7. Baleigh
BALEIGH
My laptop screen glows with the harsh, blue light of three dozen unanswered emails from home.
My mother wants to know if I’ve found a "safe" laundromat. My best friend sent a link to a job opening back in Raleigh—a stable, administrative role that feels like a heavy wool coat in a heatwave. I tap my pen against the desk, aligning my highlighter and notebook into a perfect, defensive perimeter. Methodical Baleigh is back, and she’s ready to organize her way through the week.
A sharp, rhythmic knock shudders through the heavy wood of my door.
"Leigh? You’re not actually doing paperwork, are you?"
Amos leans against the doorframe before I can even answer. He’s changed out of his coordinator polo into a soft, charcoal-colored linen shirt with the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. He looks perpetually ready for a sunset hike or a secret party.
"I have dossiers to cross-reference," I say, though even I can hear the lack of conviction. "And the orientation feedback forms won't sort themselves."
"They will still be boring tomorrow. Trust me." He pushes off the frame, stepping into the room with a grin that feels like a dare. "A few of us are heading out. No plan, no itinerary, just a lead on some live music and the best schiacciata in the Oltrarno. You’re coming."
My stomach tightens. The familiar voice in my head—the one that sounds like a sensible budget meeting—tells me I’m tired, that I’ll be groggy for tomorrow’s dawn excursion to the market. But then I see my reflection in the dark window. The girl who said yes.
"Give me two minutes," I say, shutting the laptop with a satisfying snap.
"I’ll give you one," Amos calls out, already halfway down the hall.
The evening air is a balm, permeated with the scents of blooming jasmine and wood-fired ovens. Amos moves through the streets with a liquid sort of confidence, never checking a map, weaving through the surging crowds near the Duomo like he’s part of the current.
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, scurrying to keep pace with his long strides.
"To a place that doesn't exist on TripAdvisor," he says, glancing back with a mischievous wink. "The best parts of this city don't have signs, Baleigh. You just have to follow the sound of the bass."
The sky turns a bruised, electric violet.
Streetlamps flicker to life, casting long, amber shadows that dance across the uneven flagstones.
We bypass the tourist-heavy squares, ducking into narrow alleys where laundry hangs like banners overhead and the only light comes from the warm, golden spills of open kitchen doors.
I stop trying to track our turns. I stop worrying about the route back.
I just follow the rhythmic strike of Amos’s boots and the invitation of the rising music.
The narrow alley spits us out into a piazza that pulses with a heartbeat of its own.
It isn't the practiced, statuesque beauty of the main squares; this is a raw, electric fever.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscross above our heads, casting a honeyed glow over a mosaic of people.
A trio of violinists stands near a dry fountain, their bows blurring in a frantic, folk-heavy rhythm that makes the cobblestones vibrate.
Around them, the crowd isn't just watching—they’re moving. Old men in sharp suits spin granddaughters, and backpackers sway with bottles of Peroni held high. It feels like stepping into a dream where the rules of gravity and schedules have been suspended.
"See?" Amos leans close, his voice cutting through the swell of a soaring crescendo. "Can't find this in a brochure."
I stand on the perimeter of the circle, my hands gripped tight behind my back.
My mind is already calculating the risks: the uneven stones, the density of the crowd, the sheer, terrifying publicness of it all.
A group of dancers begins a synchronized stomp, clapping their hands in a thunderous beat that demands an answer.
Amos catches my wrist. His skin is warm, his grip firm but light. "Your brain is doing that thing again."
"What thing?" I shout over a sudden burst of accordion.
"The inventory," he teases, pulling me a half-step closer to the center. "Stop weighing the pros and cons of moving your feet. There are no stakes here, Baleigh. Nobody is grading you."
"I don't know the steps," I protest, digging my heels into a crack between the stones. "I’ll look like a frantic toddler."
Amos laughs, a rich sound that harmonizes perfectly with the music. He doesn't let go. Instead, he starts a rhythmic, exaggerated two-step, his eyes locked on mine with a playful challenge.
"The only wrong move is standing still," he says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes mine. "You're waiting for a map, but the music is the map. Just once, don't look at your feet to see if they're in the right spot. Just trust they’ll land where they need to."
He gives my hand a gentle tug, spinning me into the golden light. I stumble, my heart hammering against my ribs, but his grin acts as a safety net. I stop thinking about the "right" way to be, and for the very first time, I just move.
The music swells, a frantic collision of wood and string, and I stop fighting the current.
I let Amos spin me, my dress flaring out like a bell, the air cooling the backs of my knees.
I’m not counting beats or worrying about my posture.
I’m just a body in motion. When the song breaks into a rowdy finale, I’m breathless, my hair escaping its pins in wild, golden spirals.
I don't retreat to the shadows. Instead, I find myself toasted by a group of university students from Milan, sharing a greasy paper cone of coccoli—salty, fried dough balls stuffed with creamy stracchino cheese. I don’t check for a napkin.
I don’t wonder if I have flour on my chin.
I just laugh when a girl named Ellen tells a joke in rapid-fire Italian, catching enough of the punchline to lean into the joy of the circle.
Amos stands back near a stone pillar, a bottle of water in one hand, watching me with a quiet, steady expression.
The usual mask of the tireless coordinator—the "I have everything under control" smirk—has softened into something more sincere.
He looks like a man watching a bird finally figure out it can fly.
As the piazza begins to thin, the group drifts toward the Arno. Amos and I fall back, our pace slowing to a rhythmic wander. The silence of the side streets feels intimate now, rather than lonely.
"I actually had a whole spreadsheet for this week," I admit, kicking a loose pebble. "Color-coded by priority. I think it’s still open on my desk."
"Delete it," Amos says. He’s walking with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.
"Some of the best nights I’ve ever had started with a missed train or a wrong turn into a neighborhood I couldn't pronounce. If you only go where you planned to go, you’re just visiting a museum of your own expectations. "
"It’s exhausting," I whisper, the confession slipping out. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to pass a test I didn't even sign up for. Making the 'right' choice feels like holding my breath."
Amos stops, turning to face me. The amber light of a wall-mounted lantern carves deep shadows across his face, making him look older, more grounded.
"Baleigh, life isn't a pass-fail exam," he says softly. "There’s no final grade waiting for you back home. You aren't going to 'break' your life by choosing the wrong street or the wrong job. You’re just living it."
The river air tastes of stone and ancient water.
We lean against the thigh-high wall of the Lungarno, watching the yellow moon shatter across the surface of the Arno.
Behind us, the music from the piazza has faded into a ghostly pulse, enough to remind me I was there but quiet enough to let the city breathe.
My heels ache in a way that feels like an achievement.
Amos is currently explaining his theory that the quality of a gelato shop is inversely proportional to the height of its whipped cream mountains.
"If it looks like a neon skyscraper, run for your life," he says, gesturing wildly. "It’s all air and lies, Baleigh. You want the stuff buried in the metal tins. The stuff that looks like beige mud. That’s where the truth is."
I laugh, and the sound doesn't feel forced or polite. It doesn't feel like the laugh I give my aunts when they ask about my "five-year plan."
I look up at the sky, which lacks the terrifying vastness of the North Carolina countryside.
Here, the stars have to compete with centuries of terracotta and marble, and somehow, that makes them feel more reachable.
I expected Italy to be a series of grand, cinematic revelations—me standing on a mountaintop, screaming my independence into the wind. I expected a rebellion.
But as I watch Amos mimic a terrified tourist's reaction to "fake" pistachio, I realize freedom isn't a loud, crashing wave. It’s the absence of the grit in my shoe.
The frantic internal auditor in my brain has gone on strike.
She isn't checking the time. She isn't wondering if this conversation is productive or if my hair looks like a bird's nest. I’m standing on a bridge in a dress that’s slightly wrinkled, eating fried dough with a man who thinks spreadsheets are a form of torture, and the world hasn't ended.
I’m not "trying" to be adventurous. I’m just standing here.
"You're doing it again," Amos says, nudging my shoulder with his.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking. I can practically hear the gears grinding from here. Are you cataloging the types of bridge stone?"
"No," I say, leaning my weight into the cold marble. "I was just thinking that this is the first time in a decade I haven't felt like I was running late for something."
"Good," he says, his gruff voice dropping an octave as he looks out at the water. "Late is just a state of mind, anyway."
I look at him—the easy slant of his posture, the way he occupies space without apologizing for it—and I feel a strange, steady permission.
I don't need to be the girl who has it all figured out, and I don't need to be a revolutionary.
I just need to be Baleigh. And tonight, Baleigh is exactly where she wants to be.