Page 57 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I said yes because I didn’t like the silence that comes after an explanation. I was afraid of the look on my mother’s face when I told her I didn’t want to choose between three men, or that I didn't want to come back to a world where my biggest thrill was a weekend at the lake.

The promotion wasn't a victory. It was a camouflage. I was using a "career move" to hide the fact that I am fundamentally changed, broken in the best possible way, and utterly unfit for the life they've prepared for me. I chose the safe path because I didn't have the spine to tell the people I love that I prefer the precarious one.

The realization is a cold splash of water. Every "responsible" choice I’ve made in my life has been a form of disappearing. This wasn't ambition. It was the ultimate act of cowardice.

The sky over the Duomo shifts from a bruised violet to a pale, watery rose. I watch the light catch the terra-cotta tiles of the roofs, a slow awakening that feels like a mirrors of the cooling of my own skin. The adrenaline of my realization has settled into a hard, cold resolve.

I turn back to the bed. The suitcase sits there, half-filled with the relics of the girl I used to be. I reach out and pull the lid shut.

The latch clicks, but I don't pull the zipper. I don't lock it. I don't seal the bargain.

Instead, I walk back to the desk. I pick up my phone and open the group chat with my family. The messages are still rolling in, a constant stream of "we can't wait" and "so proud." My thumb hovers over the screen. For twenty-eight years, I have lived my life as a series of polite nods and avoided confrontations. I have been the smooth surface for everyone else’s expectations.

I delete the draft I’d started earlier—the one thanking them for the townhome lead.

"I’m staying."

My breath hitches as I type the two words. I don’t send it yet. I need to say it to the city first.

I step out onto the tiny stone balcony, the morning air nipping at my bare shoulders. Florence is waking up. A delivery truck rattles over the cobbles; the smell of fresh espresso begins to drift from the bar on the corner.

I don't feel like a guest. I don’t feel like I’m on a clock, counting down the seconds until I have to return to the real world. Thisisthe real world. The version with the granite counters was just a set piece.

Max, Amos, Atticus.

The thought of them doesn't bring the usual pang of panic. I don’t know how we’ll make it work. I don't know who moves where or how four lives bridge the gap between continents and careers. The future is a chaotic, blurred map with no legend.

And it’s beautiful.

I rest my hands on the iron railing. I am done being the "responsible" one if responsibility means living a life that feels like a suit three sizes too small. I am done letting fear have a seat at the table.

"I’m staying," I whisper to the rising sun.

The suitcase can stay unzipped. I have three men to find and a life to claim before the city fully wakes.

38

ATTICUS

The shutter clicks, but the frame feels empty. I adjust the focal length, trying to capture the way the dawn light bleeds into the crevices of the Duomo’s dome, staining the marble a honeyed gold. Usually, this is where I find my peace—in the quiet geometry of a city before the tourists wake to ruin it.

Today, the lens feels like a barrier.

The morning bells of Santa Maria del Fiore begin their toll, a heavy, rhythmic heartbeat that vibrates through my boots. My early career was all departures. I know the choreography of the final day: the checked luggage, the forced smiles, the hollow promises to email. I tell myself this is just another assignment ending, but my fingers are clumsy on the camera dial. My stomach is a knot of cold lead.

The rooftop door creaks behind me. I don’t turn around. I know the gait.

Max leans against the parapet a few feet away. He isn't looking at the view. He’s staring at a manila folder clutched in his hand—the fellowship offer from the States. The edges arecrimped where his thumb has been digging into the paper. He looks like a man holding his own death warrant.

"Beautiful morning," Max says, though his voice is sandpaper.

"Standard Florence," I reply, keeping my eye pressed to the viewfinder. "Good lighting for a funeral."

Another set of footsteps, faster and less precise, announces Amos. He’s got a travel mug in one hand and his phone in the other. Even from here, I can see the notifications lighting up his screen like a distress signal—headquarters demanding an answer on the new assignment. He doesn't look like the man who laughed his way through a Vespa crash. He looks gray, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a life spent in transit.

We stand there in a jagged line, three men waiting for the clock to run out. The silence is thick, suffocating and sharp with everything we aren't saying. I want to tell them I’m staying, but what does it matter if the epicenter of the world is flying back to North Carolina in four hours?

The door hinges groan again.