Temporary Measures

"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?"

"Next Friday," I say, pulling up my calendar. "We’ll drive up after work. The wedding is Saturday, but there’s a rehearsal dinner Friday night."

"Plenty of time for our master plan to unfold," Valentina says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I’ll pack my best ‘doting girlfriend’ attire."

"And I’ll pack extra antacids," I mutter, already dreading the chaos of my family home.

The drive upstate is a blur of highway and Valentina’s eclectic playlist, punctuated by her enthusiastic sing-alongs to Italian pop songs I don’t recognize. By the time we pull into the gravel driveway of my parents’ sprawling Victorian, I’m jittery with nerves, my palms damp against the steering wheel.

"It’s… colorful," Valentina says diplomatically, eyeing the peeling purple trim and mismatched lawn ornaments.

"It’s home," I say shortly, popping the trunk and hauling out our bags. "Brace yourself."

I’ve barely set foot on the porch before the front door bursts open, revealing my mother in all her glory—flour dusting her apron, gray-streaked dark hair escaping its bun, eyes wide with delight.

"Sabrina!" she shrieks, enveloping me in a cloud of rosewater perfume and dough. "You’re here! And you brought—"

"Valentina," I supply, extricating myself from her embrace to gesture to my roommate, who’s hanging back with a polite smile. "My girlfriend."

The word feels foreign on my tongue, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice. She turns to Valentina with a beaming smile, pulling her into a slightly less vigorous hug. "Valentina! Welcome, welcome! We’ve heard so much about you!"

"You have?" Valentina shoots me a surprised look over Mom’s shoulder, and I shrug helplessly. Apparently my sister has been talking me up.

"Of course! Come in, come in!" Mom ushers us inside, the familiar chaos of the Russo household washing over me—braised meat and garlic, the blare of the television from the living room, the sound of my father yelling at the soccer game in rapid-fire Italian.

Valentina takes it all in stride, her smile never faltering as Mom peppers her with questions about the drive, her work, her family. I trail behind, feeling like a stranger in my own home.

The rest of the family descends like a swarm of locusts—my younger brother Fiorenzo with his trademark smirk, my ancient Nonna peering at Valentina with narrowed eyes, Aunt Maria already misty-eyed at the sight of young love.

"It’s so wonderful to meet you," Fiorenzo says, slinging an arm around Valentina’s shoulders with a familiarity that makes my jaw clench. "Sabrina’s been so mysterious about you."

"All good things, I hope," Valentina says lightly, disentangling herself with practiced grace.

"Only that you’re a painter," Mom says, leading us into the kitchen where a pot of sauce bubbles on the stove. "And that you’re very… modern."

I choke back a groan. "Mom—"

"It’s true!" she protests, waving a wooden spoon at me. "You’re always working, always on that computer. It’s nice to see you with someone who appreciates the arts."

"I appreciate the arts," I mutter, but no one is listening. Valentina has already been swept into the orbit of the Russo women, oohing and aahing over the simmering marinara like it’s the second coming.

"Your mother’s sauce is famous in the family," I tell Valentina, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction at finally having a tidbit to contribute. "She won the county fair three years running."

"Ah, but it’s nothing special," Mom says, waving away the compliment. "Just a little something I throw together."

By the time Dad wanders in, his eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Valentina, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. But Valentina handles it all with effortless charm, shaking his hand and complimenting his collection of vintage sports cars parked in the driveway.

"She’s a keeper," Dad whispers to me as Valentina admires a rusted-out Fiat. "Don’t screw this up."

"I’ll try not to," I say weakly, wondering when exactly I lost control of this situation.

We’re shown to my childhood bedroom, where Mom has thoughtfully made up the twin bed for Valentina and my old double for me. The room is just as I left it—band posters peeling off the walls, soccer trophies lining the shelves, a faint smell of adolescent angst clinging to the carpet.

"Cozy," Valentina says, tossing her bag onto the twin bed. "I feel like I’m getting the full Russo experience."

"Sorry about my mom," I say, sinking down onto my own bed with a sigh. "She can be a bit… much."

"She’s lovely," Valentina assures me, perching on the edge of her bed. "They all are. Very… enthusiastic."

"That’s one word for it." I rub my temples, feeling the first twinges of a headache. "Just wait until the rehearsal dinner. Cassandra will be there with her fiancée, and my family will be watching us like hawks."

"We’ve got this," Valentina says, reaching across the gap between our beds to squeeze my hand. "Remember the plan. We’re wildly in love, remember?"

"Right." I force a smile. "Wildly in love."

Valentina’s hand lingers on mine for a moment longer than necessary, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that sends a shiver up my spine. "You’re doing great, piccola. Just breathe."

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. "Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose family is basically constructing our wedding china pattern as we speak."

Valentina laughs, the sound warm and rich in the small room. "One step at a time, Sabrina. First, we survive the rehearsal dinner. Then we’ll worry about the china."

I take a deep breath, letting the familiarity of her presence wash over me. "Okay. One step at a time."

Valentina’s hand lingers on mine for a moment longer than necessary, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that sends a shiver up my spine. "You’re doing great, piccola. Just breathe."

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. "Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose family is basically constructing our wedding china pattern as we speak."

Valentina laughs, the sound warm and rich in the small room. "One step at a time, Sabrina. First, we survive the rehearsal dinner. Then we’ll worry about the china."

I take a deep breath, letting the familiarity of her presence wash over me. "Okay. One step at a time."

The rehearsal dinner is held at a local Italian restaurant, the kind with red-checkered tablecloths and wax dripping from Chianti bottles. Valentina charms everyone from the waitstaff to my gruff Uncle Tony, her laughter ringing out above the din of conversation. I stick close, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back as we navigate the crowded room.

"Sabrina! Valentina!" My sister Christina materializes beside us, her fiancé Mark in tow. "I’m so glad you made it!"

"Wouldn’t miss it," I say, forcing a smile. "You look beautiful, Chrissy."

She really does, her cheeks flushed with happiness, her eyes sparkling. "Thanks," she says, beaming. "I’m just so glad everyone’s here. Even Cassandra made it!"

As if summoned by the mention of her name, my ex-girlfriend appears at Christina’s elbow, her fiancée Tasha in tow. Cassandra looks impeccable as always, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, her navy sheath dress hugging her curves.

"Sabrina," she says coolly, her eyes flicking dismissively over Valentina. "I didn’t expect to see you here with a date."