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Still ain’t like it though.

I was stretched across the couch in Levin’s living room now, flipping through shit on the TV without actually watching anything.

Almost eleven.

Sam hadn’t responded to the last text I sent.

Me: We need to sit down and talk without you yelling at me.

Read.

Nothing.

I sent another.

Me: I’m still your husband Sam.

Read.

Nothing.

“Man, fuck this shit.”

I tossed my phone beside me.

Footsteps came down the stairs.

I looked over.

Levin came into the living room dressed like he was going somewhere.

Black jeans.

Sweater.

Coat over his arm.

Cologne hit me before he even made it to the front door.

I frowned.

“Where you going?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

He stopped and looked at me.

“Why the fuck you asking, nigga? You ain’t my motherfucking daddy.”

I laughed.

“Damn. I just asked.”

“And I answered.”

“Who you going to see?”