Page 2 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Her perfectly microbladed brows raise and her flame red lips purse. “Do they think I invited them?”

I shrug, grin, and roll onto my heels. My calves flex. Her eyes follow and I see her breathing accelerate. “You’re very persuasive over text, baby. Oh, Mari Lynn and Knox are still filming, so they won’t be here. They send their love.”

She exhales rapidly and lunges for the syrup bottle like she might pour it over my head.

I brace myself— not to dodge, but to enjoy it.

She hesitates.

She knows I’d turn it into foreplay, and she’d willingly and vocally participate.

So instead, she slams it on the counter and snaps, “You’re sleeping on the patio.”

I lean in, close enough to kiss her if I wanted to, which I do, but I won’t. She freezes and her nipples bead under the thin fabric of her bikini top. I drink it in but simply say, “That where we’re keeping the whipped cream this time?”

She blinks and her cheeks flood with color. Turning on her heel, she walks away without responding. I watch her hips sway and glance down, talking to my raging hard-on. “No worries, it’s coming.” Whistling, I remove the pancakes from the griddle, set them on the plate, and pour more batter on.

Score one for the shirtless menace.

There’s a note in my bag.

“She’s coming. Don’t be an idiot.”

I wrote it last night, in my not great penmanship on one of her fancy Post-its, with one of the glitter pens that was still in my bag from our last trip. Her glitter pens.

People think Roxy and I rushed into marriage.

We did. But we rushed in the way a thunderstorm rushes a bonfire—loud, bright, and inevitable. It wasn’t planned.

There were no actual rings exchanged. None of our family was there. There was no officiant who asked us to “pause and reflect.” Just an Elvis-impersonator-preacher in Vegas in a rhinestone blazer and a twenty-four-hour chapel that smelled like insanity, possible regret, and fresh lilies.

I haven’t regretted it for a single second. It’s still the best decision I’ve ever made.

Sitting on the back patio, looking out over the waves crashing onto the shore, I remember.

We were three weeks into an ongoing one-night stand that just kept extending itself.

Two hot messes, one of whom didn’t own measuring cups or emotional boundaries.

She was wearing a gold dress that looked like it had been airbrushed onto her body.

I was wearing a black button-down she later confessed made her want to “ruin a man’s credit score.

” We were drunk and sharing a thirty-dollar burger the size of a toddler in a casino that looked like Italy and even had gondola rides inside.

By the second glance at a party, I knew she was it for me.

I’d had free drinks in Vegas—no idea how many—and we were starving.

So, around a bite of a pretty damn good Wolfgang Puck burger, it gave me enough courage to spit out what I knew ten seconds after seeing her the very first time. I said, “You’re it for me. I’m done.”

She said, “You’re drunk.”

I said, “Marry me before I sober up.”

She laughed so hard she snorted more tequila out of her nose, and then, she said, “Only if you promise to never tell me to calm down.”

We finished the burger and were married thirty minutes later.

She wore a Ring Pop. I used a bread twist tie. We honeymooned in a cheap hotel seven blocks off of the Strip that had exactly two pillows and one vibrating ice machine.

It was perfect.

Three and a half weeks later, we were at home, eating Chinese takeout in our shared bed.

She reorganized the entire spice rack alphabetically, and then, by flavor scale… multiple times a week.

I always moved the cayenne pepper to the front because I think “cayenne goes with everything and heat makes you horny.”

She told me I was mentally chaotic, with far too much manly sex appeal and too many tattoos that she wanted to lick.

I told her she was a stunning dictator with a label maker and a goddess complex.

Then, we had wild sex on the kitchen counter and when we were both satisfied and sweaty, she grabbed a homemade dumpling from my steamer that her ass knocked over, threw it at my face, and told me she wanted me to leave. I said no. So, she said to sleep on the couch.

I didn’t.

Roxy and I have never been good at doing things halfway.

So, when we fight… we don’t. Like everything else we detonate.

It’s manic and wild and untamable.

Some would call it toxic. But we just call it us.

Three days after the spice rack incident, she packed a bag and said, “We need space,” and I let her walk out the door.

That was the first time we actually “separated” but not really.

I was just too dumb to say, “Take all the space you want—just leave room for me, you psycho. I love you.”

It’s happened hundreds of times over the years. She freaks and kicks me out. I normally refuse to leave and wait until her crazy calms down… enough. Except when she changes the locks. Like last week.

I don’t fancy breaking into my own house, again, so that’s what this week is for.

My second chance times a bazillion.

Operation: Win-Back-My-Crazy-As-All-Get-Out-Wife-Because-I-Cannot-Be-Without-Her.

Yes, Chase. You know it’s manipulative.

But what else can I do?

And I’m talking to myself. Her crazy must be rubbing off on me.

I’m doing it in a fun, emotionally-vulnerable, maybe-there-will-be-nudity, no, there will most definitely be nudity, kind of way.

As soon as I reread it, the itinerary will be retaped under the bathroom sink. Just in case she tries to snoop.

She totally will.

I scan over it.

Chase’s Totally Chill & Not Desperate “Couples Retreat” Weekend Schedule-

Followed by the Rest of the Week’s Schedule.

(S ubtitled: Win Her Back Without Getting Slapped—unless it’s with her lush ass cheeks— or Arrested)

Friday:

Arrival cocktails: Passionfruit Palomas

Icebreaker game: “Most Inappropriate First Impression”

Group dinner: Taco bar + aphrodisiac trivia

No “scheduled” activities after 9 PM ( wink )

Saturday:

Morning yoga (led by me in gray sweatpants— weaponized warfare and I’m not even ashamed. It’s gonna be hot as hell though. )

Trust fall relay race ( where I will absolutely let her catch me, dramatically )

Couple’s cooking competition ( she’ll sabotage me, I’ll let her win, she’ll fall in love- all over again )

Sunset “Naked Honesty” hot tub hour ( see also: emotional foreplay )

Sunday:

Mimosa breakfast

Me, on one knee, pretending it’s a joke… ( until it’s not.)

Monday through Friday stuff.

Rolling the typed, I’m fancy , paper list back up, I hide it again under the master bathroom sink.

When Roxy finds it, she’ll either:

A. Burn it

B. Frame it ironically

C. Use it as Exhibit A in the divorce— she can add it to the color-coded folder she already has —which, frankly, would still be kinda romantic.

The truth is, I don’t care how messy it gets. I don’t care how many cupcakes she throws at me. Or how many insults she gift-wraps in sarcasm. The number of therapy notes she dramatically reads at dinner is irrelevant.

I’m not giving up. She’s not just my wife.

She’s my best friend. My favorite argument.

She’s my person and my home.

And even if she hates that I booked this thing behind her back… she still came. Because for her, I’m all of those things, too

I’m not wasting it.