Bad Men’s Good Girl

1. Baleigh

BALEIGH

Mom pulls at the strap of my carry-on, her knuckles white. The sterile airport air tastes like jet fuel and floor wax.

"Six weeks in a country where you don’t speak the language, Leigh. It’s... impulsive. You have a life here. People who need you."

I force a smile, ignoring the jittery rhythm of my heart against my ribs.

"The office approved the sabbatical, Mom. It's just a program assistant role. I’m helping students, not joining the circus."

Dad places a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, shielding a private sort of pride. He leans in, his voice dropping below the roar of the Departure terminal announcements.

"Most folks spend their lives building walls to stay safe. Sometimes the best decisions are the ones that make your skin crawl with nerves. Go find whatever it is you’re looking for."

The TSA line swallows me. I glance back once.

They look small against the glass and steel of the terminal, two anchors I’ve spent years tethered to.

As the metal detector beeps at the woman in front of me, a cold realization settles in my gut.

No one is here to tell me which gate to walk toward or what to order for dinner.

The safety net didn't just tear; I jumped off it.

Thirteen hours of recycled air and cabin pressure later, the North Atlantic is a sheet of dark slate beneath the wing. My reflection in the plexiglass looks tired. My eyes seem more brown than green in the dim reading light.

I think about the planner sitting on my desk back home.

Every Saturday for the next three months is marked with a bridal shower or a gender reveal.

I see the face of the guy I dated for two years—a man who thought "adventure" meant trying the spicy salsa at the local cantina.

I almost married that version of safety.

I almost chose the beige walls and the predictable promotion and the slow, comfortable suffocating of my own curiosity.

I’ve spent my entire life saying no to anything that couldn't be quantified on a spreadsheet.

Every risk I declined felt like a win for common sense.

Now, watching the sun begin to bleed gold over a distant horizon, the "safe" path feels like a tomb I barely escaped.

I don't know if this trip is a mistake, but I don't care.

The plane tilts, dipping a wing toward a landscape of undulating velvet.

These aren’t the jagged, blue-misted peaks of the Blue Ridge.

These hills roll in soft waves of sage and ochre, dotted with cypress trees that stand like thin, dark exclamation points against the sky.

As we drop lower, the sprawl of Florence reveals itself—a sea of terracotta tiles baked to a dusty rose, punctuated by the massive, sun-bleached dome of the Duomo.

Gravity pulls me into the seat as the tires bite the tarmac. My lungs Tighten.

The cabin door swings open and the air rushes in.

It isn't the humid, heavy blanket of a North Carolina July. This heat feels ancient. It carries the sharp tang of roasted espresso beans, the metallic scent of sun-warmed stone, and a sweet, floral perfume I can’t name.

I step onto the stairs, shielding my eyes.

The light here is different, more gold than yellow, washing over the terminal in a way that makes every shadow look intentional.

"Baleigh! Over here!"

I spot the program director, Matthew, waving a laminated sign near a line of white vans. He looks exactly like his LinkedIn profile—linen shirt, expensive spectacles, and the bored expression of someone who lives in a museum.

I climb into the back of a van filled with college juniors.

They’re already shouting over each other, swapping stories about summer internships in London or backpacking trips through the Alps.

One girl with a nose ring and a vintage camera doesn't even look out the window. She’s busy scrolling through a translation app, her thumb moving with a casual speed that makes my throat dry.

The van lurches into traffic, and my knuckles turn white.

Motorbikes swarm us like angry hornets, weaving inches from our bumper with a fearless, chaotic rhythm.

We turn onto a street so narrow the stone walls almost brush the mirrors.

Every few seconds, the deep, vibrating bronze of a church bell drowns out the engine.

Italian phrases fly through the open windows—rapid-fire, melodic, and completely impenetrable.

I stare at the postcards that come to life. Statues of marble giants stand in plazas; laundry hangs like festive flags from wrought-iron balconies. At home, I know every pothole on Main Street. Here, I don't even know how to hail a taxi or ask for a glass of water without sounding like a tourist.

The girl with the nose ring laughs at something Matthew says in fluent Italian. She belongs here. They all do. I’m just a girl from a small town who packed too many sundresses and far too much hope.

The keys to the apartment are long, jagged pieces of iron that look like they belong in a dungeon.

I struggle with the lock for three minutes, the heavy oak door finally yielding with a groan that echoes through the marble hallway.

My room is small, smelling of lemon wax and old paper, with a ceiling so high the shadows get lost in the rafters.

I collapse onto the thin mattress. The silence here is heavy. Back home, the crickets and the distant hum of the interstate provide a constant soundtrack. Here, there is only the rhythmic drip of a faucet and the thrum of blood in my ears.

What are you doing, Leigh?

The question claws at my throat. I’m a program assistant for a language I don’t speak, in a city where the maps look like tangled spaghetti. I reach for my phone and dial home.

"Honey? You made it!" Mom’s voice is clear, a lifeline across the ocean. In the background, I hear the familiar whistle of the tea kettle and the muffled commentary of a baseball game on the TV.

"I'm here," I whisper, blinking at the peeling plaster on the ceiling. "The apartment is... rustic."

"We'll miss you at the Saturday BBQ tomorrow. Sarie’s bringing that potato salad you like. It isn't too late to come back if it’s too much, you know. Nobody would blame you."

The comfort of her voice is a snare. I can almost smell the charcoal smoke and the honeysuckle. I could be there in twenty hours. I could stay in the world where I know exactly how every conversation ends.

"I have to go, Mom. I’m just tired."

I hang up before the tears can blur my vision. I can’t spend my first night in Italy crying into a polyester pillow. I splash cold water on my face, pull on my denim jacket, and step back out into the humid evening.

The air in the Piazza della Signoria is rich with the aroma of grilled meat and expensive tobacco. I find a tiny storefront with a sign that says Gelateria.

"Prendo... uh... fragola?" I point a shaking finger at the pale pink tub.

The server, a teenager with slicked-back hair, gives me a look that is part pity, part impatience.

"Coppetta o cono?"

"Cone? Yes. Cono."

He hands me the wafer topped with a frozen swirl. I hand over a crumpled five-euro note, and for a second, our fingers brush.

"Grazie," I say.

"Prego."

He turns to the next customer, but I’m beaming. I did it. I exchanged currency for sustenance without a panic attack.

I wander away from the bright lights of the main square, turning down an alleyway where the cobblestones are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. I make a left, then a right, guided by the sound of an accordion. For a moment, the landmarks disappear. I’m lost in a labyrinth of ochre walls.

Instead of panic, a strange spark ignites in my chest.

I fetch up at a low stone wall overlooking the Arno River.

The water reflects the city like liquid copper.

Couples sit on the bridge, legs dangling over the edge, sharing bottles of wine as the sun dips behind the Ponte Vecchio.

No one is checking a schedule. No one is worried about the "practical path. "

I take a bite of the gelato. It’s tart and cold, blooming on my tongue. The world feels wide, terrifying, and completely open.

The gold hues of the afternoon deepen into a bruised purple, the kind of sky that feels heavy with centuries of secrets.

I find a stone ledge near the Piazzale Michelangelo, high enough to watch the city breathe.

From here, Florence looks like a treasure chest spilled open across the valley.

The Duomo sits in the center, a massive heart of marble and brick, pulsing with the setting sun.

I should be terrified. I don't know the way back to my apartment without a digital map, and my phone battery is hovering at a treacherous twelve percent. Back home, this scenario would have triggered a calculated retreat to the nearest familiar landmark. I’d be calling a taxi, apologizing to my parents for the lack of a check-in, and retreating to the safety of a locked room.

But as the wind catches the loose strands of my hair, I feel a sudden, sharp disgust for that version of myself.

I think about the last ten years. I see them as a series of beige rooms and polite nods.

I see a girl who chose the job she didn’t want because it was stable, and the men she didn't love because they were kind. I’ve spent my youth standing in a doorway, watching the party from the hall, too afraid of the "wrong" choice to make any choice at all.

Standing still is just a slower way of dying.

The bells of the San Miniato al Monte begin to toll, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the stone beneath my palms. It feels almost like a summons. I study my hands—unlined, capable, and currently trembling.

"No more," I whisper to the terracotta rooftops.

For the next six weeks, I won't be the girl who calculates the risk. I won't be the one who asks for permission or looks for the exit sign before she enters a room. I’m going to make mistakes. I’m going to get lost. I’m going to order the wrong thing and stumble over my verbs and probably embarrass myself in three different languages.

I make the vow right there, the stone wall serving as my altar. I will say yes. To the invitations I would normally decline, to the food I can't pronounce, and to the version of Baleigh Butler that doesn't need a safety net to breathe.

I stand up and turn away from the view, walking toward the darkening streets with my head held high. The uncertainty doesn't feel like a weight. It feels almost like an open door.