Page 8 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

LOVE NOTES, JEALOUS RAGE, AND ONE VERY WET YOGA MAT

ROXY

His notebook is sitting on the nightstand like it owns the place. Black and white cover, mangled spine, and chock-full of all the emotional stability I lack.

I don’t want to touch it again because if I do, I’ll cry—more than I already have. Or come. Or both. And I’m emotionally raw enough after his fantasy confession yesterday to know I’m milliseconds away from sobbing into my own cleavage. I stare at the ceiling fan like it owes me money.

My phone buzzes again. I’ve ignored the two consecutive calls before this one.

I don’t have to look to know who it is. Only one person calls this early and this often.

I glance over anyway knowing she’ll just keep calling like she’s got all the time in the world and the patience of a saint.

She has neither and we do have a business to run.

Mari Lynn is lit up on the screen.

Mari Lynn, aka my best friend, my business—though since she’s now married to a hot celebrity chef and they are both regularly on his killing-it-in-the-ratings reality cooking show, I do the day to day stuff and handle the majority of the consults and planning— partner, my reality check, and the woman who once bailed me out of a Las Vegas drunk-tank while wearing a tiara and no shoes. She’s my ride or die.

I answer on the third ring. “Bitch, I’m not dead or is there a bridal emergency? I can be in the car in five.”

“Well, that’s a start.” She claps back, her voice laced with her Texas charm and probably too much caffeine.

“Business is fine. Melody is handling everything just fine. You’ve got twenty seconds to tell me what fresh hell is happening before I drive down there.

Why are you trying to strangle your sexy ass husband with his own drawstring joggers? Or… should he be strangling you?”

Groaning, I fall backward onto the bed. “He booked this retreat—the one you knew about and didn’t tell me— and he’s making fresh icing and whipped cream shirtless every day, Mari Lynn.”

She’s quiet for a beat before she snickers, “Are they for his pancakes or yours?”

I grin because she knows us too well. “ Both. ”

“God, I love that man. And his pancakes rival Knox’s. Don’t tell him I said that.” I hear the smile in her voice.

“Pick a side.” I snap.

“I did. Yours. Always. Even when you’re wrong.

But Chase loves you. Even when you don’t want him to.

Even when you try to sabotage it, which you do .

You always have, Roxy. You know I love you and I’m always #TeamRoxy, but if you let that man’s love, sexual prowess, and jawline go to waste, I swear I’ll haunt you. Stop being stupid.”

Well, shit! You don’t have to be so damn honest, bitch.

You’re so right though.

I heavily exhale through my nose, before saying, “He gave me his notebook.”

Silence comes from the other end of the phone before she mutters, “His notebook. Like the notebook ? The one from his nightstand that he thinks you don’t know about. That notebook?”

I groan. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

“Tell me you didn’t read it.” She says, but her tone implies that she’s wanting me to say the opposite.

I tell the truth. “You know damn well, I read it. He gave it to me to read.”

“Roxy—those are his innermost, honest thoughts. He basically let you read his journal.”

Right again. They are.

“I read the whole damn thing. Twice.” I rush to say it.

She pauses again. Her voice is softer as she asks, “And?”

I’m not going to lie to her.

She’d know I was full of shit anyway.

I’m honest. “I’m so in love with him.”

I expect her to gasp, but she doesn’t. She sighs.

“No shit. You fell head over heels in love with Chase West the second you saw him. I was there, remember. And that scared the absolute shit out of you. It still does. But… he loves you, too, Roxy. Instead of walking away from your crazy—and you are off the chain crazy, my girl—he loves it. Because he loves you . Stop trying to make the damn man leave you. He’s not going anywhere.

Stop with the bullshit and just accept his love.

Appreciate it. Fuck, enjoy the hell out of it.

Women write books wanting a man like your husband and you have him. ”

Shit… talk about brutal honesty. She just called me batshit crazy and told me I better hold onto my devoted man all in the same breath.

I blink. “Well damn, Yoda-With-Tits. Why don’t you just unload your wisdom on me all at once? Why haven’t you ever clocked my tea like this before?” I ask, exasperated.

She laughs a full on belly laugh and cheekily says, “Because you would’ve punched me in my tits.”

I chuckle and feel the smile spread over my face as I mutter, “I still might.”

“Fair.”

We both laugh.

She lets me breathe for a minute. Just us and the silence.

Then she says, “You want me to come down there? I can be there by tonight. Just have to book a flight. I’ll slap a kombucha bitch for you just because kombucha is gross and key a Subaru on the way in for good measure.”

I snort. “Must be nice to just be all ‘I’ll book a flight’ and I actually like kombucha. Some of it is really good. Sasha is your friend, calm your tits. And if you slap me, we’re going to tumble.”

“Being a public figure with some fan pages does have some perks.” She laughs.

“And we’ve tumbled before. On heels… down stairs…

I also seem to remember you tumbling into that husband of yours—and his crotch a time or two or ten.

We’re still filming, but I’d cut out early for you, Rox.

Knox can handle the cameras all by his lonesome for a bit if he has to. You know that.”

She would. She would book a flight and leave L.A. and filming just to come to me if I needed her.

I’d do the same though. I have done the same.

I’m good though.

I smile for the first time all morning. “Thanks, Mari Lynn. I love you. But I’ve got it.”

“No, you’ve got him. The rest is details. And I love you, too.”

I roll my eyes but she’s not wrong.

She hums. “So what’s the plan, Rox? Are you gonna let him love you or are you gonna keep pretending the only thing you need is working til you fall over, killer red lips, and bronzer?”

“Harsh.” I growl.

“Accurate.” She retorts.

I sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Mari Lynn.”

She laughs breezily. “Yes, you do . You’re just scared.”

“I’ve never been scared of Chase.” I feel my brows furrow.

Chase would never hurt me.

“Not of him , babe. Of what it means to want him. To trust it. To let go of the fear and the hurt you’re punishing him with, that he’s not responsible for.”

Well, fuck me.

She always knows.

I don’t respond right away.

So, she softens again. That switch she’s so good at—between bestie savage and heart therapist. “I know it’s scary. But he’s still here, after all of your bullshit over the years, he’s still with you, isn’t he?”

I nod though she cannot see me. “Yeah, he is.”

“And probably still shirtless.” She teases.

“Tragically.” I chuckle.

“That man knows your weakness. Does he still have your back, put up with your shit, and make you laugh?” I hear the smile in her voice.

“He does indeed still make me completely fucking stupid.” I mutter.

She sighs and her tone sobers as she says, “Then, maybe it’s time you stop running, Roxy. Kick off your wedges, dig your toes into the sand, or the sheets, and let him love you.”

It gets quiet again.

Finally, she says, “Look, I need to get back on set. Knox is probably thinking I’ve stolen a sounds stage golf cart by now and I’m being corralled by security. You’re allowed to want him, Rox. You’re allowed to forgive yourself. And you’re allowed to write a second chapter.”

I blink fast, trying to stem the tears that are free-falling down my cheeks.

“Okay,” I whisper.

She hears the wobble and says, “Okay.” And then—classic Mari Lynn style—she adds, “Also, if you don’t sit on that man’s face soon, someone else will certainly try to. Your husband is fine as fuck and he’s a good man . He’s like perfect.”

“Bitch. I will cut you.” I snarl.

She laughs again, “I don’t want your man. I have one of my own. But someone else will want your man. I say it with love, babe. But I really have to go. Love you.”

As I end the call, I look at the notebook again, take a deep breath, and head for couple’s yoga. I’m cutting it close.

I unroll my mat with the intensity of someone preparing for mortal combat. The eucalyptus scent wafting off it pisses me off.

The whole deck is decorated like a Pinterest dream: string lights, wind chimes, tiny bowls of crystal infused water next to each mat like we’re all about to get baptized in cucumber and lemon balm.

Chase is already stretching. He’s shirtless.

His grey sweat shorts are riding criminally low on his chiseled hips, drawing my gaze to his “v” and his muscled ass.

His tattooed back is arched. His colorfully decorated arms are flexed with the veins popping out, begging me to trace them with my tongue.

And then, the bastard moans —like it’s nothing.

He’s determined to cause my premature spiritual death.

“Good morning, everyone,” Sasha chirps, too chipper for a woman holding a 10AM soul excavation.

“We’re going to focus on openness today.”

Great.

She starts with gentle breath-work.

I start with aggressive glaring.

Chase meets my eyes during our third sun salutation and smirks. He knows I’m watching. He’s counting on it. When he shifts into low lunge and flexes his thighs like a damn Calvin Klein ad for forgiveness, I flip him off from downward dog.

It only gets worse as we go on.

Trent is groaning like he’s giving birth.

Bree is whispering affirmations to Weston while he tries to maintain balance.

And Whitney— Whitney —unrolls her mat next to Chase’s and lets out this soft, breathy noise during pigeon pose that sounds exactly like a dramatized orgasm.

I pause mid-flow and blink at her.

Girl, relax your diaphragm and your thirst. Your man is right there.

That is my man, and I will fucking shank you.