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Before he could respond, Luca’s footsteps thundered down the stairs. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving!”
The moment shattered, and we both stepped back, putting safe distance between us. But as I started pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and Colby began boiling water for pasta, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were heading toward something neither of us was prepared for.
Later that evening, after Luca had gone to bed and Colby had retreated to his workshop, I sat alone in the living room staringat my phone. Lyla’s words echoed in my head, mixing with my own doubts and fears about what we were doing.
Maybe I should call my mother. It had been months since we’d spoken, our relationship strained and distant ever since she’d remarried and moved to Florida. But she was the only person who might understand what it felt like to be caught between wanting to belong somewhere and being afraid to trust that belonging.
I dialed her number before I could change my mind.
“Gianna?” Her voice was surprised, cautious. “Is everything okay?”
“Hi, Mom. Yeah, everything’s fine. I just . . . I wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
I closed my eyes, not sure how to begin. “I got married.”
Silence stretched across the line for so long I wondered if the call had dropped.
“Married?” she finally said. “When? To who?”
“Two weeks ago. To Colby. You remember him and his son, Luca?” She’d met them once, when she had visited.
“Two weeks ago and you’re just telling me now?”
The hurt in her voice made my chest ache. “It happened quickly. We didn’t have a big wedding or anything, just a small ceremony at the courthouse.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No, Mom. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
How could I explain that I’d been in love with Colby for three years but had only married him to help him keep custody of his son? How could I tell her that I was living a lie that felt more real than anything I’d ever experienced?
“It’s complicated,” I said finally, realizing I shouldn’t have called and told her. I probably should’ve led with something like Colby and I are dating.
“Marriage usually is.” Her voice was gentler now, less accusatory. “Are you happy?”
The simple question caught me off guard. Was I happy? In stolen moments—when Luca hugged me goodnight, when Colby smiled at me across the dinner table, when we worked together on homework or household tasks—yes. I was happier than I’d ever been.
But underneath that happiness was a constant undercurrent of fear. Fear that this would end. Fear that I was getting too attached. Fear that when the pretense was over, I’d be left with nothing but the memory of what it felt like to be part of a family.
“I think so,” I said. “Most of the time.”
“That’s more than a lot of people can say. Your father and I . . .” She trailed off, and I heard the weight of old regrets in her silence. “We were never happy, not really. We stayed together out of obligation and fear, and look how that turned out.”
My parents’ marriage had been a disaster from the beginning. Two people who’d married because it was expected, not because they loved each other. They’d spent eight years making each other miserable before my father finally left for good.
“This is different,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.
“I hope so, sweetheart. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved.”
After we hung up, I sat there thinking about her words. Did I deserve to be loved? And more importantly, was what I had with Colby and Luca real enough to last, or was I just setting myself up for the same kind of heartbreak that had defined my childhood?
The sound of the garage door opening interrupted my brooding. Colby appeared in the living room, looking tired but satisfied with his evening’s work.
“Everything okay?” he asked, noticing my expression.