2. Amos
AMOS
The espresso machine in the faculty lounge screams like a jet engine, but it’s the only thing keeping my eyes open.
"Amos! The van from Peretola is stuck in a ditch near Prato," Maria shouts, waving a clipboard as if it’s a distress signal.
"Nobody’s hurt, right?" I grab a stack of orientation folders and shove them under my arm. "The driver probably tried the ‘shortcut’ near the vineyard again. Call Gianni. Tell him to send the backup shuttle and remind the students that a ditch is just an unscheduled scenic photo-op."
"And the boy from Chicago? His luggage is in Munich. He’s crying near the statue of Dante."
"Give him my spare sweatshirt and tell him Dante went through hell with less than a carry-on. I’ll track the tags after the welcome lecture."
I duck under a low stone archway, my boots clicking against the medieval flags.
This building was a convent once. Now, it’s a pressure cooker for nineteen-year-olds with fresh passports.
I hit the stairs three at a time, intercepting a frantic housing coordinator who looks ready to quit.
She’s clutching a stack of missing lease agreements for the Via dei Servi apartments.
"I’ve got the digital copies on my cloud, Sofia. Breathe." I wink, and her shoulders drop an inch. "I’ll print them while the students are doing their walking tours. Buy yourself a cornetto. I’m buying."
I step into the main courtyard just as the heavy oak doors groan open.
Sunlight floods the stone, catching the dust particles and the wide, terrified eyes of forty American students.
I’m the fixer. The tour guide. The honorary older brother.
The man who knows which pharmacy sells the good blister pads and which bars won't overcharge for a negroni.
"Welcome to the best mistake of your lives!" I call out, my voice booming against the frescoes.
The crowd shifts toward me like iron filings to a magnet.
Parents corner me with questions about water filters; a girl in a North Carolina sweatshirt asks about the nearest ATM.
I answer everyone, laughing at the right moments, projecting a brand of relentless, sun-drenched optimism that I can pilot in my sleep.
But as I hand out maps, a familiar, hollow ache settles behind my ribs. I’ve spent nearly a decade anchoring other people’s adventures. I build the nests, I patch the wings, and then I watch them fly home while I reset the clock for the next batch. I'm a permanent fixture in a temporary world.
"Amos, what’s next?" a student asks, leaning in.
"Next? We find you a home," I say, the easy smile sliding into place. "That's what I do."
The humidity clings to the courtyard, smelling of old stone and roasted coffee. I filter through a stack of housing assignments, my thumb flicking the corners as I scan the crowd for the stragglers. That’s when I see her.
Heaven help me.
She stands near a marble pillar, a splash of soft fabric and golden highlights against the gray masonry.
She’s tall enough to be noticed but keeps her shoulders tucked, a practiced posture of someone trying to take up the least amount of space possible.
She’s wearing a sundress that looks like it belongs in a postcard, and she’s smiling—a bright, brave expression intended to fool the world.
It doesn’t fool me.
She’s strangling the strap of her leather bag until her knuckles turn white.
Her eyes dart from the frescoes to the stairs, then back to her phone, searching for a landmark that isn't there. She has the look of a girl who jumped off a cliff and is just now realizing she forgot the parachute. It’s a specific brand of beautiful, terrified chaos.
I look back at the registration tables. The "Group A" line for apartment keys is a snarl of luggage and loud voices. I spot her drifting toward it, shoulders squared with a sudden, desperate resolve. She steps behind a tall kid from Syracuse, looking relieved to finally have a destination.
"Unless you're planning on living with four guys from the rugby team in a flat above a leather shop, you might be in the wrong place," I say, stepping into her path.
She jumps, her bag sliding down her arm. Her eyes lock onto mine, shifting from green to a panicked gold. "Is this not the line for... everything?"
"In Italy, there is never a line for everything. Life is a strategic series of very specific, very disorganized queues." I take the folder from her shaking hand, my fingers brushing hers. Cold as ice. "Baleigh Butler. North Carolina?"
"Is the accent that obvious?" She tries for a laugh, but it’s brittle.
"Only when you say 'everything'." I grin, leaning back against a stone plinth to keep her from bolting. "You’re in the student housing line. Staff and coordinators check in at the quiet table back there, under the lemon tree. It’s significantly less likely to involve a shared bunk bed."
"Oh. Right. Staff." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "I’m the assistant. Or I’m supposed to be. Currently, I’m just a woman who almost moved into a frat house."
"Could’ve been an interesting first day.
" I don’t hand the folder back yet. I like the way she gazes at me—not with the practiced adoration of the students, but with an open, startled curiosity.
"I’m Amos. I’m the one who makes sure you don't actually end up in a ditch or a rugby flat. First time in Florence?"
"First time out of the States," she admits, the confession spilling out before she can catch it. She winces. "I mean—yes. Professional traveler. Very seasoned."
"Clearly. Your ability to pick the most chaotic line in the room is a pro-level move."
She narrows her eyes, a spark of heat replacing the nerves. "I was just testing the efficiency of your signage. It’s lacking, Amos."
I chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. Most people in her position are over-eager to please or paralyzed by the heat. She’s both, yet she still has enough bite to tease back.
"I'll make a note for the suggestion box," I say, finally offering the folder. "Come on, Carolina. Let's get you a key before you accidentally join the Italian Navy."
The morning moves in a blur of logistics and loud voices, but I keep finding excuses to glance over the heads of the crowd.
Baleigh doesn’t hide in the corner with the other newcomers.
I watch her square her shoulders and stride up to a group of sophomore boys, her hands gesturing wildly as she introduces herself.
She stumbles over the name of the piazza we're visiting later, her face blooming into that sunset-pink flush again, but she doesn't retreat.
Most of these kids arrive acting like they own the cobblestones, shouting into their phones about "vibes" and "authenticity." Baleigh is the opposite. During the safety briefing, she’s in the front row, pen flying across a notebook. When I mention the polite way to ask for a coffee, I see her lips moving, silently practicing the per favore until her brow furrows in concentration. It isn't the easy confidence of a globetrotter; it’s the gritty, white-knuckled courage of someone who is terrified and doing it anyway. I find myself ignoring the dean of students just to see if she’ll manage to ask a question.
She does.
"Amos?" Her voice cuts through the chatter during a break. She’s standing near a potted lemon tree, away from the swarm of students wrestling with their international SIM cards. "Is it true the city smells like jasmine in the evenings, or did I read a very misleading guidebook?"
"Only if you’re near the Boboli Gardens," I say, shifting my weight to face her. The air feels cooler, a momentary reprieve from the frantic energy of the courtyard. "Everywhere else, it's leather, diesel, and the desperate sweat of tourists looking for a bathroom."
She lets out a short, startled laugh that echoes against the stone. "Well. At least the diesel is European."
"You’re doing great, Baleigh. Most people would have had a meltdown by now."
"I'm keeping it for the hotel room later," she says, her eyes softening. "I’ve never actually crossed an ocean before. My family thinks I’ve lost my mind. Everything is so... loud. And old."
"Florence will break your heart three times before dinner," I lean in, my voice dropping. "It’ll humble you with a sidewalk that’s two thousand years old, ruin your standards for bread, and then win you over with a sunset that makes you want to stay forever. It's a trap."
"I think I'm already falling for it."
She looks at me then, her gaze steady and oddly piercing, and I don't feel like I'm reading from a script. I'm about to ask her which parts of North Carolina I should avoid when a group of students swarms us, demanding to know where to find cheap pizza.
She slips away toward the registration desk, but the sound of her laughter stays tucked in the back of my mind. I reach for the next orientation packet, but my thumb pauses on the paper. I'm already calculating how long until the next break.
The shadows of the Palazzo Vecchio stretch across the square like long, ink-stained fingers.
The courtyard is finally quiet, save for the rhythmic swish of a broom as the porter clears away discarded pamphlets and crushed cigarette butts.
My lungs feel heavy with the day’s dust, but the frantic humming in my head has settled into a low, strange vibration.
I lean against a stone pillar, the heat of the afternoon still radiating from the masonry into my spine.
Across the street, the bells of San Lorenzo toll, a deep, bronze sound that usually signals the end of my shift and the beginning of my nightly hunt for a solitary meal and a quiet bar.
Usually, I’m already halfway to a bottle of Prosecco, ready to scrub the faces and names of forty new strangers from my memory.
But I’m still standing here, staring at the empty space by the lemon tree where Baleigh spent the last hour.
I’ve seen her type a thousand times—the deer in the headlights, the girl who packed too many shoes and not enough courage.
They usually last three days before they start crying for a Starbucks.
Yet, Baleigh didn't look like she was looking for a way out.
She looked like she was looking for a way in.
I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through the staff roster until I hit her photo.
It’s a professional headshot, her hair perfectly smooth, a stiff, polite smile that screams "small-town expectations.
" It doesn't look like the woman I met today.
The woman today had flyaway strands stuck to her lip and eyes that flared with a sharp, unexpected wit when I poked at her nerves.
I gaze up at the terracotta rooftops, now glowing a deep, gorgeous purple against the fading sky. Florence is a hard city. It’s a city of sharp edges, hidden courtyards, and history that demands you pay attention. It swallows the soft.
I think I’m already falling for it, she’d said.
I wonder which part she’s falling for. Is it the romanticized version she read about in those guidebooks, or is it the chaos?
I imagine her out there right now, navigating the narrow, winding alleys of the Oltrarno, clutching her map like a holy relic.
I hope she finds the view from the bridge before the light dies.
I hope she forgets to be afraid of the wrong line and starts leaning into the noise.
Finally, I don't feel like a man resetting a clock. I’m a man waiting for the next tick. I shove the phone away and push off the pillar, a stray, unbidden smile flirting at the corner of my mouth.
I’ll see her tomorrow at eight. I wonder if she’ll still be wearing that brave, terrified smile, or if the city will have started its work on her already. Either way, for once, I’m not in a hurry to leave the office.