melody that bounces off the ancient walls, making the air feel heavy with antiquity. I realize I’m holding my notebook to my chest like a shield.

Is this danger? The way my pulse skips when I think about Max’s quiet authority isn't the same as the flutter Amos causes. It’s deeper. It’s a low, buzzing tension that suggests I might actually have to change. Amos makes me want to sayyesto a glass of wine and a late night; Max makes me want to sayyesto a life that scares me.

I lean against a cold stone pillar, watching a group of locals share a laugh at a nearby cafe. For twenty-eight years, I wanted safety. Now, the very thought of it seems like a weight. I arrived in Florence terrified of making the wrong choice, yet here I am, already divided between the lighthearted thrill of the present and the demanding, intellectual weight of a future I hadn't dared to imagine.

The cage hasn't just been torn down. It’s vanished. And the air out here is thin.

4

ATTICUS

The shutter clicks, a sharp, mechanical heartbeat against the roar of the morning rush. I don’t look for the Duomo’s dome anymore; it’s too loud, too desperate for attention. Instead, I find the way that light catches a spill of flour on a baker’s apron in a side alley off Via dei Servi. I find the rhythmic sweep of a broom against centuries-old basalt.

Florence isn't a museum to me. Use has worn it smooth, like a favorite leather jacket. I move through the thicket of tourists near the university, my camera a natural extension of my arm. I’m here to document the "transformative power" of the study-abroad program—marketing fluff for the next feature—but my eyes keep sliding past the scripted excitement.

I’ve seen this a thousand times. The students spill out of the lecture halls like a dam breaking, a sea of neon windbreakers and expensive smartphones. They hold their devices out like divining rods, searching for the exact angle that proves they were here without ever actually arriving. They want the postcard. They want the proof.

I adjust the focus on my Leica, prepared to capture the usual montage of performative joy, but a figure breaks the rhythm of the crowd.

She isn't looking for a selfie. She’s standing near a heavy, iron-studded door that hasn't been opened in decades, her fingers hovering just inches from the rusted handle. She’s still, a quiet island in the midst of a frantic river. While the rest of her group scurries toward the leather market, she moves toward a crumbling stone archway tucked into a blind corner.

She tilts her head, tracing the climb of a rogue vine of jasmine as it chokes a window box. Most people see a weed; she looks at it like it’s a revelation. There's a soft, unhurried gravity to her movements that feels entirely out of sync with the frantic energy of a newcomer.

I lift the camera, the lens finding the curve of her jaw as she leans in to catch the scent of the blooms. She isn't performing. She’s absorbing.

My finger lingers on the shutter. Usually, I’m the only one looking at the shadows. I wonder what she sees in the cracks of the pavement that everyone else is stepping over.

She pivots away from the main thoroughfare, marching with a confidence that would be impressive if she weren’t heading directly toward a dead-end residential square. I trail thirty paces back. She weaves through a narrow passage where the laundry lines hang low enough to brush her hair, then stops.

Out comes the map. It’s a massive, unfolding paper beast that catches the wind like a sail. She fights it, pinning the corners down against her thighs, her brow furrowed into a knot. She rotates the paper ninety degrees. Then one-eighty. She looks at the street sign—Via della Spada—then back at her map with a look of betrayal.

I lean against a sun-warmed stone wall and wait. She tucks a stray blonde lock behind her ear, chin lifting as she attempts toscout the horizon. All she sees are five-story palazzos and a very fat cat sleeping on a dumpster.

"The Duomo is behind you," I say, pushing off the wall. "About three blocks and two very sharp lefts."

She jumps, nearly dropping the map. Her eyes wide, she quickly tries to smooth the paper as if she were just admiring the typography. "I knew that. I was just... taking the scenic route. Exploring the local ambiance."

"The local ambiance in this particular courtyard consists of Signora Gatti yelling at people who wake up her felines." I step closer, offering a hand. "I’m Atticus. I work with the program. You’re Baleigh, right?"

"Is it that obvious?" She lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping an inch. "I thought I was being subtle. I grew up in a town with three stoplights, Atticus. Grids make sense to me. This city is a bowl of spaghetti."

"Then stop trying to untangle it. Just eat it." I gesture toward a gap between two buildings that looks like nothing more than a crack in the stone. "The group is heading for the Piazza della Repubblica. If you follow the main road, you’ll be stuck behind a tour group of forty people in matching hats. Want to see a shortcut?"

She hesitates, then closes the map with a decisive snap. "Lead the way, Chef."