Page 46 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I watch a group of our students huddle near the Neptune fountain. They aren't sketching or debating Renaissance politics anymore. They’re lining up for "one last" selfie, their faces frantic as they try to capture the exact angle of the Duomo. Sahrie, a girl who spent the first three weeks complaining about the lack of iced coffee, is now clutching a leather-bound journal to her chest like it’s a religious relic. She looks at the statues with a desperate, wide-eyed hunger, trying to memorize the curvature of marble before the plane ticket in her pocket becomes a reality.

The clock on the Palazzo Vecchio doesn't just chime the hour; it counts down.

Back in the program office, the usual hum of academic inquiry has been replaced by the frantic rustle of bubble wrap and the screech of packing tape. Amos’s desk is buried under a mountain of flight itineraries and rail passes.

"I can’t believe I’m actually going to see my dog in four days," one boy says, leaning against the doorframe. He’s radiant, already halfway across the Atlantic in his mind. "I’m going straight to get a burger. A real, massive, greasy burger."

"I’ve got an internship interview forty-eight hours after I land," another girl adds, her voice a mix of terror and pride. "Back to the grind. This has been a dream, but real life is calling, right?"

Every mention of a luggage weight limit or a connecting flight through de Gaulle feels like a physical blow to my sternum. I stare at the stack of brochures in front of me, the colors blurred. For them, this is a chapter with a clear, defined period at the end. They are returning to lives that fit them like comfortable old shoes.

I look down at my hands. They’ve spent the summer entwined with Max’s, gripping Atticus’s camera bag, and hanging onto the back of Amos’s Vespa. I don’t want a burger. I don’t want a predictable life in North Carolina. The thought of my bedroom back home—the floral duvet, the quiet street, the expectations of my parents—sends a cold shiver through the heat of the afternoon.

"Leigh? You okay?"

I look up to see a student holding out a stack of exit surveys. I force a smile, but my jaw aches. The sand is slipping through the hourglass, and I’m the only one trying to plug the narrow neck with my fingers.

The marble steps of the university feel cooler than usual against my skin as Max and I share a cardboard tray of espressos. He’s talking about the final grading rubrics, his voicea steady, low hum that usually grounds me, but today I’m hyper-focused on the way the steam curls around his salt-and-pepper hair. I watch the precise movement of his fingers as he adjusts his glasses. I want to memorize the exact shade of his eyes when the overhead sun hits them—a deep, vibrant amber.

"Baleigh? You've been staring at that sugar packet for three minutes."

I blink, forcing a laugh that feels thin in my throat. "Just enjoying the quiet."

I carry that tightness in my chest into the afternoon staff meeting. Amos is leaning back in his chair, feet propped on a stack of crate manifests, spinning a pen between his knuckles. He catches my eye and winks, mouths a joke about a student who tried to mail a gallon of olive oil home in a cardboard box. His grin is crooked and effortless, the same reckless light that pulled me out of my shell weeks ago. I find myself leaning toward him, desperate to soak up his warmth, terrified that in a few days, this proximity will be replaced by pixels on a phone screen.

Later, Atticus finds me near the Arno. We don't speak; we just walk. The shadows of the buildings stretch long and jagged across the water. He stops to frame a shot of an old woman feeding pigeons, his movements fluid and silent. I linger a step behind him, watching the way he carries himself—independent, yet now so inextricably linked to my own rhythm. I want to reach out and grab his sleeve, to anchor myself to this cobblestone street, to this man, to this version of myself that doesn't feel afraid.

The spell breaks back at the office. I sit at the laptop to verify the final departure manifest. My name is at the top of the list.

Flight AZ610. Florence to Rome. Rome to Charlotte.

The font is clean, clinical, and utterly devastating. There it is, rendered in black and white: the exact moment I cease tobe the woman who fell in love in Italy and return to being the girl from the small town. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin to breathe. The flight number looks like a countdown to an execution. My vision blurs as the reality I’ve been ignoring crashes through my chest—the clock isn't just ticking; it’s almost finished.

I minimize the departure manifest window until the screen is nothing but a generic screensaver of a rolling vineyard. The blue light feels like an interrogation. I can't look at the dates. To look is to concede that the calendar has power over us.

"We need to go over the logistics for the equipment return," Max says, stepping into the office with a clipboard tucked under one arm. He sits on the edge of the desk, his presence a heavy, comforting weight. "And then, Baleigh, we should probably look at that list of faculty openings I found in the States. There’s one in D.C. that aligns perfectly with?—"

"Did you see the gelato line at Perchè No? Today?" I interrupt, my voice jumping an octave. I stand up so quickly my chair wheels backward and hits the radiator with a dullthwack. "It was wrapped twice around the block. We should go before they close. It’s the last day for the peach sorbet."

Max’s expression doesn't shift, but his eyes soften in a way that makes my skin prickle. He sets the clipboard down on the desk, right on top of my laptop. "The sorbet can wait twenty minutes. If we don’t talk about the transition now, the logistics are going to get messy. We need a plan for when?—"

"Amos!" I call out, waving my hand as he walks past the doorway. "Amos, tell Max about the olive oil disaster again. The one with the cardboard box."

Amos stops, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He looks from my wide, frantic eyes to Max’s sternly patient face. He doesn't launch into a joke. Instead, he lets out a slow breathand walks over, resting a hand on the small of my back. The heat of his palm seeps through my linen dress.

"Hey, easy," he murmurs, his usual reckless energy replaced by a terrifyingly gentle focus. "You're vibrating like a tuning fork, Leigh."

"I'm fine. I just want to eat and walk. Can't we just have one night where we don't talk about schedules?" I grab my purse, my fingers fumbling with the strap.

Atticus appears in the doorway, his Leica hanging from his neck. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to; he simply watches me, his gaze tracing the tension in my shoulders. He sidesteps into the room and leans against the wall, closing the distance between us without a word.

"The flight is Friday, Baleigh," Max says, his voice low and unwavering.

"Friday is a world away," I snap, already halfway to the door. "In Italy, that's practically an eternity."

I keep walking, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the tiles. I don't look back to see them exchanging looks. I don't want to see the pity or the pragmatism. I just want the sun to stay hung in the sky, exactly where it is, forever.

The limestone bridge feels like a heat sink against my palms. Below, the Arno is a ribbon of molten bronze, shimmering under the weight of an August sunset that refuses to go quietly. The sky doesn't just change color; it bleeds. Deep shades of violet and burning gold spill over the terracotta horizon, turning the Duomo into a jagged silhouette that looks less like a landmark and more like a fortress I’m being evicted from.