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Me and that nigga had gotten physical with each other more times than I could count.

Not no one-sided shit where he was beating my ass and I was somewhere balled up crying. Fuck no. I wasn’t no punk bitch, and Xavier knew better than to think he could just put his hands on me and I wasn’t putting mine right the fuck back on him.

We’d shoved each other.

Slapped each other.

I’d punched his ass before.

He’d grabbed me up.

We’d broken shit arguing.

Our relationship had always had that toxic, hotheaded shit mixed into it, and neither one of us knew how to back the fuck down once we got going.

But you know what was funny?

As far as I knew, he’d never put his hands on Samantha.

Ever.

Nine years with that woman, and I’d never heard about him hitting her, shoving her, threatening to slap her—none of that shit.

Sam was his sweet girl.

Me?

Apparently I was the bitch he’d square up with in the middle of my own fucking baby shower.

That probably should’ve told me something about exactly where I stood with him.

Instead, it just pissed me off more.

“Slap who?”

“You heard me.”

“Do it.”

“Heather.”

“No, do it, Xavier. Slap me at our baby shower.”

I stepped closer.

“Let’s make this shit real interesting.”

His nostrils flared.

I knew that look.

He was pissed.

Good.

So the fuck was I.

“And fuck you for yelling at me like you was fucking crazy earlier.”