I get up from the couch and tell her I’ll see her next week.

Once I’m in my car, I beat my hand against the steering wheel until it burns and scream at the top of my lungs to let off some steam. I feel better for a whole two minutes, then I’m back to feeling shitty.

When I pull onto Fifth to go through Central Park, I glance at the dashboard. The blue neon light flashes twelve forty-five. Gia took the day off so she can go on a job hunt. Last night I helped her with her résumé as we finished watching The Office.

Thirty minutes later, I park at my building. As I open the front door, the smell of chocolate fills the air, and rock music blasts through the speakers. I swagger through the living room and head to the kitchen. Flour decorates Gia’s small frame from head to toe. Her brunette hair is piled on top of her head and a touch of batter stains her pale cheeks. She head-bangs as she tosses dishes into the dishwasher.

Since we decided to date, we’ve been all over each other like white on rice. I fuck her all over my office, even on the tacky-ass bubblegum-pink couch she talked me into buying, every chance I get. And at night I take her out on dates to different restaurants and movies.

Simple stuff. She isn’t interested in my expensive lifestyle, and I dig that about her.

She scoops batter from the glass bowl and licks the wooden spoon, and my dick twitches to life and throbs against my zipper.

I grab her phone sitting on the counter and hit the pause button.

She twirls around, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Happy birthday, Gunner!” she shouts, wrapping her hands around my waist, standing on her tippy toes as she plants a kiss on my lips and my body winds up.

How the fuck did she know it was my birthday?

“I got you something.” Stepping back, she reaches into her purse and shoves two tickets in my hand. “Two tickets to the Fall Fling car show.”

“Gia,” I say.

She’s too excited she can’t tell I’m tense.

“And I baked your favorite chocolate cake. I’m breaking my rule today about eating sweets on a weekday.”

“Gia,” I say louder.

“I saw your birthday on Google calendar, and you haven’t mentioned it the la—”

“Gia!” I yell, tossing the tickets on the counter.

“What?”

“I don’t want to celebrate my fucking birthday. Get this shit out of my face!”

Her face looks like the calm before a storm, and I regret my words. Can this day get any shittier?