Page 10 of The Temporary Wife

Gianna

I stood in my flower shop at seven in the morning, arranging white roses and eucalyptus for a funeral service, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of stems and wire and careful placement.

The work usually calmed me, but today my hands shook as I trimmed the rose stems, and I’d already pricked my finger twice on thorns I should have seen coming.

Three days had passed since my argument with Colby, and the careful distance we’d maintained felt like a chasm neither of us knew how to cross.

We spoke only about Luca’s needs: homework, soccer practice, what to pack for lunch.

We moved around each other in the kitchen like polite strangers, avoiding touch, and eye contact that lasted too long.

At night, we lay on opposite sides of his king-size bed with an ocean of space between us, both pretending to sleep while the tension crackled like electricity in the dark.

The bell above my shop door chimed, and I looked up to see Summer entering with two cups of coffee and a concerned expression.

“You look terrible,” she said without preamble.

“Good morning to you too.” I accepted the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma. “Rough night.”

“Another one?” Summer perched on my work stool, studying my face with the intensity of someone who’d known me long enough to read between the lines. “Want to talk about it?”

I focused on the roses, arranging them in a cascade that would drape beautifully over the casket. “Not much to talk about.”

“Gianna.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “I’ve watched you work yourself into the ground this week. You’re here before dawn, you barely eat, and yesterday you put baby’s breath with sunflowers, which you would never do if your head was on straight.”

I glanced at the arrangement she mentioned, still sitting unfinished on my back counter. She was right. The combination looked amateur, sloppy. Not like my work at all.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And neither is Colby, from what Cory tells me. Whatever’s going on between you two, it’s affecting everyone around you.”

I set down my scissors and finally looked at her directly. “What do you mean?”

“Luca asked Marcus yesterday if grown-ups could stop being happy.” Summer’s expression softened. “That little boy is picking up on the tension, honey. Kids always do.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Luca—sweet, innocent Luca who just wanted his family to stay together—was already sensing that something was wrong. The very thing we’d been trying to protect him from was happening anyway.

“We’ve been careful,” I said weakly.

“Have you? Because from the outside, it looks like two people who are desperately in love but too scared to admit it.”

I turned back to the roses, unable to handle the knowing look in her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“Love usually is.”

“This isn’t about love. It’s about . . .” I trailed off, realizing I couldn’t explain the arrangement without revealing the truth about our marriage. “It’s about doing what’s best for Luca.”

“And what’s best for Luca is having two parents who are miserable?”

“We’re not miserable.”

Summer raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because you’re arranging funeral flowers at seven the morning instead of having breakfast with your family, and Colby’s apparently been working in his shop until midnight every night this week.”

I hadn’t known about the late nights in his workshop, but it made sense. We were both finding excuses to avoid being alone together, afraid of the tension that simmered between us whenever Luca wasn’t around to provide a buffer.

“Sometimes space is healthy,” I said.

“Space, yes. Emotional walls, no.” Summer hopped off the stool and moved closer. “Gianna, I don’t know what happened between you and Colby, but I do know that man looks at you like you hung the moon. And you light up around him and Luca in a way I’ve never seen before.”

“You don’t understand?—”

“Then help me understand. Because right now, it looks like you’re both throwing away something beautiful out of fear.”

Before I could respond, the shop door chimed again. This time it was Mrs. Henderson, picking up the centerpieces for her daughter’s engagement party. I forced a bright smile and helped her load the arrangements into her car, grateful for the interruption.

But after she left, Summer was still there, waiting with the patience of a friend who refused to be dismissed.

“I have feelings for him,” I admitted quietly. “Real feelings. But I’m not sure if they’re genuine or just a product of the situation we’re in.”

“What situation?”

I chose my words carefully. “Living together, taking care of Luca together, playing house. It’s easy to confuse proximity and shared responsibility with love.”

“Is it? Because I’ve lived with roommates before, and I never wanted to marry any of them.”

Despite everything, I smiled at that. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? You’re two adults sharing a home and raising a child. If that doesn’t create real feelings, nothing will.”

I thought about the past weeks, the easy mornings making breakfast together, the quiet evenings helping with homework, the way Colby looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. Had those moments been real, or just the result of forced intimacy?

“What if I’m wrong?” I said finally. “What if what I think I feel is just . . . convenience? What if I’m just a placeholder until he finds someone better?”

“Has he given you any reason to think that?”

I thought about the women he’s dated before, the women who had tried to build something lasting with Colby and had been pushed for some reason or the other. As his best friend, he never confided in me as to why he broke up with them, just that things didn’t work out.

“I’ve always been on the sideline watching him fumble his way through relationships.

The first after Gabrielle was Sarah. She tried so hard to be part of his and Luca’s life, but when she started talking about moving in together, Colby panicked and ended things.

Then came Rebecca. She lasted six months before he found reasons to pull away. ”

“People can change. Especially when they find the right person.”

“How do you know if you’re the right person or just the convenient person?”

Summer was quiet for a moment, considering. “I think you ask yourself this: If Colby didn’t need anything from you—no help with Luca, no domestic support, nothing—would you still want to be with him?”

The question stopped me cold. If I stripped away all the practical reasons for our arrangement, all the ways I’d become useful to him and Luca, what was left?

The answer came immediately, with a clarity that surprised me.

I would still want the man who ate nothing but vanilla ice cream and listened patiently to his son’s rambling stories.

I would still want the man who worked with his hands to create beautiful things, who kissed my forehead when he thought I was asleep, who looked at me sometimes like I was precious and rare.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Then that’s your answer. The rest is just fear talking.”

After Summer left, I spent the morning wrestling with her words while I worked on arrangements for the weekend’s weddings.

Two brides, both radiating joy and certainty as they planned their futures with the men they loved.

I’d helped create the flowers for dozens of weddings over the years, but today the symbolism felt pointed, almost mocking.

If Colby didn’t need anything from you—no help with Luca, no domestic support, nothing—would you still want to be with him?

But wanting him and trusting that he wanted me—really wanted me, not just needed me—were two different things. Lyla’s accusations from their coffee meeting still stung because they held a grain of truth. I was convenient. I was available. I was already woven into the fabric of their lives.

The question was whether I was also loved.

By lunch time, I’d decided to close the shop early and go home. Maybe Summer was right. Maybe Luca was picking up on our tension, and that wasn’t fair to him. We needed to find a way to coexist peacefully, even if we couldn’t bridge the emotional distance between us.

The house was quiet when I arrived, Colby’s truck gone from the driveway. I remembered he had a delivery across town, something about custom cabinets for a law office. Luca would be at school for another two hours, giving me time to think without the pressure of maintaining a facade.

I was in the kitchen making tea when my phone rang. Unknown number, but local area code.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Marshall? This is Janet from Millbrook Elementary. I’m calling about Luca.”

My heart stopped. “Is he hurt? What happened?”

“He’s fine, physically. But he had an incident during lunch recess. He got into an argument with another student and ended up in the principal’s office. He’s asked for you specifically.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The drive to the school took eight minutes that felt like hours. I called Colby twice, but both times it went straight to voicemail. He was probably in the middle of his installation, tools running too loud to hear his phone.

I found Luca sitting in the main office, his small legs swinging from an adult-sized chair. His face showed streaks of tears, and grass stains covered his shirt from whatever had happened on the playground.

“Mom,” he said when he saw me, and threw himself into my arms.

I held him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of his strawberry shampoo mixed with playground dirt. “Hey, sweetheart. What happened?”

“Tommy Morrison said mean things about you,” he said against my shoulder, his voice muffled but angry. “He said you’re not my real mom because you don’t look like me and you just moved in with us.”

The words were like a knife to my chest.

“What did you tell him?” I asked gently.