19. Emory
EMORY
The Paradise Cove airport is a small building with excellent air conditioning and way too many people trying to catch flights back to reality.
I'm sitting next to Vada at our gate, watching other wedding guests say their goodbyes, and trying not to think about how different everything's about to become.
"Flight to Portland boarding in twenty minutes," the gate agent announces, and my stomach does this weird flip thing.
"Nervous?" Vada asks, clearly picking up on whatever expression I'm wearing.
"A little," I admit. "It's been a long time since I've moved anywhere that wasn't temporary."
That's putting it mildly. For the past three years, my entire life has fit into two suitcases and a camera bag.
The longest I've stayed anywhere was six weeks in Thailand, and that was only because I got food poisoning and couldn't travel.
The idea of actually setting up somewhere permanently feels both exciting and terrifying.
"We don't have to figure everything out today," Vada says, taking my hand. "You can stay with me while we look for a place together, or you can get your own apartment first, or whatever feels right."
"What feels right is being wherever you are," I say, which makes her smile. "Though I should probably warn you, I'm not great with domestic stuff. My idea of decorating is hanging up travel posters."
"Good thing I like travel posters," she says with a grin. "Besides, we can figure out the decorating together."
The flight to Portland is smooth and uneventful, which is exactly what I need right now.
Vada dozes against my shoulder while I stare out the window and try to process how much my life is about to change.
A week ago, I was stressed about credit card bills and wondering where my next sponsored post was coming from.
Now I'm moving to a new city for a woman I'm sure I want to marry.
The thought should probably scare me more than it does.
Portland's airport is bigger and busier than Paradise Cove's, but nothing compared to LAX or JFK. We collect our luggage and head toward the exit, where Maya is waiting with a sign that reads "PARADISE SURVIVORS" in sparkly letters.
"Welcome to Portland!" Maya announces, pulling us both into hugs. "How was the flight? How are you feeling? Are you exhausted? Do you need food?"
"Maya," Vada laughs, "breathe. We're fine."
"I'm excited," Maya says with obvious glee. "I get to help plan your new life together. It's like playing house but with actual adults who have credit cards."
The drive from the airport to Vada's apartment gives me my first real look at Portland, and I have to admit, it's pretty great. Green everywhere, mountains in the distance, the kind of laid-back vibe that makes me think I could actually live here without losing my mind.
"What do you think?" Vada asks as we wind through neighborhoods with food trucks and coffee shops on every corner.
"I think I could get used to this," I say honestly. "Though I might need a local guide to show me where to get good coffee."
"I know a place or two," she says with mock seriousness.
Vada's apartment is exactly what I expected—organized but cozy, decorated in a way that's professional but warm. It's clearly the home of someone who knows what she likes and isn't afraid to invest in quality. The complete opposite of my usual hotel rooms and temporary housing.
"This is really nice," I say, looking around at the actual furniture and wall art and things that suggest permanence.
"Thanks," she says, though I can see her watching my reaction carefully. "I know it's probably different from what you're used to."
"Different in the best way," I clarify. "I've been living out of suitcases for so long, I forgot what it feels like to have actual furniture."
Maya disappears into the kitchen and returns with wine and the expression of someone who has important business to discuss.
"Okay," she says, settling onto the couch like she's chairing a board meeting. "Let's talk logistics. Emory, are you thinking temporary housing while you look for your own place, or are we jumping straight into domestic bliss?"
"Maya," Vada warns, but she's smiling.
"What? These are important questions. I need to know if I should start looking at one-bedroom apartments or if we're going straight to the 'his and hers towels' phase."
I look at Vada, trying to read her expression. We talked about this in general terms at the resort, but now that we're here, in her actual space, everything feels more real.
"What do you want?" I ask her directly.
"Honestly?" she says. "I want you to stay here while we figure out what works. But I don't want you to feel pressured or like you have to decide everything right now."
"And honestly," I say, "I've been thinking about it the entire flight, and I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere you're not. So if you're okay with me crashing on your couch until we find something together, that sounds perfect."
"The couch?" Maya interjects with obvious horror. "Are we pretending you two haven't been sharing a bed for the past week?"
"Maya," Vada says, her cheeks turning pink.
"I'm just saying, you're adults in a relationship. The guest room has a perfectly good bed if you want separate space, but let's not pretend anyone's sleeping on the couch."
She's not wrong, but there's something weirdly nerve-wracking about the transition from paradise romance to actual domestic life. In the resort, everything felt magical and temporary. Here, it feels like we're making real decisions about our actual future.
"Guest room's fine by me," I say. "Though I should probably mention that all my stuff is currently in storage in LA. So I'm basically moving in with two suitcases and a camera bag."
"Perfect," Vada says with obvious relief. "We can drive down to get your things next weekend, and in the meantime, we can start looking at apartments."
"Or houses," Maya suggests. "Portland's got some great neighborhoods for young professionals who are totally in love and want to build a life together."
"We're not buying a house on week one," I say with a laugh.
"Why not?" Maya asks seriously. "You guys have known each other for eight years.
You just spent a week remembering why you're perfect for each other.
Emory's moving here specifically to be with Vada.
At what point do you stop calling it 'taking things slow' and start calling it 'building a future'? "
She has a point, even if it makes my chest tight with the magnitude of what we're actually doing here.
"One step at a time," Vada says diplomatically. "First, we figure out living arrangements. Then we see how the business collaboration works out. Then we make bigger decisions."
"Business collaboration?" Maya asks with obvious interest.
"Travel content meets event planning," I explain. "Destination wedding documentation, authentic celebration experiences, that kind of thing."
"That's brilliant," Maya says with genuine enthusiasm. "You guys could totally corner that market. Couples would kill for that kind of authentic documentation."
"We're still figuring out the logistics," Vada says, but I can see the excitement in her voice when she talks about it.
The next few hours pass in a blur of practical decisions and planning sessions.
We look at apartment listings online, discuss neighborhoods, and start making lists of what I'll need for an actual permanent living situation.
It's weirdly domestic and comfortable, and I catch myself thinking that this is what normal people do when they're building a life together.
"I should probably check my email," I say eventually. "See if any clients freaked out while I was offline."
"Go for it," Vada says, curling up on the couch with her own laptop. "I need to catch up on business stuff too."
My inbox is exactly as chaotic as I expected—three potential sponsored post opportunities, two brand partnership inquiries, and about forty emails from followers asking when I'm posting more content with Vada.
The paradise content is still performing incredibly well, which means the demand for collaborative stuff is only going to increase.
"How's the business world treating you?" I ask Vada, who's frowning at her own screen.
"Good, mostly," she says. "I've got five new event inquiries since we've been gone, and three of them specifically mentioned seeing our social media content. Apparently, people like the idea of hiring event planners who actually seem happy together."
"Makes sense," I say. "We do look pretty happy together."
"We are pretty happy together," she corrects with a smile that makes my chest warm.
By evening, we've made actual progress on real-world planning.
I've accepted a freelance content opportunity that can be done remotely, Vada's scheduled client calls for the week, and we've identified three apartments to look at this weekend.
It's productive and practical and completely different from the magic of paradise, but it feels right in a way that surprises me.
"Hungry?" Vada asks around seven. "I can cook, or we can order something, or there's a great Thai place down the street."
"You cook?" I ask with genuine curiosity.
"I'm not bad at it," she says with a grin. "Though fair warning, my specialty is comfort food, not Instagram-worthy presentation."
"Comfort food sounds perfect," I say honestly.
Watching Vada cook dinner in her own kitchen is weirdly intimate in a way that's different from anything we shared at the resort.
She moves around the space with easy familiarity, and there's something deeply appealing about seeing her in her natural environment.
This is her life, her home, her routine, and she's letting me be part of it.
"Need help?" I ask as she starts chopping vegetables.
"Can you handle opening wine and being entertaining company?" she asks.
"I think I can manage that," I say, finding the wine opener and settling onto a stool at her kitchen counter.
"So," she says as she works, "what's the weirdest place you've ever had to create content?"
"Definitely the time I got stuck in a hostel in Mumbai during monsoon season," I say. "The internet was terrible, the power kept going out, and I had to film three sponsored posts in a room the size of a closet with five other travelers."
"How did that work out?"
"Actually pretty well," I admit. "Some of my most authentic content came from that trip. Turns out people like seeing the behind-the-scenes chaos, not just the perfect moments."
"That's exactly what I've been thinking about for events," Vada says with obvious excitement. "People are tired of seeing only the final result. They want to know what goes into creating something beautiful."
"Which is perfect for collaboration," I point out. "Your planning expertise plus documentation of the actual creative process."
"Exactly," she says, and the enthusiasm in her voice makes me even more sure that this is going to work. Not just the relationship, but the business partnership too.
Dinner turns out to be incredible—some kind of pasta situation with vegetables and herbs that tastes like comfort and home. We eat on her couch with a movie playing in the background, and it's exactly the kind of domestic evening I never thought I wanted but apparently absolutely do.
"This is nice," I say as we're cleaning up afterward.
"Which part?" she asks.
"All of it," I say honestly. "Being here with you, making actual plans, feeling like I'm building something instead of just passing through."
"Good," she says, standing on her toes to kiss me. "Because I like having you here."
Later, as we're getting ready for bed in her guest room, I catch myself thinking about how different this feels from every other place I've stayed in the past three years.
It's not just the comfort or the quality of the furniture.
It's the sense of belonging somewhere, with someone, in a way that feels permanent instead of temporary.
"Everything okay?" Vada asks, appearing in the doorway in pajamas that make my heart skip.
"Perfect," I say, meaning it completely. "Just thinking about how much everything's changed."
"Good changes?" she asks, settling onto the bed beside me.
"The best changes," I confirm, pulling her closer. "Though I have to admit, I'm a little nervous about tomorrow."
"Why?"
"First day of real life," I say. "What if we're terrible at the domestic routine stuff?"
"Then we'll figure it out as we go," she says simply. "Besides, how hard can it be? We managed to coordinate volleyball and wine tasting. I think we can handle grocery shopping and apartment hunting."
"When you put it like that, it sounds easy," I say with a laugh.
"Maybe it will be," she says, settling against my chest. "Maybe the hard part was admitting we wanted to try."
As I drift off to sleep with Vada curled against me in a real bed in a real apartment in a city I'm actually going to live in, I realize that paradise wasn't the location. It was finding each other again and being brave enough to build something together.
Tomorrow we start figuring out what that actually looks like, but tonight, I'm exactly where I want to be.