Page 8 of Bad Men's Good Girl

5

BALEIGH

The air in the courtyard tastes like rosemary and burnt sugar. Above us, strands of Edison bulbs crisscross the narrow gap between stone buildings, casting a honeyed glow that turns the white tablecloths into pools of warmth. The trattoria is a cavern of clinking glass and rapid-fire Italian, tucked so deep into the Oltrarno that the city's roar muffled into a hum.

I brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear and smooth the fabric of my sundress. Only seventy-two hours ago, the thought of navigating these streets alone sent a prickle of sweat down my spine. Now, seated on a rickety wooden chair with the uneven cobbles beneath my sandals, I don't feel like a tourist trespassing on someone else’s life. I’m more like a guest who finally found the right door.

"Try the crostini before the boys inhale it all," Amos says, sliding a platter toward me. He looks less like a frantic program director and more like a man who actually knows how to exhale.

I snag a piece of grilled bread topped with a heap of shimmering chicken liver pâté. My mother would call this 'adventurous.' Here, it just looks right. I take a bite—the richnessis earthy, salt-heavy, and perfect—and wash it down with a sip of house red that costs less than bottled water.

"It’s incredible," I say, leaning into the table. "Though I think I’ve reached my limit on how many 'best meals of my life' I can have in one week."

One of the students, a girl named Maya who had been crying about her lost luggage yesterday, laughs. "Right? I'm never going back to dining hall pizza. Baleigh, did you see that leather shop near the fountain today? The one with the green shutters?"

"The one where the old man sits in the window stitching the linings?" I ask, and I don't even have to think about the landmarks. "I almost walked in there, but I got distracted by a cat on a Vespa."

The table erupts into a debate about the city's feline population, and I find myself leading the charge, sharing the story of the tabby I saw guarding a stack of antique books. I’m not just the shadow at the back of the group anymore. My voice is steady, my laugh unforced. For once, I’m not worrying about the "right" thing to say or the "safe" way to act. I am simply here, letting the evening carry me.

Amos is a blur of motion. He drifts from table to table like a heat-seeking missile of charisma. One moment he’s comforting a homesick freshman, the next he’s charming a grumpy waiter into bringing extra baskets of focaccia. Yet, like a boomerang, he always loops back to the empty chair beside me.

"You haven't lived until you've had to bribe a Greek ferry captain with a crate of illegal sparklers to get fifty students to Mykonos on time," Amos says, leaning in close enough that I smell the clean citrus of his cologne beneath the scent of garlic. He mimes the captain’s bushy mustache with two fingers.

I choke on a laugh, clutching my wine glass as the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. "Sparklers? Tell me you're joking."

"I am deathly serious. The man wouldn't take Euros, but he had a niece’s wedding the next day. I became a hero and a smuggler in sixty seconds." He winks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The point is, Baleigh, that the disasters are usually the best parts. The plans are just suggestions."

His energy is a physical force. It strips away the lingering North Carolina guilt over my impulsive exit. With Amos, the cobblestones aren't tripping hazards; they’re a stage.

The laughter at our end of the table tapers off as the plates are cleared, replaced by the low, steady hum of Max’s voice. He hasn't moved much. He sits with a stillness that commands the space around him.

"Survival stories are entertaining, Amos," Max says, voice cutting through the humor with a dry, intellectual edge. He turns his dark, observant eyes toward me. "But I wonder, Baleigh. You’ve spent your life meeting expectations. Do you think we owe our families the person we used to be, or do we owe ourselves the person we’re becoming?"

The question hits me like a sudden drop in altitude. I think about the "safe" life I left behind—the predictable Sunday dinners and the quiet pressure to settle.

"I think I’m afraid that if I choose myself, I’m being selfish," I admit, the honesty surprising me.

Max tilts his head, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the spark of the Edison bulbs. "Is it selfish to tend to a garden? Or is it simply necessary for things to bloom? Change isn't a betrayal, Baleigh. It’s a requirement."

He doesn't look away, and for a second, the bustling courtyard vanishes. He makes the world feel vast and heavy with meaning, pulling at threads of my identity I didn't know were loose. Every word out of his mouth feels like he’s handing me a key to a room I've lived in but never entered.

Amos operates like a whirlwind of intentional chaos. One moment he is at the far end of the long table, smoothing over a misunderstanding about a pasta order, and the next, he is back in the empty chair beside me, tipping his glass toward mine.

"You think the cat on the Vespa was eccentric?" He leans in, his scent a mix of citrus and the cooling night air. "Two years ago in Rome, I had a student try to smuggle a stray pup back to the states in a carry-on. We found out during the security sweep because the duffel bag started barking at the TSA agent."

I choke on a laugh, clutching my wine glass as the stem wobbles. "No way. Did they let him keep it?"

"Only after three days of paperwork, two frantic calls to the embassy, and me personally vouching for the dog’s character," Amos says, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I’ve chased lost passports through the canals of Venice and once performed an emergency repair on a student’s tuxedo using only dental floss and a stapler. This? This is a vacation."

His energy is a physical weight, warm and grounding. He makes the labyrinthine streets outside feel like a playground rather than a trap. Every disaster he describes becomes a badge of honor, a reason to leap rather than recoil.

As plates are cleared and the espresso begins to circulate, Max shifts his chair closer to ours. He has been quiet, observing the rowdy energy of the table with a faint, disciplined smile. The conversation drifts from travel mishaps to the weight of expectations back home.

"We talk about travel as an escape," Max says, his smooth voice cutting through the clatter like a low cello note. "But escape implies a lack of responsibility. I wonder, Baleigh, do you think moving toward yourself is an act of selfishness or a necessity?"

I pause, the steam from my tiny cup of coffee warming my chin. "I’ve always been told that putting your own desires firstis selfish. My family... they value being there. Being the person people can lean on."

"And who do you lean on if that person is a hollow shell?" Max asks gently. He watches me over the rim of his glasses, his eyes probing. "We owe the world our most authentic selves, not just our most compliant ones. If you spend your life fulfilling an identity others mapped out for you, are you actually living your life, or are you just occupying their space?"