Page 39 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

We both pauses and then, I whisper, “I was always waiting for you to stop loving me, Chase.”

He freezes. So do I because that… that wasn’t supposed to come out.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But… it’s the truth.

Ugly. Raw. Real.

I’ve spent our entire marriage loving him while waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to fail. Waiting for him to see what a mess I am and realize he can leave.

He never has. He just keeps showing up. And I keep pushing him away and being terrified he’ll actually leave me when I tell him to.

He stands slowly, reaches down, and helps me up. My knees are still weak when he cradles my face. “You have never made loving you easy, Roxy.”

I nod, feeling the thickness in my throat. “I know.”

“But I have never once wanted to leave you. You push me, shove me, practically throw me off a fucking cliff, but I just dig my heels in and hold on.” He smiles.

Tears blur the edges of him as I cry, “But I always try to make you.”

“I know. I’m a stubborn mother fucker, baby.” He chuckles and kisses my cheek before trailing his lips to the corner of my mouth. My tears are mingling with the now cold water from the shower head as he says, “You were scared.”

“And you were patient.” I cry.

“Still am.” He says it matter of factly.

Turning off the shower, he wraps me in a thick, warm towel.

Pressing my forehead to his chest, I whisper the thing I’ve never said, not even on our wedding night.

“You’re home, Chase.”

He holds me tighter. “I’m glad.”

CHASE

* * *

Roxy walks in for breakfast like she owns the whole damn coastline.

Her hair is on top of her head. She’s in my t-shirt. She’s not wearing a damn bra. Her cutoffs are too short and show far too much of her legs. And she’s smiling smugly.

The ring on her finger catches the morning sun like a mic drop.

Sasha gasps.

Whitney stares.

Trent spills his green juice.

Miguel mutters, “Well, shit.”

Weston grins and nods like he’s personally responsible.

And Bree… well, Bree slow claps.

I just stand back and let her wreck the room. She’s not walking into this space like she’s announcing she’s once again showing the world she’s my wife. She’s walking in like it’s a declaration. And she holds my soul—and more often than not my dick—in one perfectly moisturized hand.

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