Page 8 of The Temporary Wife

“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.

“Just thinking.”

“About what Lyla said?”

I nodded. “Among other things.”

He sat down beside me on the couch, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of wood stain on his clothes. “Want to talk about it?”

“I called my mother. Told her about the wedding.”

His eyebrows rose. “How did that go?”

“Better than expected, actually. She asked if I was happy.”

“What did you tell her?”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The strong line of his jaw, the gray eyes that seemed to see straight through me, the hands that created beautiful things from raw wood and touched me with such careful gentleness.

“That I think so. Most of the time.”

Something shifted in his expression, a softness that made my breath catch. “And the rest of the time?”

“The rest of the time I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of this.” I gestured between us, at the space that seemed to crackle with possibility. “Of how real it feels. Of what happens when it’s over.”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he was trying to memorize it. Finally, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek.

“What if it doesn’t have to be over?” he said quietly.

My heart stopped. “Colby . . .”

“I know what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be temporary. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like pretend for me.”

“We can’t.” The words came out as barely a whisper. “We agreed?—”

“Agreements can change. People can change.” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, and I felt myself leaning into his touch despite every rational thought in my head.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, about what happens when this is over.

And the truth is, I don’t want it to be over. ”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” His steely eyes were intense, searching. “When I watch you with Luca, when we’re making dinner together or helping with homework or just sitting here talking, it doesn’t feel like an arrangement, Gianna. It feels like home.”

Tears stung my eyes. “What if you’re wrong? What if you’re just confused because we’re living together and sharing a bed and playing house? What if when everything settles down, you realize this isn’t what you actually want?”

“What if you’re wrong?” he countered. “What if this is exactly what I want, and I’ve just been too scared to admit it?”

Before I could respond, he leaned closer, and I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, could feel his breath warm against my lips. Every rational thought fled my mind as the space between us disappeared.

His kiss was soft, tentative, nothing like the brief press of lips at our wedding ceremony. This was real. This was him asking a question I wasn’t sure I was ready to answer.

I kissed him back anyway, my hands fisting in his shirt as weeks of suppressed longing crashed over me like a wave. He tasted like coffee and possibility, like everything I’d ever wanted and been afraid to reach for.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, and I could see the uncertainty in his eyes that probably mirrored my own.

“This changes everything,” I whispered.

“Maybe it was always going to change,” he said. “Maybe we were just kidding ourselves that we could keep this simple.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust that this moment was real, that his feelings weren’t just a product of our circumstances. But the fear was still there, whispering reminders of every time I’d been left behind, every time I’d been disappointed by someone I’d trusted.

“I need time,” I said finally. “To think. To figure out what this means.”

He nodded, though I could see the disappointment flicker across his face. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying no,” I clarified quickly. “I’m just saying . . . this is complicated.”

“I know it is.” He stood up from the couch, running a hand through his hair. “But Gianna? Some things are worth being complicated for.”

As I watched him head upstairs, I sat there touching my lips and wondering if he was right.

If what we were building together was worth the risk of heartbreak.

If love—real love—was worth fighting for, even when it came wrapped in custody battles and legal complications and all the messy realities of life.

I thought about Luca upstairs in his bed, dreaming of solar systems and soccer games. I thought about the parent-teacher conference next week, and all the ways our lives had become intertwined.

And I thought about the way Colby had looked at me when he’d said this felt like home.

Maybe some risks were worth taking after all.