12. Amos
AMOS
Logistics are the enemy of joy. That’s my unofficial motto, anyway.
I’ve spent much of my adult life dragging college kids through customs and coordinating bus schedules that run on "Italian time," which usually means whenever the driver finishes his espresso.
On a rare afternoon where no one is bleeding, lost, or arrested, I refuse to spend it staring at a spreadsheet in a windowless office.
"Absolutely not," Baleigh says, eyeing the vintage Vespa like it’s a sentient explosive. "Amos, look at the size of that thing. It’s a motorized bicycle with an ego."
I pat the leather seat and toss her a spare helmet. "It’s a classic. Like a fine wine, or me. Come on, Leigh. The hills are calling, and they have better pasta than anything you’ll find near the Duomo."
She straps the helmet on, her brow furrowed in that way that makes me want to poke it until she smiles. "Do you have a map? A destination? Does anyone know we’re leaving the city limits?"
"I have a general sense of north and a very specific craving for wild boar ragu," I say, swinging a leg over the bike. "Plans are just spoilers for real life. Give me your phone. Put it in your bag. If we get lost, we just find a different adventure."
She hesitates, her indecision an almost physical presence, before she finally sighs and climbs on behind me. "If we end up stranded in a ditch, I am never letting you live this down."
"I’ll take those odds."
I kick the engine to life. It coughs, rattles, then finds a steady, throaty purr. As we weave through the narrow, stone-walled exits of the city, Baleigh’s grip on my waist is a vice. She’s stiff as a board, her knuckles probably turning white inside my peripheral.
Then, we hit the open road.
The tall, dark cypress trees stand like sentinels along the gravel paths.
We dip into a valley where the sunflowers are so bright they look painted, thousands of yellow faces turned toward the same sun that’s currently warming my back.
The air changes—gone is the smell of exhaust and ancient dust, replaced by the scent of wild rosemary and warm earth.
I feel it the moment she lets go. Not her grip—thankfully, she stays tucked against me—but her tension. She leans into the curves. Her head peeks over my shoulder, and then I hear it: a genuine, breathless laugh that the wind whips right past my ear.
"It’s beautiful!" she shouts over the engine.
I catch her reflection in the side mirror; the way the sunlight catches the gold in her hair, her eyes wide and hungry for every inch of the horizon.
I’ve seen these hills a thousand times, but watching them through her eyes makes the colors sharper.
I’m supposed to be the guide, the one who knows the way, but I don't care if we ever actually find that village.
I just want to keep driving until the gas runs out.
The map in my head has a few blurry edges, but I don’t let on. I bank the Vespa hard left onto a dirt track that looks like a tactical shortcut. Dust kicks up in a tawny cloud, and the road narrows until the olive branches on either side scrape my elbows.
"Amos," Baleigh shouts, her voice vibrating against my shoulder blade. "This is a goat path. Please tell me you see a sign that isn’t written in lichen."
"It’s a scenic bypass," I yell back. "Trust the process!"
The process fails us ten minutes later when the path terminates in a stone wall and a very confused donkey.
I kill the engine. The silence of the Tuscan countryside is absolute, save for the rhythmic clink of the cooling metal.
I look at my hand-drawn mental map and realize I’ve effectively navigated us into a black hole.
"We are hopelessly lost, aren't we?" Baleigh asks, hopping off. She pulls her helmet off, hair spilling out in a chaotic, golden halo.
"In the technical sense? Yes. In the cosmic sense? We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be." I gesture to the valley below us. From this height, the vineyards look like corduroy fabric stretched over the earth, and the late afternoon sun turns the entire world into an amber photograph.
Baleigh starts to laugh—a low, melodic sound that brushes away my guilt. "You’re a terrible navigator, Southerland. Truly abysmal."
"I prefer the term 'spontaneous explorer.'"
We coast back down the hill, following the faint sound of an accordion.
We round a bend and hit a village so small it doesn't even have a post office, but the main square is vibrating.
Accordion music bounces off the limestone walls.
Strings of lights criss-cross the plaza, and the air has the aroma of roasted pig and woodsmoke.
"What is this?" Baleigh’s eyes go wide as she jumps off the bike.
A grandmother in a flour-dusted apron grabs Baleigh’s hand, thrusting a plate of panigacci at her before I can even park.
We aren’t tourists here; we’re just two more mouths to feed.
We spend the next three hours squeezed onto a wooden bench between a local carpenter and a priest, passing jugs of ruby-red wine.
Baleigh tries to ask about the cheese in broken Italian, and the locals respond with a five-minute opera of hand gestures.
She’s glowing, the "safe path" she used to walk now buried under miles of Tuscan dust. For a guy who's always moving, I find myself wanting to nail my feet to the floor right here next to her.
I kick the starter pedal for the fourteenth time.
The Vespa gives a pathetic, metallic wheeze—the mechanical equivalent of an old man coughing into a handkerchief—and goes silent.
The smell of flooded gasoline hangs heavy in the cooling night air.
I stand back, hands on my hips, looking at the hunk of vintage scrap metal.
Usually, this is where the "client" starts checking their watch and asking about the nearest taxi service.
"Well," I say, wiping grease onto my thighs. "The good news is the donkey from earlier is probably still available for rent."
I brace for the groan. I expect her to look at the darkening sky and worry about the drive back to Florence. Instead, a snort breaks the silence. Baleigh is leaning against the stone wall, her head tilted back, laughing so hard she has to press a hand to her stomach.
"It’s not funny, Leigh. We’re five miles from a paved road and I’m pretty sure I heard a wolf."
"It is perfectly on brand, Amos," she says, gasping for air. She points a finger at the dead scooter. "If we had just driven back like normal people, it wouldn't be our story. The 'spontaneous explorer' strikes again."
Her lack of frustration is disarming. It’s a relief—one I wasn’t prepared for.
Most people want the polish; she’s embracing the cracks.
We push the bike under the silver-leafed canopy of an old olive tree and settle onto the dry grass to wait for the local mechanic I managed to bribe over the phone.
The valley below is bathing in deep violets and indigo. The fireflies are starting their shift. For a long time, we just sit there, the silence comfortable rather than heavy.
"Do you ever get tired of it?" Baleigh asks softly.
I don't look over. I keep my eyes on the distant flickers of Florence's lights. "Tired of broken scooters? Every day."
"Tired of being the guy who knows where the hidden plazas are, but never stays in them," she clarifies.
"You spend your whole life helping people like me find their footing, Amos. But you’re always the one with your bags packed.
Don't you ever want to just... stop? To belong somewhere instead of just passing through it? "
The "easy smile" I usually keep chambered like a round of ammunition feels heavy. I pick at a blade of grass. The truth is a dull ache I usually ignore by booking another flight.
"Most nights, the motion is the point," I say. "But yeah. Sometimes I look at a porch light or a set of keys that actually fit a front door I own, and I wonder what it’s like. To not be a guest. To have a place that doesn't feel like a temporary layover."
I look at her then, and the way she’s watching me makes me feel more seen than I have in a decade. It’s terrifying. I’ve built a life out of being the man with all the answers, but under this tree, I’m just a guy who’s lost his way home.
The mechanic arrives two hours later, smelling of tobacco and grappa, but he coaxes the Vespa back to life with a screwdriver and a sharp Italian curse.
By the time we crest the final hill overlooking Florence, the sky has morphed into deep magentas and burning embers.
The city below is a jewelry box left open, the Duomo’s dome glowing under the orange spotlight of the dying sun.
Baleigh’s head rests lightly against my shoulder blade. Her grip hasn't loosened, but it’s different now—less like a person clinging to a life raft and more like she’s simply anchored to me. Every bump in the road sends a jolt of heat through my chest.
I’ve done this ride a hundred times. I’ve taken dozens of colleagues and students on "authentic" excursions to impress them, to see the look of wonder on their faces.
But those trips felt like performances. Today, every wrong turn and stalled engine felt like a gift.
The wild boar ragu and the dusty village square weren't highlights because they were picturesque; they were highlights because I got to hear her laugh when the priest tried to teach her a folk dance.
We coast into the cobblestone courtyard of the residence hall as the street lamps flicker to life. The engine cuts out, but the resulting silence isn't hollow.
"We made it," I say, though a part of me wishes the gas tank had actually run dry ten miles back.
Baleigh slides off the bike and stretches, her skirt wrinkled and her hair a magnificent, wind-blown disaster. She really looks at me, and for a second, the playful banter we use as a shield is gone.
"Technically, the 'spontaneous explorer' delivered," she says, voice low and warm. "Best day of the trip, Amos. Maybe the best day in a long time."
"Even with the donkey?"
"Especially with the donkey." She reaches out, squeezing my forearm briefly before she turns toward the heavy wooden doors of the hall. "See you at breakfast, Southerland."
I watch her walk away. I watch the light from the foyer catch those sunny highlights in her hair before the door clicks shut behind her.
I stand there alone in the dark, hands shoved deep into my pockets.
For years, I’ve prided myself on being the guy who can handle any complication, any disaster, any sudden change in plans.
But I’m looking at a problem I can’t troubleshoot.
Friendship was the safe route, the easy itinerary.
Now, the thought of just being her coordinator—just the guy who shows her the sights—feels like a cramped, windowless room.
The professional lines are blurring, and I don't want to fix them.
I want more. And in this job, wanting more is the most dangerous move I can make.