20. Atticus
ATTICUS
Iwatch Baleigh's face transform as she considers the jazz club idea, and something dangerous unfurls in my chest. The way her eyes light up when she's weighing possibility against fear—it's become my favorite expression, the one that makes me forget about maintaining professional distance or keeping things casual.
This is a problem.
I've spent a long time perfecting the art of emotional mobility, of caring just enough to capture authentic moments without getting tangled in the aftermath.
It's served me well through countless assignments, dozens of cities, hundreds of fleeting connections that felt meaningful in the moment but faded cleanly when I moved on to the next story.
But watching Baleigh debate whether to trust herself with something as simple as singing in public, I realize I'm not documenting her transformation anymore. I'm invested in it. Personally, recklessly invested.
"I need to grab my telephoto lens from upstairs," I say, standing abruptly. "Think about it, Baleigh. I'll be back in ten minutes for your answer."
The hotel's narrow staircase feels too small for the restless energy building under my skin. I take the steps two at a time, needing movement, needing space to think through what's happening here.
My room overlooks the courtyard, and through the open window, I can see Baleigh and Amos still talking at their table. Their heads are bent close together, and there's an intimacy in their posture that makes my jaw tighten involuntarily.
When did I start caring who else makes her laugh?
I lean against the windowsill, camera forgotten, and force myself to really look at what's unfolding below.
Amos reaches across the table to touch her hand, and instead of pulling away, she lets him.
There's nothing calculated about the gesture from either of them—it's natural, comfortable, like they've been finding excuses to touch each other for weeks.
Which they probably have.
The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity.
I've been so focused on my own growing attachment that I've ignored the obvious signs that I'm not the only one feeling it.
Amos's protective hovering around Baleigh, the way his usual easy charm becomes something more focused when she's involved—it's not professional courtesy.
It's personal.
A knock on my door interrupts the uncomfortable direction of my thoughts.
"It's open."
Max steps inside, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. His usually precise appearance is slightly disheveled, his hair showing traces of fingers running through it repeatedly.
"We need to talk," he says without preamble.
"About the program schedule? Because if this is about the Pompeii logistics, I already spoke with—"
"About Baleigh."
The words hang in the air, loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine. Max closes the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest.
"I've been teaching for nearly twenty years," he continues. "I've worked with hundreds of students, maintained appropriate professional boundaries with all of them. I don't get personally involved."
"But?"
"But I'm personally involved." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying more vulnerability than I've ever seen from him. "And unless I'm completely misreading the situation, I'm not the only one."
I turn to the window, avoiding his direct gaze. Below, Amos is making Baleigh laugh, her whole face lighting up with genuine delight.
"This is complicated," I say finally.
"That's an understatement." Max joins me at the window, following my line of sight. "The question is, what do we do about it?"
The silence hangs between us while we watch Baleigh gesture animatedly at something Amos is showing her on his phone. Her laughter carries up through the open window, and I feel that familiar tightness in my chest.
"The traditional approach would be to compete," Max says quietly. "Establish territory, make our intentions clear, force her to choose."
"Sounds exhausting." I lean my shoulder against the window frame. "Also potentially devastating for everyone involved."
"Including her." Max's voice carries a note of concern that surprises me. "She's not the type who handles conflict well. Competition would send her running back to North Carolina before any of us had a chance."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. I've watched Baleigh navigate even minor disagreements with careful diplomacy, always looking for ways to avoid disappointing anyone. The idea of three men vying for her attention would probably terrify her.
"So what's the alternative?" I ask. "We all pretend we're not interested and hope she picks one of us at random?"
"Or we acknowledge that this situation is unprecedented and requires an unprecedented solution."
Max's tone suggests he's been thinking about this longer than the past ten minutes. I turn to study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw.
"You've been wrestling with this for a while."
"Weeks." He admits it without embarrassment. "Since that evening she stayed after my lecture to discuss the Renaissance marriage contracts. She had this theory about economic motivations versus romantic ideals that was completely wrong but utterly charming in its naivety."
"You fell for her being wrong about history?"
"I fell for her being unafraid to be wrong about history." Max's smile is rueful. "When was the last time someone challenged your assumptions without worrying about looking foolish?"
The question hits closer to home than I'm comfortable admitting. Most of my interactions are carefully curated—interview subjects who want something from me, editors who pay me, fellow expats who share my commitment to keeping things surface-level.
"She asks me about places I've been like she genuinely wants to understand what draws me to them," I hear myself saying. "Not because she's planning her own itinerary or looking for recommendations. Because she wants to understand me."
"Exactly." Max nods. "And with Amos—"
"She laughs." The words come out more bitter than intended. "Really laughs, not the polite version she gives everyone else."
"You've noticed that too."
Below us, Amos stands and extends his hand to Baleigh, clearly inviting her somewhere. She hesitates for exactly three seconds before taking it, and they disappear from view toward the hotel entrance.
"The thing is," I continue, watching the empty courtyard, "I don't think any of us alone gives her everything she needs."
Max raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning she lights up differently with each of us. Amos makes her feel safe enough to be spontaneous. You challenge her intellectually in ways that excite her. And I..." I trail off, unsure how to articulate what passes between Baleigh and me during our photography excursions.
"You show her beauty she didn't know existed," Max finishes. "I've seen the photos she takes when she's with you. They're completely different from her usual snapshots."
The accuracy of his observation catches me off guard. "You pay attention to her photography?"
"I pay attention to everything about her." Max's honesty is disarming. "Which is precisely the problem. I'm forty years old, Atticus. I've built a career on measured decisions and careful planning. But when I think about her leaving in a few weeks, I feel like I'm drowning."
The admission hangs between us, raw and unguarded. I recognize the fear in his voice because it mirrors my own—the terrifying realization that someone has slipped past all my carefully constructed defenses.
"I've spent fifteen years practicing the art of temporary," I say quietly. "Temporary assignments, temporary apartments, temporary connections. Everything designed to end cleanly."
"But not her."
"Not her." The words feel like a confession. "And that scares the hell out of me."
"What if we stopped thinking about this as a competition?" I hear myself saying before I've fully processed the thought. "What if we approached it like... collaborative journalism?"
Max turns from the window, eyebrow raised. "Meaning?"
"I've covered stories where the best outcome required multiple perspectives working together instead of against each other." I lean back against the wall, the idea gaining momentum as I speak. "What if Baleigh doesn't have to choose between us?"
"Atticus." Max's tone carries a warning. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we consider the possibility that conventional relationship structures might not apply here." The words feel radical even as I say them. "She brings out different aspects of who we are. Maybe we bring out different aspects of who she is."
Max studies my face with the intensity he usually reserves for analyzing historical documents. "You're talking about polyamory."
"I'm talking about honesty." I push off from the wall, pacing the small space. "Instead of pretending we don't all care about her, instead of forcing her into an impossible choice that will hurt everyone involved, what if we acknowledged that this situation is unprecedented?"
"And completely impractical." But Max doesn't sound dismissive. He sounds like he's actually considering it. "The logistics alone—"
"Are Amos's specialty." I pause mid-step. "He's spent years coordinating complex international programs. If anyone could figure out how to make something unconventional work, it's him."
"You want to propose this to Amos?" Max's voice climbs slightly. "The man who's currently downstairs with Baleigh, probably falling deeper by the minute?"
"The man who's been watching us watch her with the same expression we probably wear when we watch him with her." I move back to the window, noting the empty courtyard. "He's not stupid, Max. He knows what's happening here."
Silence stretches between us while Max processes this. I can practically hear his academic mind working through the implications, weighing variables, considering precedents.
"It would require complete transparency," he says finally. "No hidden agendas, no territorial behavior."
"And it would require her consent, obviously." I turn back to face him. "She'd have to want this too. All of it. All of us."
"She's spent her entire life choosing the safe path," Max points out. "This is about as far from safe as it gets."
"Which is exactly why it might appeal to her." I think about Baleigh's growing confidence, her willingness to try new experiences. "She came to Italy to stop playing it safe."
Max walks to my desk, picking up one of the photos I took of Baleigh at the Ponte Vecchio. In it, she's laughing at something off-camera, completely unguarded, radiant with joy.
"She deserves to be happy," he says quietly. "All the way happy, not settling for partial happiness because society says she has to choose."
"Exactly." Relief floods through me at his understanding. "The question is whether we're brave enough to offer her that choice."