5. Baleigh
BALEIGH
The air in the courtyard tastes like rosemary and burnt sugar.
Above us, strands of Edison bulbs crisscross the narrow gap between stone buildings, casting a honeyed glow that turns the white tablecloths into pools of warmth.
The trattoria is a cavern of clinking glass and rapid-fire Italian, tucked so deep into the Oltrarno that the city's roar muffled into a hum.
I brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear and smooth the fabric of my sundress.
Only seventy-two hours ago, the thought of navigating these streets alone sent a prickle of sweat down my spine.
Now, seated on a rickety wooden chair with the uneven cobbles beneath my sandals, I don't feel like a tourist trespassing on someone else’s life.
I’m more like a guest who finally found the right door.
"Try the crostini before the boys inhale it all," Amos says, sliding a platter toward me. He looks less like a frantic program director and more like a man who actually knows how to exhale.
I snag a piece of grilled bread topped with a heap of shimmering chicken liver paté. My mother would call this 'adventurous.' Here, it just looks right. I take a bite—the richness is earthy, salt-heavy, and perfect—and wash it down with a sip of house red that costs less than bottled water.
"It’s incredible," I say, leaning into the table. "Though I think I’ve reached my limit on how many 'best meals of my life' I can have in one week."
One of the students, a girl named Maya who had been crying about her lost luggage yesterday, laughs. "Right? I'm never going back to dining hall pizza. Baleigh, did you see that leather shop near the fountain today? The one with the green shutters?"
"The one where the old man sits in the window stitching the linings?" I ask, and I don't even have to think about the landmarks. "I almost walked in there, but I got distracted by a cat on a Vespa."
The table erupts into a debate about the city's feline population, and I find myself leading the charge, sharing the story of the tabby I saw guarding a stack of antique books. I’m not just the shadow at the back of the group anymore.
My voice is steady, my laugh unforced. For once, I’m not worrying about the "right" thing to say or the "safe" way to act.
I am simply here, letting the evening carry me.
Amos is a blur of motion. He drifts from table to table like a heat-seeking missile of charisma. One moment he’s comforting a homesick freshman, the next he’s charming a grumpy waiter into bringing extra baskets of focaccia. Yet, like a boomerang, he always loops back to the empty chair beside me.
"You haven't lived until you've had to bribe a Greek ferry captain with a crate of illegal sparklers to get fifty students to Mykonos on time," Amos says, leaning in close enough that I smell the clean citrus of his cologne beneath the scent of garlic. He mimes the captain’s bushy mustache with two fingers.
I choke on a laugh, clutching my wine glass as the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. "Sparklers? Tell me you're joking."
"I am deathly serious. The man wouldn't take Euros, but he had a niece’s wedding the next day. I became a hero and a smuggler in sixty seconds." He winks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The point is, Baleigh, that the disasters are usually the best parts. The plans are just suggestions."
His energy is a physical force. It strips away the lingering North Carolina guilt over my impulsive exit. With Amos, the cobblestones aren't tripping hazards; they’re a stage.
The laughter at our end of the table tapers off as the plates are cleared, replaced by the low, steady hum of Max’s voice. He hasn't moved much. He sits with a stillness that commands the space around him.
"Survival stories are entertaining, Amos," Max says, voice cutting through the humor with a dry, intellectual edge. He turns his dark, observant eyes toward me. "But I wonder, Baleigh. You’ve spent your life meeting expectations. Do you think we owe our families the person we used to be, or do we owe ourselves the person we’re becoming? "
The question hits me like a sudden drop in altitude. I think about the "safe" life I left behind—the predictable Sunday dinners and the quiet pressure to settle.
"I think I’m afraid that if I choose myself, I’m being selfish," I admit, the honesty surprising me.
Max tilts his head, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the spark of the Edison bulbs. "Is it selfish to tend to a garden? Or is it simply necessary for things to bloom? Change isn't a betrayal, Baleigh. It’s a requirement."
He doesn't look away, and for a second, the bustling courtyard vanishes. He makes the world feel vast and heavy with meaning, pulling at threads of my identity I didn't know were loose. Every word out of his mouth feels like he’s handing me a key to a room I've lived in but never entered.
Amos operates like a whirlwind of intentional chaos. One moment he is at the far end of the long table, smoothing over a misunderstanding about a pasta order, and the next, he is back in the empty chair beside me, tipping his glass toward mine.
"You think the cat on the Vespa was eccentric?
" He leans in, his scent a mix of citrus and the cooling night air.
"Two years ago in Rome, I had a student try to smuggle a stray pup back to the states in a carry-on.
We found out during the security sweep because the duffel bag started barking at the TSA agent. "
I choke on a laugh, clutching my wine glass as the stem wobbles. "No way. Did they let him keep it?"
"Only after three days of paperwork, two frantic calls to the embassy, and me personally vouching for the dog’s character," Amos says, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I’ve chased lost passports through the canals of Venice and once performed an emergency repair on a student’s tuxedo using only dental floss and a stapler. This? This is a vacation."
His energy is a physical weight, warm and grounding. He makes the labyrinthine streets outside feel like a playground rather than a trap. Every disaster he describes becomes a badge of honor, a reason to leap rather than recoil.
As plates are cleared and the espresso begins to circulate, Max shifts his chair closer to ours. He has been quiet, observing the rowdy energy of the table with a faint, disciplined smile. The conversation drifts from travel mishaps to the weight of expectations back home.
"We talk about travel as an escape," Max says, his smooth voice cutting through the clatter like a low cello note. "But escape implies a lack of responsibility. I wonder, Baleigh, do you think moving toward yourself is an act of selfishness or a necessity?"
I pause, the steam from my tiny cup of coffee warming my chin. "I’ve always been told that putting your own desires first is selfish. My family... they value being there. Being the person people can lean on."
"And who do you lean on if that person is a hollow shell?
" Max asks gently. He watches me over the rim of his glasses, his eyes probing.
"We owe the world our most authentic selves, not just our most compliant ones.
If you spend your life fulfilling an identity others mapped out for you, are you actually living your life, or are you just occupying their space? "
The light from the bulbs above feels brighter, sharper.
The "safe" path I’ve walked back home suddenly looks less like a duty and more like a debt I never actually signed for.
I feel a frantic, electric pulse in my chest—the realization that every door I thought was locked might actually be standing ajar.
The chatter swells as the kitchen door swings open, releasing the scent of seared steak and rosemary.
Amid the clink of silverware, Atticus leans toward me, his chair scraping softly against the stone.
He doesn’t look at the distractions. Instead, he nods toward the weathered archway leading to the kitchen.
"Look at the lintel," he whispers. "Above the door frame."
I squint through the amber light. Faded symbols are etched into the stone, smoothed by centuries of moisture and touch. "It looks like a bunch of circles?"
"Wine windows," he says, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"During the plague, the noble families sold wine through those little holes to avoid contact. Even in the prime of a disaster, the Italians prioritized the wine. They’ve been finding ways to keep the beauty flowing through the cracks for five hundred years. "
He gestures toward the back wall where a small, barred window catches the rising moon.
"Most people see a basement. But if you stand right there near the edge of the terrace later, you can see the shadow of the Duomo’s ribs reflected on the glass of the neighboring shop.
It’s a ghost city, Baleigh. You just have to know which angle to hold your head. "
As he talks about the city—not as a map of monuments, but as a living, breathing companion with secrets and scars—the world feels like it’s expanding. With Atticus, curiosity isn't a task; it's a heartbeat. He doesn't just show me Florence; he teaches me how to translate it.
I lean back, my heart thrumming a strange, syncopated rhythm.
I scan the table, my gaze snagging on each of them.
There is Amos, leaning over a map with a student, his boisterous laugh acting as a safety net that catches everyone in the room.
He makes me feel brave enough to jump. Then my eyes drift to Max, who is listening to a professor with a focused, quiet intensity.
He makes me see that there is a version of myself worth fighting for—someone sharper, deeper, and more substantial than the girl who left North Carolina.
And then there’s Atticus, who sits beside me like a quiet invitation to look closer, to find the magic in the mundane stones.
The realization is a sudden, cold splash of water. I’m not just looking for a way home anymore. I am looking for them. I am gravitating toward three completely different versions of the future, and my indecision doesn't feel like a weight. It feels just like a storm.
The walk back to the pensione is a slow drift through honey-colored light.
The group fragments into smaller clusters, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the narrow via like a rhythmic heartbeat.
I linger near the back, my sandals slapping softly against the pavement that still holds the day’s heat.
A week ago, a walk like this would have been an exercise in mental gymnastics.
I would have replayed every syllable of dinner, agonizing over whether my laugh was too loud or if my comment about the "cat on the Vespa" sounded childish to a man like Max. I would have checked my phone every five minutes, looking for a tether to North Carolina—a text from my sister, a reminder of the quiet, mapped-out life I’m supposed to return to.
Now, my phone is buried at the bottom of my bag, its battery likely dead and its importance non-existent.
I stop near the Ponte Santa Trinita. The Arno is a ribbon of obsidian tonight, broken only by the shimmering yellow reflections of the streetlamps.
I lean my forearms against the cool stone of the bridge’s railing and inhale.
The air is ripe with the smell of damp river stone and the lingering perfume of a thousand dinners.
In Raleigh, the sky is giant and open, but here, the buildings lean in close, like they’re whispering secrets.
I realized tonight that I didn’t just survive the conversation—I drove it.
I challenged Max’s stoic philosophy and matched Amos’s frantic wit.
I didn't wait for permission to belong at that table.
The "safe" Baleigh—the one who buys the neutral-toned cardigan because it’s practical and nods along to her mother’s wedding-planning hints—is beginning to feel like a stranger.
Or maybe she was always the mask, and this version of me, the one who drinks house wine and debates history with scholars and gazes at ghost-shadows on glass, is the one who was trapped underneath.
Italy isn't just a place I’m visiting; it’s a solvent.
It’s dissolving the layers of expectation I’ve worn for twenty-eight years.
I stare up at the Duomo’s silhouette in the distance, a massive, dark crown against the stars.
The uncertainty of what comes next used to feel like a void.
Tonight, looking at the light infused ripples in the water, it seems like an opening.
I do not want to go back to being the girl who is afraid of the wrong choice.
I want very much to be the girl who makes them all.