8. Vada #2
"MATCH POINT WISE-KING!" the referee announces after I spike another perfect setup from Emory, and the crowd erupts in applause.
"WE DID IT!" I shout, jumping into Emory's arms in a victory celebration that's pure instinct and zero thought about appropriate friendship boundaries.
He catches me and spins me around, both of us laughing and breathless and high on adrenaline and success. For a moment, we're suspended in that perfect athletic high where everything feels possible and nothing exists except the shared joy of winning together.
When he sets me down, we're standing close enough that I can feel his rapid breathing, smell the sunscreen and ocean air on his skin. The victory celebration lingers longer than necessary, both of us caught in the moment.
"That was incredible," he says, his voice slightly breathless and his hands still resting on my waist.
"We're a pretty good team," I reply, though my voice comes out more intimate than I intended.
"Pretty good is an understatement," Maya calls out, approaching our little celebration with obvious delight. "You two just dominated an entire tournament like you've been playing together for years."
Around us, other wedding guests are congratulating our victory and taking photos that will undoubtedly end up on multiple social media accounts.
But all I can focus on is the way Emory's hands feel on my waist and the expression in his eyes that suggests he's thinking about more than just athletic partnership.
"CHAMPIONS!" Derek announces, arriving with what appears to be celebratory drinks despite the fact that it's barely five PM. "The dream team! The unstoppable force!"
"Derek," Emory says with remarkable patience, finally dropping his hands from my waist, "we're just good at volleyball."
"Right," Derek says with a knowing wink. "Just volleyball. Just wine tasting. Just yoga. Just looking at each other like you're solving the mysteries of the universe."
Before either of us can respond to Derek's latest over-analysis, resort staff members approach with a bottle of champagne and a small trophy that reads "Paradise Cove Volleyball Champions."
"Congratulations!" the activities coordinator says with genuine enthusiasm. "That was some of the best partner volleyball we've seen at the resort. You two could be professionals."
"This calls for a celebration," Erika announces once the official photos are finished. "Sunset cocktails and dancing!"
I choose my flowing sundress—photographs beautifully in golden hour light but also moves well for dancing.
Maya helps with hair and makeup, providing best friend commentary about how I should "stop overthinking whatever is happening with Emory and enjoy the fact that you two are obviously perfect for each other. "
"We're not perfect for each other," I protest while she applies highlighter to my cheekbones. "We're compatible in some areas."
"Okaay," Maya adds with obvious amusement.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn't make my emotional confusion more obvious, Emory appears at the terrace door. Through the glass, I can see him waiting in slacks and a button-down shirt that makes him look unfairly handsome in the evening light.
"Ready for the celebration?" he asks when I open the door, then stops short when he sees me. "Wow. You look incredible."
"Thank you," I say, unsure of how his attention makes me feel but appreciate it in ways I've been trying not to think about.
"Shall we go celebrate our victory?" he recovers, offering his arm like old-fashioned courtesy.
"Well hello there, Emory," Maya says, looking between us like she's watching her favorite rom-com unfold. "Don't you two look absolutely perfect together."
"Maya," I warn under my breath.
"What? I'm just saying." She brushes past us towards the door, then turns back with that mischievous grin I know too well. "I'll meet you down there in a few minutes—I need to touch up my own makeup"
Before either of us can respond, she disappears back into the room, leaving us alone on the terrace with the sound of her laughter echoing behind the closed door
***
The Sunset Terrace has been transformed into something magical—string lights and tropical flowers create intimate spaces, while a live band plays acoustic versions of classic love songs against the backdrop of spectacular ocean views.
"This is gorgeous," I say as we accept drinks from a passing server and survey the elegant party setup.
"Erika has incredible taste," Emory agrees, though his attention keeps drifting to me rather than the party decorations.
We're approaching a group of other guests when Derek intercepts us with what appears to be his fourth cocktail and zero remaining filter.
"THE CHAMPIONS!" he announces loudly enough for half the party to hear. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have to make a toast to today's volleyball victors!"
"Derek, you don't need to—" I start, but he's already climbing onto a nearby chair to address the entire party.
"Everyone! EVERYONE!" Derek shouts, clearly in full embarrassing speech mode. "I need to make a toast to our volleyball champions!”
The party quiets as people turn their attention to Derek's impromptu announcement, and I feel my cheeks burning as I realize we're about to become the center of attention again.
"But more importantly," Derek continues with the confidence of someone who's had too much to drink, "I want to talk about how much better things work out when people find their right person instead of settling for whoever's convenient!"
My stomach drops as I realize where this toast is heading.
The silence that follows is absolute and mortifying. Every person at this party is staring at us, Derek's words hanging in the air like a toxic cloud of inappropriate oversharing. I want to disappear, to sink into the elegant terrace flooring and never face another human being again.
"Derek," Jared's voice cuts through the silence with obvious embarrassment, "maybe we should—"
"Oh, come on," Derek continues, apparently oblivious to the social carnage he's creating, "everyone's thinking it! You and Vada were boring together, but Vada and Emory? That's passion! That's what love stories are supposed to look like!"
I'm frozen with humiliation, acutely aware that dozens of people are watching my reaction to being publicly described as a trade-up consolation prize.
Maya moves closer with protective instincts, but before she can intervene, Emory steps forward with the kind of calm authority that cuts through awkward situations like a knife.
"You know what?" he says loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Derek's right about one thing. Sometimes the universe does fix timing issues."
He turns to me with a smile that's warm and confident and completely focused on rescuing me from public embarrassment.
"Would you like to dance?" he asks, offering his hand like Derek's inappropriate toast never happened. "I think I hear our song starting."
Our song. We don't have a song but the band is transitioning into a slow, romantic melody that does sound familiar in a way that makes my chest tight with memory.
"I'd love to," I say, accepting his hand and the escape he's offering from Derek's mortifying commentary.
The dance floor is positioned perfectly to catch the last rays of sunset, and as Emory leads me onto the smooth wooden surface, other couples follow our lead.
"Thank you," I say quietly as he pulls me in, one hand on my waist, the other holding mine with familiar warmth.
"Always," he says.
The song is something slow and romantic that the band is performing with acoustic guitars and soft vocals, perfect for swaying together while sunset paints everything in shades of gold and orange.
Other couples dance around us, but Emory's hand on my waist, the way we fit together, it feels so how natural this feels despite eight years apart.
"This song," I say as the melody becomes more familiar, "isn't this—"
"The one that was playing at Sarah Morrison's party senior year," Emory finishes, his voice soft with memory. "When we were standing on her back deck talking about ‘what now’, and this came on, and you said..."
"I said I thought I was falling in love with you," I complete, remembering that perfect night when everything felt possible and forever seemed like a reasonable timeline for our relationship.
"And I said I thought I already had fallen in love with you," he adds, his hand tightening slightly on my waist.
We're swaying together to the same song where we first acknowledged being in love, in a tropical paradise eight years later, pretending to be friends while our bodies remember exactly how to move together in perfectly.
"Emory," I start, not sure what I'm planning to say.
"I know," he says quietly, reading my expression with the same intuitive understanding he's always had. "This is complicated."
"Very complicated," I agree, though I make no move to increase the distance between us.
The song builds to its chorus, and without discussion, we naturally move closer together.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me against him until there's barely any space between our bodies.
My free hand moves from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the soft curls there in a gesture that's achingly familiar.
"Vada," he says, my name barely a whisper, and when I look up into his eyes, I see something that is definitely more than friendship.
"This is a bad idea," I say, but my voice comes out breathless rather than convincing.
"Probably," he agrees, but his hand is tracing small patterns on my back that make thinking practically impossible.
Other couples continue dancing around us, but we've created our own private world on this public dance floor. The way he's looking at me, the way our bodies fit together, the familiar scent of him mixing with ocean air, everything combines to make this moment feel inevitable rather than accidental.