Page 162 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Gio has been showing up in a big way. Like,reallyshowing up.

And I love the way he talks to my stomach, telling the baby about all the places they’re going to go and the games they’re going to play and the things they’re going to learn.

I love how he holds my hand during every single ultrasound.

He’s been the best. When I couldn’t reach my toes to paint my nails, Gio sat on the bathroom floor with a tiny bottle of pink polish in his giant hand and painted them for me. Granted, itlooked like a toddler slopped the paint on wearing a blindfold, but the effort?

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 goesall 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’smine.

“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.”

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