Without responding, she slides oven mitts on her tiny hands, opens the oven, removes the cake, and places it on the counter. She grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder, leaving me in the quiet apartment. I take the birthday cake and toss it against the glass wall and watch it slide down to the floor, leaving a streak of chocolate.

“Fuck!” I scream at the top of my lungs, then head to my room and slam the door behind me. I unleash my rage and go apeshit by tossing crap off my dresser, kicking the nightstand. All my shit rattles to the floor.

The smell of iron crawls up my nostrils, and all I see is blood painting the fucking walls. The horrified look on Rylee’s face when she found Ellis, and the screams at the top of her lungs. Like a goddamn coward, I stood in the rain, watching as Rylee went into a state of shock.

I go to my walk-in closet, snatch a bottle of Jack Daniel, unscrew the lid, and down it like I’m dying of thirst. My demons want to come out and fight. With every sip I take of my favorite brand of liquor, I fight back harder.

It isn’t real. It isn’t real.

My sanity is hanging by a thread, and I want to put a bullet through my head so I can end it all.

* * *

Gia didn’t come home last night, and I don’t know where she stayed. But knowing there wasn’t music blasting as she made a cheeseburger for breakfast, and the bathroom wouldn’t smell like an orchard full of fresh apples, hurts my soul. When I checked her bedroom, the bed wasn’t made, which isn’t surprising though because she never makes it.

We don’t sleep in the same bed on weekdays because she says she wants to be by herself at night.

After I clean up the disaster I made last night, I shower and throw on a black Armani suit. I need to kiss Gia’s ass figurative and literally, so I stop by Molly’s Cupcake’s on Bleecker Street and buy her two dozen vanilla cupcakes with apple pie filling. I also head to Happy Socks on Broadway to buy her bubble gum knee-high socks decorated with music notes. Maybe, she’ll accept my gifts as a peace offering, and I won’t be in the doghouse for too long, or maybe she kicks my crazy ass to the curb.

Who knows?

Either way, I won’t blame her. Who wants to deal with someone who’s fifty shades of fucked up?

When I open the glass door to her office Gia is typing on her iPad.