Page 24 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes
HIGH-STAKES brIDE
ROXY
The universe must hate me or at least be having a grand laugh at my expense. That’s the only explanation for how I ended up on a Thursday morning balancing a clipboard, a laptop, and a latte while sprinting across a venue parking lot because the bride’s mother just called in a full-scale panic.
“She’s locked herself in the bridal suite,” Mrs. Castillo wails into my phone. “She’s saying she’s not coming out. That she’s calling off the wedding.”
I dodge a golf cart while precariously holding onto everything. “Is the groom there?”
“He’s pacing! And sweating! And asking if he should cancel the mariachi band!”
I rub my temple. “Nobody cancel the mariachi. I’m on my way.”
I burst into the venue, hair flying, clipboard banging into my thigh, and immediately hear muffled sobs coming from upstairs.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.” I chant to myself.
Mrs. Castillo meets me halfway up the stairs. “Roxy, thank God!”
“What’s our window?”
“She was supposed to start hair an hour ago.”
I inhale. “Okay. I’ve handled worse.”
Mrs. Castillo eyes me. “Worse than a bride threatening to elope with her ex?”
“Maybe not.”
I knock gently on the bridal suite door. “It’s me, Roxy.”
“Go away!”
“Babe, I can’t do that.” I lean against the door. “You want to talk, or you want tequila?”
A pause, and then, she mumbles, “Both,” from the other side of the door.
“Coming right up.”
I hand Mrs. Castillo my clipboard. “Stall the vendors. Nobody moves until I say go.”
She nods and rushes off to attempt to slow down wedding prep on the actual wedding day. Thursday weddings are never smooth sailing!
I jog downstairs, grab the emergency bar kit from my Jeep—because of course I have one—pour a shot, steal a lime wedge from the actual bar, and head back up.
I set the tequila shot down. “Tequila is outside the door. You have five minutes,” I say. “Then, I’m breaking this door down with my stiletto.”
I lean against the wall and wait for her to take the bait… in this instance, alcohol. A nervous bride’s best friend.
Three minutes later, the door cracks open.
“I can’t marry him. I can’t get married. What was I thinking?” she whispers. Mascara streaks are clear on her cheeks. “What if it’s a mistake?”
Stepping inside, I close the door gently, and sit on the floor beside her, uncaring of wrinkling my pants. “Every bride thinks that. If you weren’t a little nervous, I’d be nervous.”
“Did you? Think that?” She asks.
Honey, I’ve been married to Chase for almost four years now, and until recently, I pushed him away and tried to make him leave when I’d run… every single day.
I smile faintly. “I married Chase in a Vegas chapel with a busted AC and a drunk Elvis after a few weeks together.”
She blinks. “But you guys are so…”
“Perfect?” I laugh. “Honey, perfection’s a baldfaced lie . Marriage is work. Love is messy. And no one is ever prepared or ready. They think they are, but you aren’t. Until you’re in it, you have no damn idea. But you know what’s worse than making the wrong choice?”
She sniffles. “What?”
“Not making one at all.” I say quietly.
She stares at me for a long beat. Then, she sits up and swipes at her face. “I want to marry him.”
I nod. “Let’s get ready to walk down that aisle.”
Chase shows up an hour later with a tray of shrimp and grits empanadas and a smirk.
“Figured you hadn’t eaten.” He says before he leans down to kiss me.
Groaning, I sag against him. “You’re an angel.”
He kisses my temple. “You’re a warrior.”
I eye the tray. “Are you bribing me with carbs?”
“Carbs and sex are my go-to’s.” He flirts.
I grab two. “It’s working.”
He watches as I practically inhale the food, moaning at how amazing it is between bites. His approval for my vocal appreciation is written on his face. “You’re gonna nail this wedding, babe.”
“I’d better,” I mutter, swiping one more empanada. “I see Danica stalking my Instagram again. Probably hoping I drop the cake.”
Chase chuckles. “Want me to ‘accidentally’ block her?”
“Nah. Let her watch me win.” I laugh.
He grins and slaps my ass. “That’s my girl.”
The wedding starts thirty minutes late but is flawless.
The mariachi band plays. The bride glows as she floats down the aisle. The groom cries and mouths, “Thank you.”
The cake arrives intact. The DJ doesn’t play the Chicken Dance. And all guests are having a blast… at a Thursday night wedding.
By 10PM, I’m barefoot, sipping champagne, and watching the couple’s last slow dance under fairy lights before this shindig wraps up. It’s a weeknight.
Chase finds me leaning against the bar and slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You did it.”
I lean into him. “I did, didn’t I?”
He kisses the side of my neck. “I’m proud of you.”
I tiredly smile up at him. “Thanks, baby.”
He pulls me closer. “Dance with me.”
“I smell like hairspray and stress and I’m technically working.”
He shrugs. “Still the prettiest girl in the room and you’re taking a break to dance with your hot husband.”
Melting, I let him lead me onto the dance floor because sometimes… the high-stakes bride isn’t the one in white. Sometimes it’s the woman in a headset with a clipboard and a dream.
And tonight… she wins .