Page 7 of The Temporary Wife

Gianna

T he kitchen smelled like cinnamon and glue stick as Luca and I worked on his solar system project at the breakfast table.

He’d been assigned to create a model of the planets, and we’d spent the past hour painting Styrofoam balls in various shades of blue, red, and yellow.

His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he carefully applied orange paint to what would become Jupiter.

“Mom, does Jupiter really have that big red spot?” he asked, holding up the ball to examine his work.

“It does. It’s called the Great Red Spot, and it’s actually a giant storm that’s been going on for hundreds of years.”

His eyes widened. “Hundreds of years? That’s longer than you and Dad have been alive.”

“Much longer,” I agreed, smiling at his amazement. “Space is full of incredible things.”

From the garage came the faint sound of Colby’s power tools as he worked on a custom bookshelf for a client. The familiar noise had become part of the soundtrack of our evenings, along with Luca’s chatter and the low hum of domestic life that I’d never experienced before moving in here.

Two weeks. That’s how long I’d been Mrs. Marshall, and already the rhythms of this house felt more natural than my old apartment ever had.

I woke up to the smell of Colby’s coffee and fell asleep to the sound of his breathing.

I packed Luca’s lunch every morning and helped him with homework every afternoon.

I’d become part of their routine so seamlessly that sometimes I forgot this was supposed to be temporary.

“Can you help me with the rings around Saturn?” Luca asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Of course.” I reached for the thin wire we’d brought home from the craft store. “We’ll need to be really careful with this part.”

As we worked together, bending the wire into delicate circles, I found myself thinking about my own childhood.

My parents had never helped me with school projects.

My father had left when I was eight, and my mother had been too busy working two jobs to sit at the kitchen table making solar systems. I’d learned early how to be self-sufficient, how to handle things on my own.

Maybe that’s why this felt so foreign and wonderful. The simple act of being present for a child who needed help, of having someone depend on me for more than just flower arrangements and small talk.

“There,” I said, carefully attaching the rings to Saturn. “What do you think?”

“Perfect!” Luca beamed, then threw his paint-stained arms around my waist. “Thanks, Mom. This is going to be the best project in the whole class.”

The hug caught me off guard, as it always did. The easy affection, the complete trust, the way he said “Mom” like it was the most natural thing in the world. My chest tightened with an emotion too big to name.

“I hope so, sweetheart.”

The power tools went quiet in the garage, and a moment later Colby appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sawdust clung to his dark hair, and his gray eyes looked soft as he took in the scene: paint-covered table, our heads bent together over the project, the comfortable domesticity of it all.

“How’s the solar system coming along?” he asked.

“Mom helped me make Saturn’s rings,” Luca announced proudly. “And she knows all about Jupiter’s red spot.”

“Does she now?” Colby’s gaze met mine across the table, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “Your mom is pretty smart.”

The word sent a familiar flutter through my stomach. When Colby called me Luca’s mom, it felt different than when Luca said it. More weighted. More dangerous.

“We’re almost done,” I said, focusing on cleaning paint from my hands. “Just need to let everything dry and then we can assemble it tomorrow.”

“Speaking of tomorrow,” Colby said, leaning against the doorframe, “I got a call from Luca’s teacher. Parent-teacher conferences are next week. She wants to meet with both of us.”

Both of us. Like we were a real parenting team, making decisions together about Luca’s education and future. The thought should have terrified me. This level of involvement, this depth of responsibility. Instead, it made me feel needed in a way I’d never experienced before.

“Of course,” I said. “Whatever works with your schedule.”

“Thursday at four. I can pick you up from the shop.”

“It’s a date.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and heat flooded my cheeks. “I mean?—”

“I know what you meant,” Colby said quietly, but his eyes lingered on my face longer than necessary.

Luca, oblivious to the tension crackling between his parents, had already moved on to more pressing concerns. “Can we have mac and cheese for dinner? The kind with the breadcrumbs on top?”

“Sure thing, buddy,” Colby said, finally breaking eye contact with me. “Why don’t you go wash your hands while Mom and I clean up this mess?”

After Luca scampered upstairs, Colby and I worked together to clear the table in comfortable silence. Our hands brushed as we reached for the same paint jar, and the brief contact sent electricity up my arm. I pulled back quickly, but not before I saw his sharp intake of breath.

“Gianna.” His voice was rougher than usual.

“Yeah?”

“About what happened at the school the other night . . .”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “What about it?”

“The way we were together. How natural it felt.” He set down the paint jar and turned to face me fully. “It didn’t feel like acting.”

“No,” I whispered. “It didn’t.”

“That’s dangerous territory for us.”

I knew he was right. The whole point of this arrangement was to maintain enough distance to walk away when it was over. But standing there in his kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of the life we’d built together, distance felt impossible.

“I know,” I said.

“So what do we do about it?”

Before I could answer, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, and his expression immediately darkened.

“Lyla,” he said, showing me the caller ID.

My stomach clenched. “Answer it.”

He accepted the call, putting it on speaker so I could hear. “Hello, Lyla.”

“Colby.” Her voice was crisp, businesslike. “I need to talk to you about this weekend.”

“What about it?”

“I won’t be able to make Luca’s soccer game. Something came up at work.”

Something came up. The same excuse she’d used for the past month. I saw Colby’s jaw tighten, but his voice remained steady.

“Luca will be disappointed.”

“I’m sure Gianna can cheer extra loud to make up for it,” Lyla said, and I caught the edge in her tone. “You two seem to have the happy family routine down perfectly.”

“We’re not putting on a routine,” Colby said carefully. “We’re just living our lives.”

“How convenient that your life suddenly includes a ready-made mother figure right when you need one.”

The accusation hung in the air like poison. I wanted to defend us, to tell her that my feelings for Luca were real regardless of circumstances. But anything I said would only make things worse.

“Is there something specific you need, Lyla?” Colby asked.

“Just calling to let you know about Saturday. Give Luca my love.”

The line went dead, leaving us standing in the sudden silence of the kitchen. I could see the tension in Colby’s shoulders, the way his hands had clenched into fists at his sides.

“She knows,” I said quietly.

“She suspects. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is all too convenient, too perfectly timed.”

“Don’t.” Colby stepped closer, his gray eyes intense. “Don’t let her get in your head. What we have here, what you and Luca have that’s real. It doesn’t matter how it started.”

“But what if the judge sees it the same way she does? What if our marriage looks like exactly what it is, a desperate attempt to create stability that doesn’t actually exist?”

“It does exist.” His voice was fierce now, almost angry. “You think the way you help him with homework is fake? The way you make sure he eats his vegetables and pack his lunch every morning? The way you worried when he had that fever last week and stayed up half the night checking his temperature?”

I stared at him, surprised by the vehemence in his voice.

“You love him,” Colby continued, his voice softer now. “And he loves you. That’s not fake, Gianna. That’s the realest thing in this whole mess.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. He was right. My love for Luca was completely genuine. But that only made this more complicated, not less.

“What happens when this is over?” I asked. “When you don’t need a wife anymore and I go back to my apartment? How do I explain to Luca that I was only temporary?”

The question seemed to hit him like a physical blow. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I try not to think that far ahead.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe we both should.”

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 staring at 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.”