Page 45 of Bad Men's Good Girl

The confession hangs in the air, thick as the Italian humidity. We are three men admitting we are incomplete.

"The thing is," I say, leaning forward, my elbows heavy on the table. "I’ve watched her change. She isn't the same woman who stepped off that plane. She’s bolder. But I see why. It’s not just me. She’s learned how to dream because of you, Atticus. You showed her the world isn't just a map of obligations."

Atticus nods slowly, his gaze shifting to Amos. "And she’s learned how to trust the chaos because of you, Amos. You’re the one who taught her that a disaster is just an unscheduled adventure."

"She loves your mind, Max," Amos adds, his voice regaining some of its strength. "She loves the way you make her feel like she’s worth the effort of a deep conversation."

We sit in the silence of that realization. The rivalry that should have been tearing us apart has become a mirror. We aren't competing for parts of her; we are each holding a different piece of the light she reflects. I realize that none of us wants to see that light go dim.

The waiter returns with a fresh bottle, his movements fluid and indifferent to the weight of our conversation. He clears the empty glasses, leaving us with a clean slate of dark wood. As Iwatch the wine settle into the vessels, a strange clarity washes over me, cooling the remnants of my jealousy.

I’ve lived my life grading on a curve, looking for the singular right answer in a sea of variables. But looking at Amos and Atticus, I know I’ve been misinterpreting the exam. If I were to "win," if she were to choose me and sever the vibrant, reckless threads that connect her to them, she wouldn't be the Baleigh I love. She would be a diminished version of herself, a bird with clipped wings sitting in my quiet study.

"Neither of you is trying to talk her out of the others," I say, the words tasting better than the Sangiovese. "We’re sitting here confessing our flaws because we’re more afraid of her losing something vital than we are of losing our own pride."

Amos exhales, a long, shaky breath that ruffles his hair. "I don’t want her to have to choose between a map and a home. Why should she?"

"She shouldn't," Atticus says firmly. He glances at me, then Amos, his guardedness finally dissolving. "If this ends with her crying in an airport because she’s leaving two-thirds of her heart behind, we’ve all failed."

The shift in the room is palpable. The air loses its static. We stop being three men guarding our territories and become architects looking at a blueprint.

"The logistics are a nightmare," I say, my mind instinctively cataloguing the hurdles. "My tenure, your travel schedule, Atticus’s base here in Italy. It’s a mess of visas and time zones."

"I thrive in nightmares, Max," Amos says, a spark of his old mischief returning to his eyes. "I coordinate moving parts for a living. Distance is just a logistical hurdle, not a dead end."

"And I have a house in a town that needs more life in it," Atticus adds, his voice gaining a resonance I haven’t heard before. "A place where a coordinator could work, a historian could write, and a photographer could finally put down roots."

We aren't talking about a summer fling anymore. We are discussing a foundation. It’s unconventional, perhaps even scandalous by the standards of Baleigh’s North Carolina upbringing, but as I see these two men, I see a future that isn't a compromise. It’s an expansion.

"We stay honest," I say, holding my glass up. "No secrets, no hidden resentments. If we can do that, the rest is just paperwork."

They raise their glasses, the crystalline chime echoing against the stone walls.

The Roman air is thick, a heavy velvet that clings to my skin as we emerge from the cellar. Trastevere has woken up in our absence. The narrow cobblestone veins of the district pulse with the shouts of teenagers on scooters and the rhythmic clink of silverware against porcelain.

I stop under the yellow spill of a streetlamp, the wrought iron bracket casting a shadow like a skeletal hand against the stone. Amos and Atticus stop with me. We don’t form a circle; we stand in a loose line, looking out at the Tiber. The river is a ribbon of black ink, reflecting the distorted glimmers of the city.

"My knees feel like they're made of glass," Amos says, stretching his arms toward the dark sky. He doesn’t sound distressed. If anything, the tension that usually bunches his shoulders has dissolved. "You’re a terrifying man to drink with, Max. You make everything sound so... inevitable."

"Logic has that effect," I reply, though I feel anything but clinical. My pulse thrums in my fingertips.

Atticus leans against a crumbling brick wall, his camera bag swinging idly at his side. He looks at the two of us, his gaze lingering on the way the light hits the silver in my hair, then shifting to the casual, rugged stance Amos projects.

"I spent years thinking that if I let anyone in, I’d lose the horizon," Atticus says. He reaches out, clapping Amos on theshoulder before turning that same, steady hand toward me. He shakes my hand—a firm, sudden grip that seals the air. "But the horizon looks better when there’s someone to point at it."

The jealousy hasn't evaporated—I suspect it will always be a low-thrumming frequency we have to tune out—but the jagged edges have been sanded down. I don’t see rivals. I see the pillars of a bridge we are building in the dark.

"We should get back," I say, adjusting my glasses. "She’ll be wondering why we’ve all disappeared at the same time."

As we walk, our footsteps fall into a loose, unhurried rhythm. We move through the shadows of history, three men who should be at odds, yet I find myself checking to ensure they are still beside me. We are no longer just Baleigh’s lovers. We are the keepers of a shared secret, a tripod designed to hold the weight of her heart without breaking. In the silence of the walk, the pact is signed not in ink, but in the stride we keep together.

29

BALEIGH

The golden light of Florence used to feel like a warm invitation, but today the sun hangs heavy and yellow, dripping like melting wax over the terra-cotta rooftops. We are back from the coast, back in the heart of it, yet the city has shifted. The stones of the Piazza della Signoria feel harder under my sandals. The air, once thick with the scent of possibility and roasted espresso, now smells of sun-baked dust and transition.

And dread. A cold, uncertain dread.