Page 22 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"She's plotting her escape," Amos chimes in, letting his chair thud back onto all four legs. He reaches over, his knuckles brushing my arm as he tops off my glass. "I can see the gears grinding. Don't go back to the list, Leigh. The list is boring."

Max turns back from his conversation, his expression softening as he catches my eye. "There is no 'after' yet, Baleigh. There is only this table."

I look at them, and a terrifying, electric heat blooms in my chest. This isn't just a crush or a travel-induced haze. It’s a tectonic shift. The version of me that lived in North Carolina—the one who was satisfied with mild weather and safe choices—is gone, buried under layers of Tuscan soil and purple grape skins.

I realize, with a jolt that makes my hands tremble, that I’ve stopped being afraid of making the wrong choice. I’m afraid of having to make a choice at all. Each of them has become a tether, and the thought of the summer's end feels like a cliff I’m being forced to walk toward. I can’t imagine a version of my life where I don't hear Max’s challenges, feel Amos’s energy, or see myself through Atticus’s lens.

The lights above us sway in the breeze, casting long, sweeping shadows across the vineyard. I take a long sip of the wine, the tartness hitting my tongue, and I don't look for the exit. I just look at them.

And I really, really like what I see.

14

ATTICUS

The air at four in the morning tastes of ancient stone and damp river mist. Florence doesn't sleep; it pauses, exhaling the exhaust of a million tourists to make room for the scent of yeast and espresso.

I wait by the heavy iron gate of the student residence, checking the shutter speed on my Leica. A soft click of a lock and then Baleigh appears. She wears a thick sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy knot that probably took three minutes but looks like art. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, tracing the orange glow of the street lamps reflecting off the cobblestones.

"I didn't think four a.m. actually existed," she whispers, her voice a low husk that vibrates in the quiet.

"It’s the only time the city belongs to itself." I hand her the spare Fuji. "Ready to see the guts of the place?"

We move through the narrow alleys of the Oltrarno. There are no crowds, no selfie sticks. Just the rhythmicthrum-thrumof a delivery truck and the distant clang of a metal shutter rising. We walk in a comfortable silence, our footsteps echoing against the plastered walls. I usually prefer this solitude—it’s mymeditation—but having her beside me feels like a missing frame finally clicking into a reel.

"Smell that?" I ask, pausing outside a nondescript door with flour-dusted edges.

She inhales deeply, a smile spreading across her face. "Fresh bread. It’s like a hug."

Inside, three men in white singlets move like dancers. I show Baleigh how to stay in the shadows, how to let them forget we’re there. I expect her to focus on the golden crusts or the dramatic lighting of the ovens. Instead, through my own viewfinder, I see her lens tilted toward the oldest baker. He’s pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, a brief moment of exhaustion and pride in the curve of his shoulders.

Later, at the flower market, she ignores the sweeping rows of sunflowers. She waits until a vendor hands a single, wilted rose to a stray cat, her finger clicking the shutter at the exact moment of contact.

"You're not looking at the geometry," I say, leaning in close to see the preview on her screen.

"The lines are pretty," she says, her eyes bright. "But look at his face. He’s been here since three, and he still has enough kindness for a cat."

I look at her, not the screen. Most people try to master the light. Baleigh captures the heartbeat. It’s an instinct you can’t manufacture—a raw, empathetic lens that makes the world feel smaller and warmer than it has any right to be.

The sun bleeds a pale violet over the Arno. We sit at a tiny zinc table outside a café that hasn’t yet put out its chairs. The barista, a man with skin like parchment, sets two tiny cups of liquid obsidian between us and retreats into the shadows of the bar.

Baleigh cradles the warm ceramic, her gaze drifting to the camera resting on my lap.

"You're always framing things," she says, voice soft, competing only with the rush of the river. "Even when you’re just sitting there. I see your eyes darting, measuring the light. Do you ever just... exist in the scene without trying to capture it?"

"If I don’t capture it, it’s gone," I say, though the defense feels flimsy this morning. "The camera is a shield. It gives me a reason to be in the room without having to beofthe room."

"Is that why there are no photos of you in your portfolio? I looked you up, you know. Plenty of ruins, plenty of strangers. Zero Atticus." She tilts her head. "Are you hiding, or just incredibly modest?"

I stir a sugar cube into my espresso, watching the dark swirl. Usually, I’d crack a joke about my face ruining the composition. But the stillness of the city has stripped away my usual armor.

"Neither, maybe." I gaze at the water. "My father wanted me to run the firm. Three generations of Belmonts in one office. When I left for Europe, I promised I’d be back by autumn. That was twelve years ago."

Baleigh stays quiet, letting the confession settle.

"They stopped asking after year five," I continue, surprised by the sudden ache in my throat. "The postcards got shorter. My sister’s kids don't know my voice, just the stamps on the envelopes. It’s easier to stay behind the lens because if I’m the one looking, I don’t have to see what I’ve walked away from."

I look up, expecting pity or a practical suggestion on how to fix it—the kind of advice people give when they have deep roots. Instead, she reaches out, her thumb grazing the back of my hand. Her skin is warm against the morning chill.