Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
A+
The other day, I caught him trying to assemble the crib we ordered online. He had the instructions upside down and was using a wrench on the wrong screw, but the look of sheer determination on his face? Nearly made me cry.
Confession: It did make me cry, but to be fair, I cry at insurance commercials these days.
And don’t even get me started on the prenatal classes. Gio goes all in. While the other dads are quietly nodding along to the instructor, Gio is taking notes like he’s cramming for the SATs. He asks questions—so many questions.
“What if the baby’s first word is in Italian? Is that okay?”
“Can I be in charge of the lullabies? I’ve been working on a playlist.”
“Hypothetically speaking, if the baby looks exactly like me, how do we handle jealousy?”
He’s ridiculous.
He’s exhausting.
He’s mine.
“Babe? Are you ready? The realtor is going to meet us at the house in half an hour, and I don’t want to hit traffic,” his voice calls out from the kitchen, where I’m sure he’s pacing in that dramatic way of his.
I walk into the room with an eye roll as I grab my purse from his glossy counter. “It’s Sunday, Gio. We’re not going to hit traffic—the city is still sleeping.”
We’re heading to look at houses—can you believe that shit?
Me.
In a house.
Together, we decided we’d rather not be in a high-rise penthouse or an apartment when the baby arrives, and we came to the agreement—after several debates and a pros-and-cons list on his whiteboard—that maybe we should live together.
It makes sense, right?
He doesn’t want to miss everything, and quite honestly, I’d love to share the responsibility. And so here we are, scoping out houses just outside the city limits, in a small suburb close to my college and the ice rink—a win-win for both of us.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. The idea of waking up every day and seeing Gio—all of Gio—with his messy bedhead, his wide-eyed morning enthusiasm, and his inability to properly load a dishwasher.
It’s a lot.
“Babe, I think you’re really gonna love this one,” he says, breaking into my thoughts as he leans against the doorframe, looking way too proud of himself for someone who probably picked this house based on how large the garage was. “The listing said it’s got hardwood floors and a pot filler above the kitchen—whatever that is—but most importantly, a fenced yard.”
“A yard for what?” I ask, arching a brow. “I don’t think Gio will want to wander.” He won’t even want to go outside.
He hates it out there.
“You know, in the winter. I can build a rink in the backyard so the baby can learn to skate.”
“Gio, the baby isn’t even born yet, and you’re already planning their skating career?”
“Hey, we gotta start ‘em early if we’re raising the next hockey superstar—this place has two acres of side yard. That’s enormous.”
I blink at him, trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or just get back in bed and pretend this conversation never happened. “You can hardly build Ikea furniture without YouTube tutorials, and now you think you can build an ice rink?”
“Totally different skill set,” he insists, sounding completely unbothered. “I bookmarked some tutorials on my phone. It’s gonna be amazing. Trust me.”
We make our way toward the parking garage.
“Gio, just so we’re clear—this imaginary rink of yours? Who’s going to maintain it? Because I’m not waking up at five in the morning to scrape ice or whatever it is hockey parents do.”
“Oh, don’t worry, babe,” he says, pulling out the car keys with a flourish. “I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll get one of those Zamboni machines. You know, the mini ones. I’ll just drive it around the yard.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “A Zamboni?”
He nods like this is the most reasonable idea he’s ever had. “Yeah. I’ve already been looking at used ones online. They’re not that expensive if you find one from, like, 1998.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but of course—there isn’t one.
This man is dead serious.
“Let me get this straight. You want to buy a house, build an ice rink, and then…drive a Zamboni in our backyard?”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning like he’s just nailed the best pitch of his life.
“Dude, no.”
As we pull out of the garage, I glance over at him, his face lit up with excitement. It’s ridiculous, honestly—this whole ice rink idea, the Zamboni, everything—but it’s also kind of adorable. Because underneath all the chaos and the questionable plans, Gio is trying.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t trade this insanity for anything.
“Know what I’m gonna do when we get back to my place?”
“Hmm?” I hum, scrolling through podcasts to listen to on our drive. “What are you going to do when we get back to your place?”