Page 28 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Before I can reply, a notification from Atticus pops up. He’s sent a link to a private gallery. I click it, and my breath hitches. It’s a series of candid shots of me from our last hike—my hairwindblown, my face lit with a raw, unshielded joy I didn’t know I was capable of.

You look like you belong here, Baleigh,his caption says.

A knot of panic tightens in my throat. Max is my heart’s anchor, but Amos is the laughter that keeps me sane, and Atticus is the mirror showing me a version of myself I finally like. If I look at the calendar, I have to decide which of these threads to cut.

I take a deep breath and delete the flight countdown notification on my screen. I won't do it. I won't start the mourning process while the sun is still out. I type a quick reply to Amos:Count me in. Extra wine, please.

If I don't look at the clock, the hands can't move. For tonight, the end doesn't exist. There is only the wine, the light on the river, and the beautiful lie that I have all the time in the world.

The shutters of my small apartment rattle in a sudden gust of wind, the wood groaning against the stone frame. I don’t turn on the overhead light. The amber glow from the streetlamp below filters through the slats, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. It’s quiet enough to hear the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic clacking of a late-night traveler’s suitcase wheels over the cobblestones.

I stand before the wall where I’ve pinned a paper calendar. It’s a cheap thing I bought at a gift shop near Santa Croce, featuring watercolors of the Tuscan countryside, but tonight it looks like a prison sentence.

I reach out, my index finger hovering over today’s date. Then I count. One week. Two.

The three remaining weeks look like crumbs. I calculate the hours remaining until I have to stand in the terminal at Peretola, clutching a boarding pass that points toward a life I no longer recognize. In twenty-five days, the heat of the Florence sun will be a memory. The smell of Max’s espresso, the way Atticustilts his head when he frames a shot, the chaotic safety of Amos’s laughter—it all shrinks into a series of photographs and "remember when" anecdotes.

My chest tightens, a cold, sharp ache blooming behind my ribs. I’ve spent my entire life planning for the next milestone, the next expected step, yet the thought of the "next" waiting for me in North Carolina makes me want to scream. I’m not that girl anymore, but I haven't figured out how to be this new version of myself without the backdrop of these three men and this ancient city.

I grab the corner of the calendar page and fold it back, hiding the dates from view. The paper crinkles loudly in the silence. I don't want to see the numbers. I don't want to see the wall where the story stops.

I click off the small desk lamp, plunging the room into shadow. I slide under the cool linen sheets and stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat. I won't let the end bleed into the now. I’ll hoard every second, every glance, and every touch like a thief. I make a silent, desperate vow to the dark: I will not mourn the end until the plane wheels leave the tarmac.

The future is coming, heavy and inevitable, but tonight, I simply refuse to look it in the eye.

18

AMOS

The train station in Rome is a meat grinder. The air inside Termini smells like ozone, burnt coffee, and the sweat of five thousand people all trying to be somewhere else. I’m in the eye of the hurricane, spinning on my heels with a clipboard gripped in one hand and a rogue student’s oversized duffel bag in the other.

"Stay behind the yellow line! If you lose your group, head toward the fountain!"

I shout over a screeching PA system and the thunder of the high-speed rails. Rome doesn't have the soft, Renaissance embrace of Florence. It’s a brawling, beautiful beast of a city—louder, hotter, and ready to trip you if you aren't looking. Sirens wail from the Via Giolitti, and the tolling of a dozen hidden church bells vibrates in my teeth.

I glance back at the pack of students. They look dazed, their eyes wide as they take in the crumbling majesty and the aggressive swarm of Vespas. Then I see Baleigh. She’s staring up at the vaulted ceiling, a strand of hair stuck to her lip, looking like she’s trying to swallow the whole city in one breath. Every time I see her in a new light, the transient, lonely ache in mychest eases just a fraction. This is why I keep moving—to see the world wake up in someone else’s eyes.

But as we load into the shuttle vans parked near the ruins of the Servian Wall, the rhythm of the trip hits a snag.

I’m tossing bags into the rear of a Fiat when I catch it. Max is standing by the sliding door, holding it open for Baleigh. It’s a standard Max move—polite, academic, controlled. But the way she stares at him as she climbs inside isn't standard. She doesn't just thank him; she exhales. Her hand brushes his forearm, a ghost of a touch that stays there a second too long.

Max, usually a statue of stoic professionalism, doesn't pull away. He leans in, his shoulders dropping two inches, and says something low that makes her bite her lip to hide a smile.

I freeze with a suitcase halfway up the ramp. I’ve spent a great deal of time reading people in transit; I know the difference between "we’re working together" and "you’re my world." A new gravity has pulled them into the same orbit. The air between them feels heavy, charged with a secret I wasn't invited to keep.

I slam the van door shut, the metal bang echoing off the ancient stones, and wonder if I’m the only one who just felt the ground shift.

The cobblestones of Rome catch the midday sun, shimmering with a heat that makes the air wobble. I watch from the curb as Baleigh catches Max’s eye across the roof of the van. He laughs—a rare, deep sound that vibrates through the noise of the traffic—and she beams back, her face losing that sharp edge of uncertainty she carried in Florence.

I expected a sting. I expected the sour taste of bile blooming in my gut, the familiar territorial flare that comes with being the guy who usually wins. But the jealousy doesn't come. Instead, there’s a terrifying clarity. Seeing her look at him makes me realize I’m not just hunting for a summer distraction to fill thesilence of my hotel rooms. My chest feels tight, not with anger, but with the sudden weight of permanence. I’ve spent years refining the art of the exit, but looking at the way she leans into his space, I realize I’ve finally found someone I want to stay for. The casual affection I’ve been masking with jokes has solidified into something heavy and undeniable. I’m not just losing a flirtation; I’m watching the possibility of a home drift toward someone else.

Later that night, the city cools into a muted purple. The Pantheon looms at the end of the street, a massive, ancient shadow framed by the gold-washed cafes of the Piazza della Rotunda. Max and I walk in a silence that isn't uncomfortable, just thick with the Day’s logistics. Our shadows stretch long against the stone, overlapping and then pulling apart.

"You're quiet tonight, Amos," Max says, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looks at the dome of the temple, his expression as unreadable as the Latin inscriptions above us. "Usually, you're halfway through a story about a missed flight or a lost passport by now."

I stop at the very edge of the fountain. The water splashes against the marble, drowning out the distant roar of the city. I could pivot. I could make a crack about the wine at dinner or the heat. But the honesty of the ruins around us feels like a dare.

"I’m just observing," I say, meeting his gaze. The streetlamps catch the silver in his hair, highlighting the rigid set of his jaw. "You and Baleigh. It's different now, isn't it?"