Temporary Measures

The email from my sister sits open on my laptop, the words "Save the Date!" practically vibrating with her signature chaotic energy. My own calendar app immediately protests the imposition. *May 15th. Wedding.* Of course it's a destination event. Of course it requires a date. Of course my ex-girlfriend—who dumped me at my last family gathering—will be there with her new fiancée. I can already feel the weight of Aunt Maria's pitying glances, the not-so-subtle questions about my love life from Nonna, the suffocating embrace of Russo family matchmaking in full force.

My roommate Valentina slides into the booth opposite me, her arrival at our favorite café heralded by the familiar scent of turpentine and the jingle of the bell above the door. She’s fresh from her studio, flecks of paint still clinging to her knuckles. "Sabrina. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or worse, your mother's called about your life choices again."

"Worse," I confirm, sliding my phone across the table. Valentina scans the wedding announcement, her dark eyebrows lifting.

"Ah. Operation: Avoid Ex at All Costs commences." She takes a sip of her latte, leaving a tiny foam mustache on her upper lip. "So what's the plan? Strategic seating arrangements? A sudden bout of food poisoning? Or are you finally going to give in and let your nonna set you up with that 'nice girl from the deli'?"

"None of the above." I take a fortifying breath. "I need a date. A convincing one."

Valentina blinks. "You want me to set you up with someone? I don't think my friends are really your—"

"No. Not someone." My heart hammers against my ribs. "You."

Her laughter rings out, bright and sudden. "Me? Sabrina, darling, I love you, but I’m the last person who should be anyone’s wedding date. I’m a walking disaster in formal wear. And commitment? Please. I break out in hives just thinking about it."

"Exactly," I press, leaning forward. "You’re charming, you’re gorgeous, and you can talk your way out of anything. And since we both know this isn't real, there’s zero risk of either of us catching feelings." The words taste strange—too clinical for the warmth blooming unexpectedly in my chest.

Valentina studies me, her amusement fading into something sharper, more assessing. "You’re serious."

"Deadly."

She drums her fingers against the chipped ceramic mug. "What exactly would this entail?"

"We’d need a backstory. Shared interests. A few affectionate gestures in public. Enough to sell it to my family—and to Cassandra."

"Cassandra. The ex."

I nod. "The one who called me 'emotionally unavailable' in front of the entire family during Easter dinner."

Valentina’s eyes narrow slightly. "Right. Her." She takes another sip, considering. "Ground rules."

I fumble for my phone, opening the notes app. "Absolutely. Rule one: no kissing on the mouth."

"Deal," Valentina says immediately. "Too messy. Rule two: no discussing our actual love lives. Or lack thereof."

"Agreed." I type furiously. "Rule three: we share a room at my parents’ house, but separate beds."

"Obviously," Valentina nods. "Rule four: this ends the second we leave the wedding. We go back to being roommates who occasionally steal each other’s yogurt."

"Rule five," I add, "we rehearse. Backstory, pet names, the works. I’m not getting caught off guard by my cousin Tony’s interrogation techniques."

Valentina’s grin returns, wicked and bright. "You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?"

"I’m an engineer. Contingency planning is what I do." I extend my hand across the table. "So? Are you in?"

She hesitates, her fingers hovering over mine. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’ve misjudged, if this whole absurd plan is about to implode before it even begins. Then her palm slides against mine, her grip firm.

"Alright, Sabrina Russo," she says, her voice warm with mischief. "Let’s make you look tragically, hopelessly in love."

Valentina’s handshake is warm, her calloused fingers a stark contrast to my own keyboard-softened skin. A jolt travels up my arm, unexpected and not entirely unpleasant. I pull away quickly, suddenly aware of how close we’re sitting in this tiny booth.

"Okay," I say, my voice only a little shaky. "First things first—we need a meet-cute. Something believable but not too cliché."

Valentina leans back, crossing her arms over her paint-splattered t-shirt. "How about… we met at that disastrous gallery opening last month? The one where the sculpture collapsed and nearly took out the champagne tower?"

I wrinkle my nose. "You mean the one where you got into a twenty-minute debate with that art critic about the merits of abstract expressionism?"

"Exactly!" Valentina grins. "I was so passionate, so alive—how could you resist?"

"I resisted just fine, actually," I remind her, though I can’t help smiling at the memory of her, all animated gestures and paint-stained jeans, holding court amidst a circle of bewildered art patrons. "But it’s plausible. We’ll say we bonded over the chaos."

"Perfect. And then I swept you off your feet with my sparkling wit and devastating charm."

"Let’s not get carried away," I mutter, but I’m already typing notes. "Shared interests… you’re an artist, I’m an engineer. We’ll say we enjoy… museums? The MoMA, the Guggenheim…"

"Ugh, no," Valentina groans. "So stuffy. How about… hiking? Long walks where you can lecture me about geological formations and I can pretend to understand?"

I shoot her a look. "I do not lecture."

"You absolutely lecture," she says cheerfully. "But it’s cute. In a nerdy, over-enthusiastic kind of way."

"Fine. Hiking it is." I add it to the list. "Pet names. We need something natural. ‘Honey’? ‘Sweetheart’?"

Valentina makes a face. "Too generic. How about… ‘piccola’? Little one. It’s Italian, it’s affectionate…"

"And it emphasizes our height difference," I point out. "Which is already considerable."

"All the better to rest my head on your shoulder during boring family speeches," she counters with a wink.

I ignore the sudden image of Valentina tucked against my side, her hair soft against my neck. "Fine. ‘Piccola’ it is."

"Excellent." Valentina taps her chin thoughtfully. "Now, physical affection. We’re going to need to look comfortable with each other."

My stomach flutters. "Hand-holding. Maybe an arm around the waist. Nothing too… intense."

"Of course," Valentina agrees easily. "But we should practice. Just to make sure it looks natural."

"Practice?" I echo, my voice cracking slightly.

"Sure. Stand up." She slides out of the booth, offering her hand again. "Come on, Russo. Let’s see if we’ve got chemistry."

I take her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. The café is bustling around us, the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation providing a strange sort of privacy. Valentina steps closer, her free hand settling lightly on my waist. Her touch is warm through the thin fabric of my button-down.

"Okay," she murmurs, her breath stirring the hair near my temple. "Now put your arm around me. Like you mean it."

I comply, my arm settling awkwardly around her shoulders. She’s right—I’m definitely the taller one, her head tucking easily under my chin. She smells like coffee and paint and the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo.

"Relax," Valentina coaches, her fingers squeezing mine gently. "This is supposed to look easy. Natural."

I take a deep breath, trying to will the tension from my shoulders. "How’s this?"

"Better." She shifts slightly, her body aligning more comfortably against mine. "Now smile, like I just said something charming and witty."

I smile, and it’s not even entirely forced. "Like what?"

Valentina looks up at me, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Like… ‘Sabrina, your grasp of structural engineering principles is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.'"

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. "That might be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard."

"Is it working?" Valentina asks, her grin widening.

I shake my head, but I’m still smiling. "Not even a little."

"Hmm. I’ll have to up my game." She steps back, her touch lingering for just a moment before she lets go. "But I think we’ve got this. The Russo family won’t know what hit them."

I nod, ignoring the sudden pang of disappointment low in my belly. "Right. They won’t suspect a thing."

Valentina slides back into the booth, reaching for her latte. "So. When do we leave for the wedding?"

Valentina taps her chin thoughtfully. "Now, physical affection. We’re going to need to look comfortable with each other."

My stomach flutters. "Hand-holding. Maybe an arm around the waist. Nothing too… intense."

"Of course," Valentina agrees easily. "But we should practice. Just to make sure it looks natural."

"Practice?" I echo, my voice cracking slightly.

"Sure. Stand up." She slides out of the booth, offering her hand again. "Come on, Russo. Let’s see if we’ve got chemistry."

I take her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. The café is bustling around us, the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation providing a strange sort of privacy. Valentina steps closer, her free hand settling lightly on my waist. Her touch is warm through the thin fabric of my button-down.