27. Baleigh
BALEIGH
Rome tastes like rosemary and cooling stone tonight.
Amos chose a spot near the Trastevere, a terrace tucked so high above the narrow streets that the roar of Vespas fades into a rhythmic hum.
He’s in his element, holding a bottle of crisp Frascati like a wizard’s wand, filling glasses before they hit the halfway mark.
Across from me, Max dissects the architecture of the Janiculum Hill with the same precision he uses on his pasta, but his eyes keep drifting to mine.
Atticus sits to my left, his thigh brushing against mine under the table, a secret anchored in the dark.
“Try the artichokes, Leigh,” Amos says, sliding a plate toward me. “Best in the city. If I ever go missing, check the back kitchen here.”
“You’d be the only missing person who gains ten pounds while in hiding,” Max counters, though his smile is soft. He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my shoulder. The touch is brief, but it radiates.
Laughter ripples through us, easy and practiced.
We’ve become a unit, a strange, four-headed creature navigating the cobbles and the crowds.
We share bread, we finish each other’s jokes about the program director’s temper, and we lean into the warmth of the evening.
But underneath the clink of silverware, a clock is ticking.
I can feel the seconds dripping away like the condensation on my wine glass.
As the restaurant clears and the waiters retreat to the shadows near the bar, the air changes. The city lights stretch out below us, a carpet of amber and flickering gold. The church bells of San Pietro in Montorio begin to toll, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates in my chest.
I look at Amos’s calloused hands, then at Max’s thoughtful frown, then at the sharp line of Atticus’s jaw. The silence stops being comfortable. It grows heavy, saturated with the things we haven’t said because saying them makes the end real.
“A few weeks left,” I whisper. The words feel like lead on my tongue. I haven't been back to North Carolina in my mind for a good minute, but suddenly, the image of my small bedroom and the quiet, pre-mapped life waiting for me feels like a cage closing in.
Amos sets his glass down. The humor has drained from his face, replaced by a raw, quiet intensity. Max stops tracing the rim of his glass. Atticus’s hand finds mine under the table, his grip tight, almost desperate.
“Baleigh,” Max starts, his voice low and steady. “We aren't letting you go back to that.”
The air on the terrace turns too thin to breathe.
I look from Max’s steady gaze to Amos’s uncharacteristic stillness, then finally to Atticus, who watches me like a storm front rolling in.
The truth has been a knot in my throat for weeks, growing tighter with every shared sunset and every midnight conversation.
“I can’t choose,” I say. The words are small, nearly lost to the Rome breeze, but they feel like an avalanche.
“I’ve tried to rank you in my head. I’ve tried to find the one who makes the others fade, but it doesn’t work that way.
It’s not a competition where someone loses.
It's driving me crazy—-I've never been in a place like this before.”
I reach out, taking Amos’s hand while Atticus still holds my other. I look at Max, needing him to see the honesty in my face.
“I love you,” I say, and the world doesn’t end. “I love Max for the way he makes the world feel vast and significant. I love Amos for the way he makes me feel like I’m finally brave enough to laugh. And I love Atticus for showing me the hidden corners of the world and myself.”
Speaking it aloud is a physical release, like dropping a heavy pack after a long hike.
My chest expands, the shame of my indecision dissolving into the warm Italian night.
But the liberation is followed quickly by a cold, sharp panic.
It’s one thing to admit the love; it’s another to survive the reality of it.
“But I’m terrified,” I admit, my voice trembling. “Back home, love is a two-person house with a picket fence. If I choose this—whatever this is—I’m letting everyone down. My mother, my sister... they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. They’ll think I’m being reckless.”
I look around at the three of them, these men who have become my entire world.
“And what happens when the program ends? I’m scared that as soon as I step on a plane, I’ll start to shrink back into the girl who plays it safe.
I’m scared I’ll lose the Baleigh who eats dinner on rooftops and says what she feels.
” I squeeze their hands, my knuckles tight.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be the reason you three stop looking at each other like friends.
This doesn't have a map, and I've never been good at navigating without one.”
Max pulls his hand back, not to create distance, but to fold his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in that professorial way that usually precedes a lecture. But his voice isn't authoritative. It’s thin.
"Sustainability is the ghost in the room, Baleigh," Max says, his gaze fixed on the empty wine bottles. "I have a tenure track at a university that expects me back in the fall. I have a mortgage on a house in a city where the winters are grey. It isn’t just about love; it’s about the logistics of four lives that are currently tethered only by a temporary contract in Italy.
How do we keep the light on when the scenery changes? "
The weight of his words settles over us, heavy and grounded. It’s the practical reality I've been running from.
Amos let out a sharp, jagged sigh. He leans back, his chair creaking against the stone floor. The easy, mischievous coordinator is gone; the man who hides behind humor has finally stepped into the light.
"I'm not worried about the logistics," Amos says, looking at me with eyes that seem older than thirty-six. "I’m worried about the momentum. We’re in a bubble. Here, it’s easy to be the best versions of ourselves because the sun is always out and the wine is cheap. My biggest fear is that once that plane touches down back home, the person who made me feel like I finally had a home will just... turn back into a memory. I’m scared we’re all just vacation versions of ourselves. "
Atticus shifts beside me. I feel the tension in his leg, a coiled spring ready to snap. He stares out at the dome of St. Peter’s, his jaw tight.
"I’ve spent ten years perfecting the art of the exit," Atticus says, his voice like gravel. "The second a place starts to feel like a cage, I pack the camera bag and find a new border. I love you. I love what we’ve built here. But I’m terrified that one morning I’ll wake up, feel the weight of three other people's needs, and my first instinct will be to run.
I don't know if I'm capable of staying."
The quiet isn't hollow; it’s full. We’ve laid the jagged pieces of our shadows on the table between the artichokes and the dregs of the Frascati. I wait for the rejection, for someone to say it’s too much, too messy, too impossible.
But nobody moves.
Max looks at Amos, a silent communication passing between them—a mutual recognition of the stakes. Then he looks at Atticus, nodding slowly.
"The strange thing is," Max says, voice gaining a new, steadier resonance. "Despite the logistics, I haven't looked up flight schedules for myself once. I’m not looking for the exit."
"Me neither," Amos says, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’ve spent my entire life moving. I really don’t want to go anywhere."
Atticus finally turns his head, his eyes locking onto mine, then drifting to the other two. "I'm terrified of staying," he repeats, his voice lower now. "But I'm more terrified of leaving."
The panic in my chest begins to dull into a strange, vibrating hope.
We aren't arguing about who wins. We're positioned at the edge of a cliff, admitting we're afraid of heights, but none of us is stepping back toward the safety of the trees.
The conversation is no longer about why this shouldn't work. It’s about the fact that none of us wants it to stop.
The moon hangs low over the Tiber, silvering the terracotta roofs of Trastevere.
We sit in the aftermath of our own wreckage, the air cleared of the unspoken.
I half-expect the waiter to come by and tell us we have to go, that the restaurant is closing and the fantasy is over, but nobody moves. We are the last souls on the terrace.
Max reaches across the table, his hand palm-up, a silent invitation.
Amos covers it with his own, and Atticus rests his hand on top of theirs.
I complete the circle, my fingers interlaced with theirs, feeling the distinct heat of each man—the steady warmth of Max, the restless energy in Amos’s palm, the slight tremor in Atticus’s grip.
We don’t talk about flight paths or visas.
We don’t draft a schedule for North Carolina.
Instead, the silence turns into something thick and nourishing.
The logistics Max mentioned haven't vanished, and the fear Atticus confessed hasn’t evaporated into the Roman night, but they weigh less now.
They are just variables in an equation we’ve finally agreed to solve together.
I look at Amos, whose eyes are bright and focused on me, stripped of the deflective humor that usually guards him.
He’s not looking for the next disaster to fix; he’s looking at me like he’s already found his destination.
Beside him, Max’s expression has smoothed into a quiet, resolute peace.
He’s spent a lifetime teaching history, documenting the rise and fall of great things, but tonight he looks like he’s ready to build something new.
And Atticus—the man who makes a living by leaving—hasn't pulled his hand away. He watches the flickering candles, his presence grounded and heavy beside me. He is choosing the discomfort of staying over the ease of the horizon.
A breeze kicks up, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and ancient dust. At last, the buzzing anxiety in my stomach has gone quiet.
I spent my whole life afraid of making the wrong choice, paralyzed by the idea that one door closing meant I was trapped forever.
But looking at them, I realize there are no doors here.
There is only this wide, open terrace under a limitless sky.
The future isn't a cage waiting to catch me; it’s a canvas we’re all holding. We don't have the answers, but as the bells toll once more in the distance, I realize I’m no longer afraid of the dark. We are the light.