33. Atticus
ATTICUS
The coastal road to Lerici twists like a frayed ribbon, the Fiat groaning as I downshift for a hairpin turn.
To my right, the Tyrrhenian Sea is a sheet of crushed sapphires, blindingly bright.
Inside the car, the air is thick with the scent of salty heat and the lingering smell of the paninis we demolished two towns back.
"Tell me again about the time Amos lost his passport in the grotto," Baleigh says from the passenger seat. She’s leaning her head back, hair whipping in the wind, a smile playing on her lips.
Amos leans forward from the backseat, his hand resting on the shoulder of my seat. "Listen, the water was freezing and the currents were—"
"Non-existent," Max interrupts, his voice dry and steady. He’s squeezed into the back next to Amos, looking like a giant in a toy car, yet he hasn't complained once. "You simply dropped it while trying to flirt with the girl on the boat."
We laugh, the sound echoing within the cramped metal frame.
For a moment, it’s easy. The weight of the fellowship in Max’s pocket, the promotion waiting for Baleigh in North Carolina, and my own messy internal monologue fade into the background.
We are just four people chasing the horizon.
We aren't travelers today; we’re just us.
When I pull into the narrow, cobblestone alleyway of my village, the mood shifts. The engine dies, leaving only the sound of waves hitting the breakwater and the distant chime of the church bell.
I lead them toward the house, my keys heavy in my hand.
"Ciao, Atticus! Bentornato!"
I turn to see Signora Bianchi leaning over her wrought-iron balcony three doors down, shaking a rug. I wave back, shouting a greeting in Italian about the heat.
"You're late for your espresso, Atticus," the owner of the Bar del Porto calls out as we pass his patio. He already has a tiny white cup steaming on the counter. "I saw your shutter was closed this morning."
Baleigh stops, her hazel eyes darting from the shopkeeper to the vine-covered doorstep of my home. "Everyone knows you here."
"I’ve lived here three years, Leigh," I say, though saying it out loud feels different today.
I push open the heavy oak door. The house smells of lemon wood polish and old paper.
As I watch Baleigh run her hand over the stone countertop and Max examine the shelves of books I’ve meticulously organized, the lie I’ve told myself for a decade finally shatters.
I’m not a nomad. I’m not a ghost passing through.
I have plants on the terrace that need watering and a neighbor who worries when I don't show up for coffee.
I haven't been running away; I’ve been planting roots in the only soil that ever felt right.
The market stalls are humming with the late-afternoon rush.
I watch Baleigh haggle over a bunch of basil, her Italian a messy, charming blur of hand gestures and Southern vowels.
Max stands beside her, his large frame shielding her from a passing Vespa, while Amos balances a crate of blood oranges against his hip like he’s done it a thousand times.
Back at the house, the kitchen becomes a choreographed chaos.
Max handles the pasta water with academic precision, measuring salt as if it’s a chemical reagent.
Amos is the whirlwind, chopping tomatoes and humming a radio hit while bumping hips with Baleigh to reach the olive oil.
I step back, focusing my lens on them—the way the golden light catches the curve of Baleigh’s neck, the shared laugh between Max and Amos over a spilled glass of Vermentino.
It’s a domesticity so sharp it aches. This house has always been a sanctuary of solitude, but as we carry the plates to the terrace, the silence I used to prize feels like a hollow shell.
We eat as the Mediterranean fades from sapphire to a deep navy. The air cools, smelling of pine and charred garlic. For an hour, we are suspended in the amber of a perfect evening, but as the wine jars empty, the gravity of the calendar begins to pull.
"I have to sign the contract by Friday," Baleigh says. The words are quiet, dropping into the center of the table like a stone. She doesn't look at the ocean. She looks at her hands. "The director called again. They want me back in Raleigh for the fall semester."
Max sets his fork down with a deliberate click. "The fellowship in London is finalized. I received another confirmation this morning. Supposedly it's all over the university there."
"And I’ve got the Tokyo assignment," Amos adds, though the usual spark in his eyes is extinguished. He leans back, staring at the rafters. "Departure is in ten days. My bags are already half-packed."
The logistics lay there, cold and jagged. I look at the three of them—the people who turned my carefully curated hideout into a home—and the map of the world seems to stretch and tear. The 'until' has finally arrived. We aren't just talking about a summer anymore; we're talking about the end of us.
The Mediterranean wind picks up, tugging at the edge of the tablecloth. I set my wine glass down, the condensation slick against my palm. The silence of the terrace is heavy, waiting for me to add my own departure to the pile of exit strategies.
"I’m staying," I say. My voice is flatter than I intend, cutting through the salt-soaked air.
Baleigh looks up, her hazel eyes searching mine for the punchline that isn't coming. Amos stops swirling the remains of his red wine.
"My bags aren't packed," I continue, gesturing with a thumb toward the darkening hallway behind me.
"I spent twelve years drifting through train stations and sleeping in hostels because I was afraid of the very thing I’ve found here.
This house, the neighbor who knows how I take my coffee, the way the light hits the harbor at six in the morning—this isn't a layover. It’s become my life. "
I reach across the table, covering Baleigh’s hand with mine. "I love you, Baleigh. I love what we’ve become. But I can't dismantle a decade’s worth of foundations because the calendar says the season is over. I finally stopped running. I can't start again."
The confession hangs in the air, a beautiful, jagged thing. Baleigh’s fingers tremble under mine.
"So that's it?" she asks, her voice cracking. "We just... go? I go back to a windowless office in Raleigh and pretend this was a dream? I’ve spent my whole life being 'safe,' and the one time I choose a risk, the world pulls us in four different directions."
"It’s not just a risk, Leigh. It's our futures," Max says, his tone weary. He looks at me, then at Amos. "I’ve spent twenty years building the credentials for a fellowship like the one in London. If I walk away now, I’m not just losing a job; I’m losing the only identity I’ve ever known."
"And what about me?" Amos snaps, the usual humor gone from his face. "I’m the guy who’s always okay, right? But for the first time, I have a chance at a leadership role that actually matters. I’ve earned that seat.
Am I supposed to throw away my career to follow you to Raleigh?
Or you to London? Or stay here and watch Atticus take photos of a life I’m only visiting? "
"Nobody should have to choose," Baleigh whispers, looking at the three of us.
"But the world doesn't work that way," I reply. "And we’re out of time."
The dinner plates are cold, the remains of the wine staining the bottom of the crystal like dark ink.
Inside, the house murmurs with the sounds of drawers clicking shut and the low, rhythmic hum of Max and Amos debating something in the kitchen.
Baleigh’s shadow flickers against the yellow light of the guest room window.
They are retreating into the safety of walls, but I stay pinned to the iron chair, the chill of the Mediterranean night finally puncturing my skin.
Below the terrace, the sea is a rhythmic beast, lunging and retreating against the jagged limestone of the cliff side.
That sound used to be my lullaby, a constant reminder that the tide always goes out and nothing ever truly sticks.
I lived by that rhythm. I built my career on the beauty of the temporary—the perfect light on a ruin, the fleeting smile of a stranger, the backpack that held everything I owned.
I look through the glass door at the trio of them.
Max is leaning against the stone counter, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he stares at the floor.
Amos is moving with a frantic energy, clearing the table because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands.
Baleigh steps into the frame, her hair a golden halo in the lamplight, and the sight of her makes my lungs seize.
The irony is a bitter sediment in my throat.
I spent years terrified that someone would ask me to stay, crafting an identity out of departures and blurred horizons.
Now, I have the house. I have the keys. I have the roots I swore I never wanted.
And the three people who finally made this space feel like more than a curated gallery are about to be pulled away by the very thing I used to worship: the next destination.
There is no map for this. No travel guide covers the geography of a heart split into three distinct, impossible directions.
If I follow them, I lose the self I finally found in these hills.
If I stay, these rooms will feel like a tomb of what could have been.
I watch Baleigh turn off the kitchen light, and for the first time in my life, the road ahead isn't a line. It's a cliff.