Page 9 of Bad Men's Good Girl

The light from the bulbs above feels brighter, sharper. The "safe" path I’ve walked back home suddenly looks less like a duty and more like a debt I never actually signed for. I feel a frantic, electric pulse in my chest—the realization that every door I thought was locked might actually be standing ajar.

The chatter swells as the kitchen door swings open, releasing the scent of seared steak and rosemary. Amid the clink of silverware, Atticus leans toward me, his chair scraping softly against the stone. He doesn’t look at the distractions. Instead, he nods toward the weathered archway leading to the kitchen.

"Look at the lintel," he whispers. "Above the door frame."

I squint through the amber light. Faded symbols are etched into the stone, smoothed by centuries of moisture and touch. "It looks like a bunch of circles?"

"Wine windows," he says, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "During the plague, the noble families sold wine through those little holes to avoid contact. Even in the prime of a disaster, the Italians prioritized the wine. They’ve been finding ways to keep the beauty flowing through the cracks for five hundred years."

He gestures toward the back wall where a small, barred window catches the rising moon. "Most people see a basement. But if you stand right there near the edge of the terrace later, you can see the shadow of the Duomo’s ribs reflected on the glass ofthe neighboring shop. It’s a ghost city, Baleigh. You just have to know which angle to hold your head."

As he talks about the city—not as a map of monuments, but as a living, breathing companion with secrets and scars—the world feels like it’s expanding. With Atticus, curiosity isn't a task; it's a heartbeat. He doesn't just show me Florence; he teaches me how to translate it.

I lean back, my heart thrumming a strange, syncopated rhythm. I scan the table, my gaze snagging on each of them. There is Amos, leaning over a map with a student, his boisterous laugh acting as a safety net that catches everyone in the room. He makes me feel brave enough to jump. Then my eyes drift to Max, who is listening to a professor with a focused, quiet intensity. He makes me see that there is a version of myself worth fighting for—someone sharper, deeper, and more substantial than the girl who left North Carolina.

And then there’s Atticus, who sits beside me like a quiet invitation to look closer, to find the magic in the mundane stones.

The realization is a sudden, cold splash of water. I’m not just looking for a way home anymore. I am looking for them. I am gravitating toward three completely different versions of the future, and my indecision doesn't feel like a weight. It feels just like a storm.

The walk back to the pensione is a slow drift through honey-colored light. The group fragments into smaller clusters, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the narrow via like a rhythmic heartbeat. I linger near the back, my sandals slapping softly against the pavement that still holds the day’s heat.

A week ago, a walk like this would have been an exercise in mental gymnastics. I would have replayed every syllable of dinner, agonizing over whether my laugh was too loud or if my comment about the "cat on the Vespa" sounded childish toa man like Max. I would have checked my phone every five minutes, looking for a tether to North Carolina—a text from my sister, a reminder of the quiet, mapped-out life I’m supposed to return to.

Now, my phone is buried at the bottom of my bag, its battery likely dead and its importance non-existent.

I stop near the Ponte Santa Trinita. The Arno is a ribbon of obsidian tonight, broken only by the shimmering yellow reflections of the streetlamps. I lean my forearms against the cool stone of the bridge’s railing and inhale. The air is ripe with the smell of damp river stone and the lingering perfume of a thousand dinners.

In Raleigh, the sky is giant and open, but here, the buildings lean in close, like they’re whispering secrets. I realized tonight that I didn’t just survive the conversation—I drove it. I challenged Max’s stoic philosophy and matched Amos’s frantic wit. I didn't wait for permission to belong at that table.

The "safe" Baleigh—the one who buys the neutral-toned cardigan because it’s practical and nods along to her mother’s wedding-planning hints—is beginning to feel like a stranger. Or maybe she was always the mask, and this version of me, the one who drinks house wine and debates history with scholars and gazes at ghost-shadows on glass, is the one who was trapped underneath.

Italy isn't just a place I’m visiting; it’s a solvent. It’s dissolving the layers of expectation I’ve worn for twenty-eight years. I stare up at the Duomo’s silhouette in the distance, a massive, dark crown against the stars. The uncertainty of what comes next used to feel like a void. Tonight, looking at the light infused ripples in the water, it seems like an opening. I do not want to go back to being the girl who is afraid of the wrong choice. I want very much to be the girl who makes them all.

6

MAX

The humidity of the Florence morning sticks to the back of my neck, a familiar weight I’ve carried through fifteen years of these excursions. I maneuver the students toward the entrance of the Bargello, my internal clock ticking through the schedule. This is the part where I compete with the siren song of TikTok and the hunt for the nearest espresso bar. I prepare my standard lecture on Donatello, bracing for the glazed expressions of twenty-somethings who view the Renaissance as a series of static, dusty images.

Then I see Baleigh.

She isn't checking her reflection in the glass doors or fidgeting with her camera. She stands at the threshold of the courtyard, her head tilted back, tracing the line of the vaulted arches with a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. While the others clump together in a noisy knot of neon sneakers and chatter, she peels away. She stops before a cluster of weathered coats of arms embedded in the stone walls. Her finger hovers inches from the carved grit, following the silhouette of a stone lion as if she’s trying to pulse-check the fourteenth century.

"The podesta used those to mark their authority," I say, coming up beside her.

She doesn't jump. She just turns that warm, hazel gaze toward me, her freckles bright in the morning sun.

"They’re so heavy," she murmurs. "I keep thinking about the person who had to carve them, knowing they’d stay here long after he was gone. It’s like he left an anchor."

It’s a perspective most of my doctoral candidates miss. They see dates and dynasties; she sees the hands behind the chisel.

Inside the museum, the air cools, smelling of damp stone and wax. I lead the group toward the sculpture galleries, where the David—the slender, bronze version—awaits. Sunlight spears through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like gold leaf over the statues.

"Donatello chose bronze to emphasize the lithe, almost fragile nature of the victor," I explain to the group, pointing out the intricate detail of Goliath’s severed head.

Baleigh isn't looking at the sword. She’s staring into the bronze face of the boy.

"He looks like he’s still deciding if he’s happy he won," she says, voice cutting through the dull hum of the gallery.