23. Baleigh
BALEIGH
The smell of Amos is everywhere—cedar, espresso, and the salt of his skin.
It clings to my hair and coats my lungs, a heavy, heady reminder of the time we spent together, like I was the only solid ground in a shifting world.
I should feel whole. I should feel like the protagonist of the best kind of story, the one where the girl finds herself under the Tuscan sun and falls into the arms of someone who sees her shadows and loves them anyway.
Instead, my chest feels like it’s being cinched tight by piano wire.
Every time I close my eyes and feel the memory of Amos’s hands, the image of Max flickers behind my lids.
Max, with his quiet intensity and the way he challenges the very foundation of who I thought I was.
He offered me a different kind of spark—one that felt like a bridge to a version of myself I never dared to dream of.
My heart shouldn't have enough room for this. It’s a muscle the size of a fist, yet it’s stretching, tearing, trying to accommodate two entirely different futures at the same time.
I pace the narrow length of the terrace—the scene of our earlier crime—the cool terracotta tiles biting into my bare soles.
The Roman skyline is a jagged silhouette of domes and ruins, ancient and indifferent to my mess.
I’m a program assistant from North Carolina who couldn’t decide on a porch swing color six months ago, and now I’m standing in the wreckage of my own indecision.
If I choose Amos, I lose the sharp, intellectual fire Max lights in me.
If I choose Max, I lose the steady, soulful earth of Amos.
And the worst part—the part that makes me want to scream into the humid air—is that they’ve started talking to each other.
They aren't fighting. They aren't posturing. They’re being good men, and that makes the guilt twice as caustic.
I'm going to ruin this. I’m going to be the reason this peace shatters.
I came here to say yes to life, but I didn't realize that saying yes to one thing eventually means saying a devastating no to another. I can just feel the ticking of the summer clock in my pulse. Every sunset is a deadline I’m not ready to meet.
I love them both, and that realization doesn't feel like a gift; it feels like a sentence.
The knock on my door isn’t the sharp, frantic rap of a man demanding answers. It’s two distinct thuds—one heavy and deliberate, the other light and rhythmic.
When I pull the heavy oak door open, Max and Amos are standing in the dim hallway of the villa.
They aren't glaring. There’s no territorial posturing, no puffed chests or clenched jaws.
Max leans against the stone doorframe, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, while Amos keeps his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a soft, weary smile tugging at his mouth.
"Don't worry, we aren't here to make you choose," Max says. His voice is a somber rumble, devoid of the academic authority he uses in the lecture hall. It’s just steady. "We saw you pacing the terrace from the courtyard. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the Vatican on your shoulders."
"I... I don't know how to do this," I stammer, stepping back to let them in. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. "I’m making a mess of everything. I’m hurting both of you."
Amos shakes his head, walking over to the window but keeping a respectful distance. "You aren't hurting us, Baleigh. We’re grown men. We’ve had a lot of time to talk—properly talk—while you were upstairs agonizing."
I look from Amos’s relaxed posture to Max’s calm gaze.
Back home, a situation like this would have ended in a shouting match at a tailgate or a cold shoulder at Sunday service.
People clung to what was hers or theirs.
But here, in this ancient, beautiful chaos, they’re looking at me with nothing but patience.
"We know what this is," Max adds. "This isn't a competition we’re trying to win. We both care about you. That doesn't vanish just because the situation is complicated."
"But it shouldn't be this way," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I should have an answer."
"Why?" Amos asks, his eyes bright and sincere. "Because someone in North Carolina told you there’s only one right path? Baleigh, look where we are. Nothing about this summer follows the rules. Don't force a resolution just because you’re afraid of the silence."
Their maturity feels like a physical warmth, grounding my frantic nerves. They aren't asking me to bridge the gap; they’re offering to stand in it with me.
The realization crashes over me like a rogue wave, sudden and staggering—I’ve spent my entire existence waiting for someone to hand me a permission slip for my own life.
Waiting for the cosmic stamp of approval that would tell me which choices wouldn’t make me a disappointment, which paths wouldn’t earn me hushed whispers over sweet tea on someone’s veranda.
Back home, love was treated like the last slice of pecan pie at a church social—carefully divided, only given to those who followed the recipe exactly.
Marry the right person before thirty. Pick the right shade of magnolia white for your porch swing.
Master your grandmother’s green bean casserole recipe by heart.
Happiness wasn’t the goal; fitting neatly into expectations was.
But Amos is watching me with that lopsided grin of his, sunlight catching the laugh lines around his bright blue eyes like he can see straight through to the hurricane of doubts spinning inside me.
And Max—steady, thoughtful Max—is observing me with the same focused attention he gives to centuries-old artifacts, like I’m some rare discovery worth his undivided scholarly consideration.
“Feelings don’t come with instruction manuals,” Amos says, drumming his fingers absently against the sun-warmed windowsill.
The restless energy he always carries seems magnified now, like he’s physically holding himself back from fixing this for me.
“You’re acting like there’s some multiple-choice quiz where you’ll get scolded for circling the wrong answer. ”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “That’s literally how adulthood works where I’m from.”
“Says who?” Max’s voice is deep and measured, the way he sounds when he’s dismantling a student’s flawed argument in seminar.
The question hangs between us, heavy.
“The people who were too afraid to color outside the lines,” he continues.
He stays perfectly still—no dramatic gestures, no attempt to close the space between us.
Just those dark, perceptive eyes holding mine.
“Do you think the Medici paused to wonder if their ambitions were ‘proper’? They built an entire renaissance by refusing to accept limitations.”
Amos barks out a laugh. “And died of mercury poisoning from their ‘medicine.’ Look, Baleigh—” He shifts fully toward me now, the golden afternoon light gilding the scruff along his jaw, making him look like some carefree deity of spontaneity. “The only rules are the ones you agree to follow.”
The truth expands in my chest, pressing against my ribs.
My whole life, I’ve treated love like some sacred monolith—one soulmate, one predetermined future, one narrow lane of acceptable happiness.
But none of the rules from back home—the ones debated over casserole dishes at church socials—could possibly apply here, not with Michelangelo’s David watching over the piazza or the Arno River turning to liquid gold at sunrise.
My knees give out, and I sink onto the rumpled bed, the quilt cool under my trembling fingers. “What if I…” The confession claws its way up my throat. “What if I can’t choose between you?”
The silence isn’t the shocked, judgmental kind I’ve spent life dreading. No slamming doors, no dramatic exits. Just the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan stirring the humid air and Amos releasing a long breath like he’s been waiting years to hear me say it.
“Then we figure it out together.” His voice is softer now, all the usual mischief tempered into something tender. “However messy that looks.”
Max inclines his head in quiet agreement, his glasses catching the light.
The critical voice in my head doesn’t sound like my mother listing all the ways I’m failing. It sounds like me—just me—and what I discover is that I’m not afraid.