Page 58 of Bad Men's Good Girl

We all turn. Baleigh is standing there. Her hair is a mess of golden tangles, her eyes rimmed with the shadows of a sleepless night. She’s clutching her phone, her hands tense. She doesn't look like the terrified girl who arrived just weeks ago. The indecision that usually clouds her gaze has been burned away, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful clarity.

"I didn't send the email," she says, her voice cutting through the bell toll. "I’m not going back."

The camera slips from my grip, saved only by the nylon strap biting into my neck. I don’t catch it. I just stare.

"I sat on my suitcase for three hours," Baleigh says, her breath shaky as she steps fully onto the terrace. "I had the confirmation pulled up for the flight. I had the acceptance letter for the Raleigh firm drafted. I kept telling myself it was the rightmove. The safe move. The move that makes my mother stop worrying."

She swipes a stray blonde lock behind her ear, her hand trembling. Amos takes a half-step toward her, his face a mask of fractured hope, but she holds up a palm.

"I realized I was choosing a coffin," she says. "A nice, mahogany, air-conditioned coffin in North Carolina. I spent twenty-eight years being afraid of the 'what if.' But standing in that room, looking at my bags, the only thing that terrified me was the thought of never seeing any of you again. I called them ten minutes ago. I turned it down."

The wind whistles through the stone balustrades. A pigeon flaps lazily off a nearby ledge. Usually, the city is a roar of distant scooters and shouts, but now, it’s like someone hit a kill-switch on the world.

Max drops the manila folder. It hits the terracotta tiles with a dull thud, the papers sliding out—the prestigious title, the salary, the accolades—now just litter. He looks at her like she’s a miracle he hasn’t quite figured out how to believe in. Beside him, Amos’s phone vibrates against his thigh, but he doesn't even glance at it. He just breathes, a long, shuddering exhale that seems to purge weeks of exhaustion.

I feel the weight of my camera against my chest, heavy and real. For years, I’ve stayed in Italy because it was easier than facing a future with someone else. I built a fortress out of cobblestones and shutter speeds. Now, the walls are dissolving.

The silence stretches, taut as a wire. We aren't mourning a departure anymore. We’re standing on the very edge of a cliff, looking at the drop, and nobody is reaching for a parachute. The impossible geometry of us—four people, three continents, and a thousand complications—suddenly has a center point.

"You're staying," I whisper. It isn't a question. It’s an anchor.

Max takes a step forward, his boot grinding the corner of his abandoned contract into the tile. He doesn’t look at the paper. His gaze is fixed on Baleigh as if she’s the only fixed point in a shifting landscape.

"I spent four hours last night staring at the London signature line," Max says. His voice has lost the polished, academic resonance he uses in the lecture halls; it’s raw, stripped of the armor. "I had the pen in my hand. I was ready to trade everything we’ve found here for a title and a mahogany desk. I told myself it was for my legacy. But standing there, I realized I’ve spent twenty years building a legacy I’m too tired to enjoy."

He reaches out, his fingers grazing Baleigh’s arm before he pulls back, a hesitant, grounding touch.

"I’m not taking the chair," he continues. "I called the provost an hour ago. I told them I’d consult. Remote collaboration, visiting scholar status—they can have my brain for six months of the year, but they can’t have my life. I’m choosing the uncertainty, Baleigh. Finally, I’m okay with not knowing exactly what the five-year plan looks like."

A short, sharp bark of a laugh erupts from Amos. He’s leaning against the chimney stack, his phone dangling from two fingers like a piece of shore-washed plastic. He looks at us, shaking his head, a grin breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

"Unbelievable," Amos mutters. He holds up the device, the screen dark at last. "I almost did it. I nearly boarded a plane to Tokyo because I was too proud to admit I’m sick of living out of a carry-on. I’ve been pitching myself as the guy who thrives on the move, but I was just running away from the quiet."

He walks over, closing the distance until we’re a tight, jagged circle under the rising sun.

"I contacted the board before the sun was even up," Amos says, his smile widening into something genuine andmischievous. "I told them I wasn't their relocated man. I proposed a restructure—a roving regional role. I’d be based here, coordinating the European hubs, instead of disappearing into a corporate office in Shinjuku. I thought they’d laugh. They didn't. They just asked when I could start the transition."

The sunlight hits the Duomo as a blinding, white-hot glare, but for once, I don’t raise my lens to filter the world. I watch them—Max, solid and unburdened; Amos, finally rooted; and Baleigh, the girl who broke the internal clock I’ve lived by for a decade. All three of them just threw their safety nets into the Arno.

I’m the last one standing on the ledge, clutching a fortress made of solitude.

My throat feels like it’s been scraped with glass. For years, I told myself Italy was my home, but it was just a beautiful cage I used to keep the rest of the world at bay. If I didn’t stay long enough to be missed, I couldn’t be abandoned. If I never shared my bed or my secrets, I could never lose them.

“I’m staying too,” I say, the words sounding foreign and heavy in the morning air.

Baleigh turns to me, her eyes searching mine for the catch, the distance I usually retreat into. I don’t look away.

“I told myself I stayed here because I loved the light or the history,” I tell her, my voice low. “But I stayed because I was terrified of wanting something I couldn’t control. Seeing all of you... seeing you choose this, it makes my independence feel like a lie. I’m not afraid of the commitment. I’m afraid that if I let myself believe I deserve a future with all of you, the universe is going to realize its mistake and take it back.”

I reach out, my hand steady as I touch Baleigh’s cheek, then I look at Max and Amos. The rivalry that used to simmer beneath our skin has cooled into a strange, ironclad brotherhood.

“But I’d rather lose it all than spend another morning alone on this roof,” I finish.

The weight in my chest doesn't disappear; it just changes shape. It becomes something shared. We aren’t talking about flight times or luggage weights anymore. Amos starts talking about a villa on the outskirts—somewhere with enough space for a darkroom and a library. Max mentions the logistical intricacies of his consulting, and Baleigh is already Pulling up her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, not to look at tickets, but to look at possibilities.

I don’t have a departure date. We’re standing above the world, and we’re finally building something that isn't meant to be packed away.

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