Temporary Measures

I feel Valentina stiffen beside me, her smile turning sharp. "Cassandra," she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "So nice to see you again. And you must be Tasha! Cassandra’s told me so much about you."

Cassandra’s eyes narrow, but Tasha just looks bewildered. "I don’t think we’ve met," she says, offering Valentina a polite smile. "I’m Tasha."

"Valentina," my fake girlfriend says, taking Tasha’s hand and shaking it firmly. "Sabrina’s partner."

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Cassandra’s mouth tightens, her gaze sharpening as she looks between us.

"Partner?" she repeats, her tone arch. "How… modern."

Valentina’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close. "We prefer the term ‘girlfriend,’ actually," she says, her voice light but firm. "But partner works too."

Cassandra’s smile is brittle. "Well, I’m glad Sabrina finally found someone willing to put up with her… quirks," she says, her eyes raking over me with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl. "She’s not exactly the easiest person to love."

The jab lands, sharp and precise, right in the old wound she left behind. I feel my cheeks flush, my carefully constructed composure cracking at the edges.

But before I can formulate a response, Valentina is moving. She steps in front of me, her body blocking Cassandra’s view as she reaches up to cup my face. "I think you’ll find that loving Sabrina is the easiest thing in the world," she murmurs, her eyes locked on mine.

And then she kisses me.

It’s not the chaste peck we’d practiced in the café. This is a full-body kiss, her lips slanting over mine with a fierce, possessive heat that steals the breath from my lungs. Her fingers tangle in my hair, her body pressing close as she deepens the kiss, her tongue teasing the seam of my lips until I open for her with a soft gasp.

The world falls away—the restaurant, my family, Cassandra’s spiteful words—all fading into static beneath the wave of sensation crashing over me. Valentina tastes like wine and garlic bread, her lips soft and demanding against mine. My hands find her hips, clinging desperately as my knees threaten to buckle.

When she finally pulls back, I’m dizzy and breathless, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Valentina’s lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.

"Shall we find our seats, piccola?" she murmurs, her voice rough and low.

I can only nod, my fingers trembling as I let her lead me away from Cassandra’s slack-jawed stare. The rest of the dinner passes in a blur, Valentina’s presence beside me a constant, grounding force. She keeps her arm around my shoulders, her touch light but possessive, as if daring anyone to question our relationship.

By the time we stumble back into my childhood bedroom, I’m vibrating with nervous energy, my thoughts a tangled mess. Valentina closes the door behind us, the click of the lock echoing loudly in the sudden silence.

"Wow," she says, leaning back against the door with a breathless laugh. "That was… intense."

I sink down onto the edge of my bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. "You kissed me," I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them.

Valentina’s grin is wicked. "I did," she agrees, pushing off the door to cross the room towards me. "And you kissed me back."

My cheeks flush. "I didn’t have much choice. You were… very convincing."

"High praise from the queen of contingency planning," Valentina teases, stopping just in front of me. Her fingers brush my cheek, tilting my face up towards hers. "You okay, Sabrina? You look a little shell-shocked."

"I’m fine," I lie, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just… processing."

Valentina’s eyes search mine, her expression uncharacteristically serious. "Cassandra’s a bitch," she says bluntly. "Don’t let her get to you."

"I’m not," I say, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.

Valentina seems to hear it too. She sighs, her thumb stroking along my jawline in a gesture that’s becoming uncomfortably familiar. "You’re amazing, Sabrina," she murmurs. "Anybody who can’t see that is an idiot."

I swallow hard, my throat tight. "Valentina—"

"Shh." She leans in, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth in a feather-light kiss. "Get some sleep, piccola. We’ve got a big day tomorrow."

She steps back, and the sudden loss of her proximity leaves me feeling cold and adrift. I watch as she slips into the tiny adjoining bathroom to change, emerging a few minutes later in a pair of loose cotton pajamas.

I change quickly into my own sleep clothes—a faded t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts—while Valentina turns down the beds. The twin bed she’s claimed looks impossibly small, the blankets rumpled and inviting.

"Goodnight, Sabrina," Valentina says, sliding beneath the covers with a sigh.

"Goodnight," I echo, climbing into my own bed and switching off the lamp.

The room plunges into darkness, the only light the moon filtering through the gauzy curtains. I lie awake for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of Valentina’s breathing, the warmth of her kiss still lingering on my lips.

The morning of the wedding dawns bright and clear, sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains to paint stripes across the worn carpet. I wake to the sound of Valentina humming softly in the shower, the familiar tune anchoring me in the midst of the chaos swirling inside my head.

By the time she emerges, wrapped in a towel with her dark hair dripping onto her shoulders, I’ve managed to regain some semblance of composure. We spend the morning in a comfortable silence, sipping coffee from mismatched mugs and picking at the platter of pastries Mom insisted on sending up.

"You look beautiful," Valentina says as I smooth the front of my navy-blue bridesmaid’s dress, the silky fabric clinging to my curves in a way that feels both alien and exhilarating.

"You’re not so bad yourself," I counter, taking in her sleek black jumpsuit and heels, the way the outfit hugs her lean frame.

She grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just trying to keep up with my gorgeous girlfriend."

The word still feels strange on my tongue, but I’m getting used to the warmth that floods my chest every time she says it. "Ready to face the firing squad?"

"Born ready, piccola." Valentina holds out her hand, her fingers warm and sure as they wrap around mine. "Let’s go get this over with."

The ceremony is held in the backyard, the gardens bursting with late-summer blooms. White chairs are arranged in neat rows on the lawn, a rose petal-strewn aisle leading to the ivy-covered gazebo where Christina and Mark will say their vows. Valentina and I slip into our seats near the front, her hand resting possessively on my thigh as we watch the other guests file in.

"Sabrina!" Nonna’s voice cuts through the low murmur of conversation, and I turn to see her bustling towards us, her walker leaving divots in the grass. "And Valentina! Come, give your Nonna a kiss."

We obey, Valentina pressing a gentle kiss to her papery cheek before I do the same. Nonna’s eyes are sharp as she looks between us, her gnarled fingers patting my hand. "You make a lovely couple," she says, her Italian accent thick and warm. "It’s good to see you happy, piccola."

I force a smile, ignoring the pang of guilt in my chest. "Thanks, Nonna."

The ceremony is beautiful, Christina radiant in her lace gown, Mark tearing up as he recites his vows. I find myself blinking back tears, my hand finding Valentina’s as we watch my sister pledge her life to the man she loves.

"You’re crying," Valentina whispers, her thumb stroking the back of my hand.

"It’s the wind," I mutter, discreetly swiping at my eyes.

She just smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my temple. The gesture is intimate, tender, and for a moment I forget that this isn’t real.

The reception is held under a billowing white tent strung with fairy lights, the tables laden with food and wine and laughter. Valentina and I are seated with my cousins and their dates, the conversation flowing easily as we pass platters of pasta and roast chicken.

Throughout the meal, Valentina is the picture-perfect girlfriend—attentive and affectionate, her hand resting on my arm as she leans in to whisper jokes in my ear. She feeds me bites of cake from her fork, wipes a smudge of frosting from the corner of my mouth with her thumb, rests her head on my shoulder as we watch the speeches.

I play my part too, my arm around her waist, my lips brushing her hair as I murmur responses to her quips. We’re so convincing, even I start to believe it.