“Wait—hemadeit?” Harlow’s voice perks up.
“Yeah,” I say, unsure where she’s going with this. “He brought it in a tumbler with a pink straw.”
“Babes! That is huge! He brought you a soda that he made?” Harlow asks eagerly.
“Girl, he totally bought that cup just for you,” Melanie adds.
I try to play it cool, though deep down my heart does a little flip.
Why am I thinking about him so much?
“Because,” Melanie says, reading my mind like she alwaysdoes, “you’re starting to like him. Not just Aura. Him. And that’s okay.”
Harlow and Melanie exchange excited glances. “Operation Single Dad is looking better and better!” Harlow declares.
I roll my eyes, but all that is on my mind is Gabriel.
Order in the Chaos
GABRIEL
The daysafter Millie and I agreed on the nanny situation pass quickly. I spend most of the time cleaning up the house, trying to make everything look more… organized. I even rearranged the living room twice, trying to create more space for Aura to crawl and play. Each time I stepped back, I’d run a hand through my hair and wonder if I was overthinking it—like, does any of this really matter when there’s a tiny human who’s going to wreck it all, anyway? Nevertheless, I try.
I’m a clean guy—always have been. My ma raised me that way, instilling in me the importance of keeping your space neat, even when life is chaotic. She used to say, ‘Order in your home is order in your head,’ and right now, with everything swirling around me, I’m clinging to that more than ever.
But having a baby changes everything. It feels nearly impossible to stay on top of all the things that need to be done—laundry piling up, bottles everywhere, toys scattered around. Every day is a race to clean before the next mess appears. It’s exhausting, but there’s a weird comfort in it too—this chaotic rhythm that’s all ours. I catch myself smiling sometimes, even when I’m elbow-deep in a mountain of dirty clothes, because this chaos is hers.
I still try, but there’s only so much one man can do when it feels like a tornado is constantly swirling throughout the house, leaving a trail of chaos in its wake.
Sometimes I’ll look around and wonder how the hell I used to think I was tired before Aura was born. Now I am tired—bone deep, can’t-remember-the-last-time-I-showered kind of tired.
I’ve tackled the upstairs by Friday. Since Millie will stay with us on Sunday, I figure I might as well make the guest room as comfortable as possible for her.
The sheets need changing, and I’ve been putting it off for too long. I ordered some new high thread count sheets from Amazon—ones that are supposed to feel like sleeping in a hotel bed. I’m a sucker for details like that, even if I don’t always admit it. There’s something about fresh, crisp sheets that makes a room feel like a sanctuary.
A dumb part of me wonders if she’ll even notice. A smaller part knows she probably will. Millie is the kind of woman who catches every detail.
I figure if I’m going to have someone stay over, I might as well make it a pleasant experience. The more comfortable this bed is, the less likely she’ll end up in mine.
And no, I don’t mean it like that. Well, maybe I do. But that’s not the point. The point is, I respect her, and I need this to stay professional. Right? Right, because mixing work and whatever this is feels like walking a tightrope over a canyon. One misstep and everything crashes down.
As I bend down to smooth out the sheets, I stub my toe on the footboard. “Merda1!” I grunt, hopping on one foot to rub the aching pain away. My phone rings, making me curse under my breath.
“Hello,” I grumble into the phone, still wincing from the pain.
“Well hello to you, partner. You want to bring that cutie pie of a baby you got and go get lunch?” Josh’s voice sounds chipper, the usual eagerness in his tone.
I like Josh. I’m lucky to have him as a partner. He’s funny, always telling jokes and making the long overnight shifts bearable. He’s outgoing, the type of guy who can talk to anyone about anything. I’m the opposite. I like my quiet time, but somehow, Josh has figured out how to get me out of my shell in the two months I’ve been in town.
“Sure, let me get her and myself ready. Where are we going?” I ask, still trying to shake off the grumpiness from stubbing my toe.
There is a long pause on the other line. “I’ll come by your place. It’s a restaurant out of town. If you want to drive separately, we can, or we can just take your car. Either is good with me,” Josh says matter-of-factly.
A restaurant out of town? That’s an odd request. But hey, why not? I’m getting used to doing things outside of my comfort zone since moving here.
“Be there in thirty, be ready, old man.” Josh hangs up before I can argue with him. I’m just as young as he is. I’m 31, but Josh is just a couple of years younger. He likes to remind me of that.
Every. Chance. He. Gets.
