Page 32 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

It’s a battlefield.

Bree starts to cry before the salad’s even put onto our plates.

Whitney clutches her wine like it’s an emotional support Chardonnay as her eyes flit back and forth over everyone.

Sasha raises her voice. Miguel yells back. Both slam their hands on the table.

Chase slides his hand across the table and refills my glass without a word as I look from Sasha to Miguel and back again. They trade barbs that cut deep. Uncaring of how hurtful they are.

I sit there, frozen, watching it all unfold like a horror movie written by my subconscious.

I know this fight.

I lived this fight.

Hell, I’ve started this fight.

They keep going. Back and forth. Ping. Pong. Resentment and silence. Things they have never spoken aloud, little things that are now big things. Words they’ll never be able to take back.

And for a second—I swear—I smell tomato sauce.

I’m hit with a flashback.

Two years ago.

Me and Chase standing in the kitchen of our house.

He accidentally deleted a playlist on my phone while scrolling for something.

I snapped at him and said something awful.

He was so upset that I wasn’t listening to him. I called him worthless. He cracked and threw a wooden spoon across the room.

I cried. He stormed out of the kitchen after I shoved him.

We didn’t talk for two days.

I snap back to the present as Sasha says, “You keep showing up for everyone but me. Everyone else gets your attention. I have to beg for it.”

Miguel doesn’t answer. He’s shell-shocked. It’s as plain as day on his face.

Sasha doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t say she didn’t mean it.

She’s silent as she glares at him. Tears are in her eyes, but they’re not spilling. And her breathing is accelerated.

Miguel swallows. His jaw sets. He abruptly stands and storms off.

She doesn’t follow.

We all watch as their love withers… right there at the table.

Silence is a sword, too.

It’s quiet. Simple. Final.

My chest hurts as I glance at Chase, but not because of them.

Because of me.

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