Page 52 of Bad Men's Good Girl

The Mediterranean wind picks up, tugging at the edge of the tablecloth. I set my wine glass down, the condensation slick against my palm. The silence of the terrace is heavy, waiting for me to add my own departure to the pile of exit strategies.

"I’m staying," I say. My voice is flatter than I intend, cutting through the salt-soaked air.

Baleigh looks up, her hazel eyes searching mine for the punchline that isn't coming. Amos stops swirling the remains of his red wine.

"My bags aren't packed," I continue, gesturing with a thumb toward the darkening hallway behind me. "I spent twelve years drifting through train stations and sleeping in hostels because I was afraid of the very thing I’ve found here. This house, the neighbor who knows how I take my coffee, the way the light hits the harbor at six in the morning—this isn't a layover. It’s become my life."

I reach across the table, covering Baleigh’s hand with mine. "I love you, Baleigh. I love what we’ve become. But I can't dismantle a decade’s worth of foundations because the calendar says the season is over. I finally stopped running. I can't start again."

The confession hangs in the air, a beautiful, jagged thing. Baleigh’s fingers tremble under mine.

"So that's it?" she asks, her voice cracking. "We just... go? I go back to a windowless office in Raleigh and pretend this was a dream? I’ve spent my whole life being 'safe,' and the one time I choose a risk, the world pulls us in four different directions."

"It’s not just a risk, Leigh. It's our futures," Max says, his tone weary. He looks at me, then at Amos. "I’ve spent twenty years building the credentials for a fellowship like the one in London.If I walk away now, I’m not just losing a job; I’m losing the only identity I’ve ever known."

"And what about me?" Amos snaps, the usual humor gone from his face. "I’m the guy who’s always okay, right? But for the first time, I have a chance at a leadership role that actually matters. I’ve earned that seat. Am I supposed to throw away my career to follow you to Raleigh? Or you to London? Or stay here and watch Atticus take photos of a life I’m only visiting?"

"Nobody should have to choose," Baleigh whispers, looking at the three of us.

"But the world doesn't work that way," I reply. "And we’re out of time."

The dinner plates are cold, the remains of the wine staining the bottom of the crystal like dark ink. Inside, the house murmurs with the sounds of drawers clicking shut and the low, rhythmic hum of Max and Amos debating something in the kitchen. Baleigh’s shadow flickers against the yellow light of the guest room window. They are retreating into the safety of walls, but I stay pinned to the iron chair, the chill of the Mediterranean night finally puncturing my skin.

Below the terrace, the sea is a rhythmic beast, lunging and retreating against the jagged limestone of the cliff side. That sound used to be my lullaby, a constant reminder that the tide always goes out and nothing ever truly sticks. I lived by that rhythm. I built my career on the beauty of the temporary—the perfect light on a ruin, the fleeting smile of a stranger, the backpack that held everything I owned.

I look through the glass door at the trio of them. Max is leaning against the stone counter, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he stares at the floor. Amos is moving with a frantic energy, clearing the table because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. Baleigh steps into the frame, her haira golden halo in the lamplight, and the sight of her makes my lungs seize.

The irony is a bitter sediment in my throat. I spent years terrified that someone would ask me to stay, crafting an identity out of departures and blurred horizons. Now, I have the house. I have the keys. I have the roots I swore I never wanted. And the three people who finally made this space feel like more than a curated gallery are about to be pulled away by the very thing I used to worship: the next destination.

There is no map for this. No travel guide covers the geography of a heart split into three distinct, impossible directions. If I follow them, I lose the self I finally found in these hills. If I stay, these rooms will feel like a tomb of what could have been. I watch Baleigh turn off the kitchen light, and for the first time in my life, the road ahead isn't a line. It's a cliff.

34

BALEIGH

The Mediterranean shouldn’t look like this. I stare through the salt-crusted glass of the bedroom window, watching a charcoal sky bleed into a slate sea. The vibrant turquoise that defined my summer has been swallowed by a thick, suffocating gray. Usually, the sound of waves hitting the limestone cliffs feels like a heartbeat, but this morning, the rhythm is a gavel.Stay. Go. Stay. Go.

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the map of my life unfolding like a choose-your-own-adventure book where every ending was a tragedy. If I take the promotion in Raleigh, I’m the girl who retreated to the safety of her cage. If I follow Max to London, I’m a shadow in the halls of academia. If I drift with Amos, I’m a nomad without a compass. And if I stay here with Atticus, I’m a tourist overstaying her welcome in a paradise that belongs to someone else.

The fearless woman who jumped on a Vespa and tasted the salt of the Ligurian air feels like a stranger now. That version of Baleigh was a temporary construction, a summer house built on sand. As I pull a thick cardigan over my shoulders to ward off the morning chill, the old Baleigh—the one who weighs every riskuntil it turns to lead—is firmly back in the pilot’s seat. My chest tightens with a familiar, localized panic. Uncertainty used to be an adventure; now, it’s just a lack of air.

The floorboards groan under my feet as I head for the kitchen. Yesterday, this house smelled of lemons and expensive tobacco, but today it just smells of burnt chicory and unspoken endings.

Atticus stands at the stove, his back a rigid line as he watches the moka pot hiss. He doesn’t turn when I enter. Amos is at the small wooden table, meticulously peeling an orange, his movements so deliberate he might be performing surgery. He doesn’t look up. Max is by the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes fixed on the harbor below as if the ferry schedules hold the answers to our lives.

The clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug sounds like a gunshot in the vacuum of the room. We are all performing the choreography of a normal morning, but the air is thick enough to choke on. We are waiting for the first person to crack, for the first one to admit that the beautiful, impossible thing we built on the terrace last night is already starting to crumble.

The moka pot gives a final, desperate sputter. Atticus removes it from the heat, his knuckles gripping the handle. I can't look at them. If I look at Max’s discerning eyes or the way Amos is slumped in his chair, I’ll lose the script. I fix my gaze on a chip in the ceramic tile and force the words out.

"I called my parents before the sun came up."

The orange peel in Amos’s hand pauses mid-spiral. Max doesn't turn, but his shoulders tense.

"I called the Dean back. I accepted the position in Raleigh."

The quiet that follows is heavy, a physical weight pressing against my lungs. I start talking faster, the logic pouring out of me like a defensive wall I’m building brick by brick.

"It’s the smart move. The salary is nearly twenty percent higher than what I was making, and the benefits package is incredible. It’s a permanent track, guys. Stability. Long-term security. I won't have to worry about where the next contract is coming from or how to pay for health insurance."