Page 2 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"I have to go, Mom. I’m just tired."

I hang up before the tears can blur my vision. I can’t spend my first night in Italy crying into a polyester pillow. I splash cold water on my face, pull on my denim jacket, and step back out into the humid evening.

The air in the Piazza della Signoria is rich with the aroma of grilled meat and expensive tobacco. I find a tiny storefront with a sign that saysGelateria.

"Prendo... uh... fragola?" I point a shaking finger at the pale pink tub.

The server, a teenager with slicked-back hair, gives me a look that is part pity, part impatience.

"Coppetta o cono?"

"Cone? Yes. Cono."

He hands me the wafer topped with a frozen swirl. I hand over a crumpled five-euro note, and for a second, our fingers brush.

"Grazie," I say.

"Prego."

He turns to the next customer, but I’m beaming. I did it. I exchanged currency for sustenance without a panic attack.

I wander away from the bright lights of the main square, turning down an alleyway where the cobblestones are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. I make a left, then a right, guided by the sound of an accordion. For a moment, the landmarks disappear. I’m lost in a labyrinth of ochre walls.

Instead of panic, a strange spark ignites in my chest.

I fetch up at a low stone wall overlooking the Arno River. The water reflects the city like liquid copper. Couples sit on the bridge, legs dangling over the edge, sharing bottles of wine as the sun dips behind the Ponte Vecchio. No one is checking a schedule. No one is worried about the "practical path."

I take a bite of the gelato. It’s tart and cold, blooming on my tongue. The world feels wide, terrifying, and completely open.

The gold hues of the afternoon deepen into a bruised purple, the kind of sky that feels heavy with centuries of secrets. I find a stone ledge near the Piazzale Michelangelo, high enough to watch the city breathe. From here, Florence looks like a treasurechest spilled open across the valley. The Duomo sits in the center, a massive heart of marble and brick, pulsing with the setting sun.

I should be terrified. I don't know the way back to my apartment without a digital map, and my phone battery is hovering at a treacherous twelve percent. Back home, this scenario would have triggered a calculated retreat to the nearest familiar landmark. I’d be calling a taxi, apologizing to my parents for the lack of a check-in, and retreating to the safety of a locked room.

But as the wind catches the loose strands of my hair, I feel a sudden, sharp disgust for that version of myself.

I think about the last ten years. I see them as a series of beige rooms and polite nods. I see a girl who chose the job she didn’t want because it was stable, and the men she didn't love because they were kind. I’ve spent my youth standing in a doorway, watching the party from the hall, too afraid of the "wrong" choice to make any choice at all.

Standing still is just a slower way of dying.

The bells of the San Miniato al Monte begin to toll, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the stone beneath my palms. It feels almost like a summons. I study my hands—unlined, capable, and currently trembling.

"No more," I whisper to the terracotta rooftops.

For the next six weeks, I won't be the girl who calculates the risk. I won't be the one who asks for permission or looks for the exit sign before she enters a room. I’m going to make mistakes. I’m going to get lost. I’m going to order the wrong thing and stumble over my verbs and probably embarrass myself in three different languages.

I make the vow right there, the stone wall serving as my altar. I will say yes. To the invitations I would normally decline, to thefood I can't pronounce, and to the version of Baleigh Butler that doesn't need a safety net to breathe.

I stand up and turn away from the view, walking toward the darkening streets with my head held high. The uncertainty doesn't feel like a weight. It feels almost like an open door.

2

AMOS

The espresso machine in the faculty lounge screams like a jet engine, but it’s the only thing keeping my eyes open.

"Amos! The van from Peretola is stuck in a ditch near Prato," Maria shouts, waving a clipboard as if it’s a distress signal.

"Nobody’s hurt, right?" I grab a stack of orientation folders and shove them under my arm. "The driver probably tried the ‘shortcut’ near the vineyard again. Call Gianni. Tell him to send the backup shuttle and remind the students that a ditch is just an unscheduled scenic photo-op."