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“No.”

“Finn!” I huffed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Pleaseeee.” I tried out my best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

“Nope.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“You hate your birthday.”

Clearly, my attempts to appeal to his soft side weren’t working.

“I didn’t realize I was dating such a sissy,” I scoffed, changing tactics. When in doubt, threaten the manhood; they crumble every time.

“Did you just call me a sissy?” He asked, incredulous. “I thought we were celebrating your twenty-first birthday, not your fifth.”

“HA! If anyone’s a baby, it’s you. You’re the one who won’t even go on the Ferris wheel!”

“I don’t do heights.” The finality in his tone was unmistakable.

“Wow, I’m seeing a whole new side to badass Finn Chambers,” I laughed.

He glared at me, then turned to stare at the massive Ferris wheel with apprehension clear on his face. It probably wasn’t helping my case that the ride looked like it had been built about a century ago, with rust staining the metal beams, and bolts that squealed with each rotation of the wheel.

“Okay, fine,” I sighed, resigned. “I’ll go by myself. You can watch me.”

Popping up onto my tiptoes, I pressed a quick kiss to Finn’s cheek, before turning and dashing for the entry line. Handing over three tickets to the man at the entrance, I stood on the platform at the base of the wheel, waiting for my turn to be loaded into one of the passenger cars. I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed that Finn had refused to ride with me, but I wasn’t going to miss out on my favorite ride just because I had to fly solo.

I’d always loved the Ferris wheel.

Since we were about sixteen, each fall Lexi and I had made it our mission to find a local fairground where we could pet goats and llamas in the petting zoo, overload on sugary cotton candy and funnel cakes, and ride the rickety, structurally-questionable carnival rides until we were ready to throw up. I’d always loved the rush of adrenaline an amusement park ride or roller coaster brings; they were almost as thrilling as my late-night motorcycle rides.

I couldn’t remember the first time I’d ridden a Ferris wheel. I knew my love of the contraptions dated back further than my trips with Lexi to the fair, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall the exact details of that maiden voyage up into the air. I’d been young, I knew that much.

I’d always just assumed I had been with my mother.

Regardless, the prospect of getting back on one was too tempting to pass up, with or without my – sissy – boyfriend with me. And, despite my disappointment, I couldn’t possibly be upset with him after everything he’d done for me today.

I’d woken later than usual; the sun streaming through my windows was bright, indicating that it was well into midmorning. The first thing my half-asleep mind had registered were the rose petals scattered across the pillow next to my head, their drugging floral scent seeping into my consciousness and pulling me fully awake.

Pink, red, white – there’d been petals everywhere, strewn in a pathway that led across my bedspread, down onto the floor, and out through my doorway. Stumbling from my bed and rubbing the sleep from my bleary eyes, I’d followed the trail of petals out into the hallway and finally to the kitchen beyond.

The room had been utterly transformed.

Hundreds of multicolored balloons had been strung up from the ceiling and blanketed the hardwood floors. Red and white streamers had hung from one corner of the room to the other, so thick I couldn’t quite make out the skylights above my head. A huge sign was taped across the wall opposite the stove, reading ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROOKLYN’ in a familiar, sloping masculine hand. The kitchen island had been piled high with boxes, sloppily wrapped in striped blue paper with clumps of translucent tape sticking out in every direction – a clear sign that they’d been wrapped by a man’s unpracticed fingers.

An unstoppable, incandescent grin had spread across my face at the sight, even as tears began to prick at my eyes; it was more than anyone had ever done for my birthday.

“Happy birthday, princess.”

He’d been standing by the stove, leaning casually against the kitchen island. His smile had nearly matched my own – as if the excitement and near-childlike sense of glee emanating off me was infectious.

“You did all this?” I’d asked, walking toward him.

I knew it must have taken him several hours to put up all the decorations, plus there was the fact that he’d obviously spent time picking out presents and – attempting, at least – to wrap them.

“It’s your birthday,” he’d shrugged, as if it were no big deal; like it was some kind of given that he’d do all this, simply because one more year of my life had passed. He didn’t understand that this was in no way similar to what I’d become accustomed to in the past fourteen years. He was breaking my annual tradition of solitary, semi-drunken celebration – deviating from the norm and turning a day I normally dreaded into something magical and romantic.

He didn’t know that my father’s idea of a birthday gift was a painfully generic card, stuffed full of empty, meaningless words written by a Hallmark employee, and a hefty check. The years he’d remembered to even scribe his signature on the bottom of the card were the most memorable; usually, he had his secretaries take care of such trivial business, as he couldn’t be bothered to deal with unimportant matters like his only child’s day of birth.