5. Emory
EMORY
Having Vada King standing in my doorway in pajamas feels like a very specific kind of torture I wasn't prepared for tonight.
She's wearing soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that slides off one shoulder, her auburn hair loose and messy.
It's casual and comfortable and achingly familiar in a way that makes my chest tight with memories of lazy Sunday mornings senior year when we'd spend hours talking in bed about everything and nothing.
"Come in," I say, stepping aside and trying to act like having my college girlfriend in my hotel suite at ten PM is a completely normal situation. "Can I get you something to drink? The minibar is probably stocked with overpriced everything."
"Water would be great," she says, looking around my suite with the same appreciation I had earlier. "The view is incredible.”
I grab two bottles of water from the minibar.
Having her here makes my suite feel smaller.
I catch myself noticing things I've tried not to think about—how she moves with familiar grace, how her voice carries the same warmth that used to make me want to tell her everything, the fact that she's here, in my space, and we're about to have a conversation about boundaries I'm not sure I want.
"So," I say, settling into the chair across from the sofa where she's made herself comfortable, "quite an evening."
"For real," she agrees, twisting the cap off her water bottle. "Though I have to say, Derek exceeded even my lowest expectations for tactless oversharing."
"The guy is like a walking violation of social boundaries," I say, grateful to focus on Derek instead of the way the soft lighting makes Vada's skin look golden. "And we've got six more days of him announcing everyone's personal business to complete strangers."
"He came to my room after the party," Vada says with a grimace. "Brought wine and wanted to 'catch up properly' which apparently meant analyzing our college relationship in excruciating detail."
"I heard." I lean forward, immediately annoyed on her behalf. "What all did he say?"
"Oh, just that you and I had more chemistry than Jared and I ever did, and that tonight proved we're still attracted to each other, and that this week is going to be like a romantic comedy waiting to happen.
" She takes a sip of water. "Typical Derek observations delivered with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. "
I feel heat rise in my cheeks because this guy’s observations hit uncomfortably close to whatever I'm trying not to acknowledge about seeing Vada again. "He is seeing drama where there isn't any."
"Exactly," Vada says, though something in her tone suggests she's trying to convince herself as much as me. "Which is why we need to figure out how to handle this week without giving him more material to work with."
"Agreed," I say, settling back in my chair and trying to look professional despite the fact that we're having this conversation while she's in short shorts in my hotel room. "So what are you thinking? Basic politeness, minimal interaction?"
"Might be hard," Vada says, pulling her legs up underneath her in a movement so familiar it makes my heart skip. "Erika announced that she wants to pair us together for all the couple activities. We're the perfect solution to the 'single friends' problem."
"Right, because nothing could go wrong with forcing two exes to participate in couples' yoga and wine tastings while everyone documents it for social media," I say with a laugh that comes out more strained than I intended.
"At least we know it's going to be awkward," Vada points out. "We can plan for it. Support each other through the worst of Derek's commentary, deflect attention, keep things light and friendly."
"A survival alliance," I say, remembering her phrase from earlier.
"Exactly." She smiles, and for a moment it's like we're back in college, planning how to navigate some social situation or academic challenge. We worked well together as a team, which is why our relationship lasted as long as it did despite the fact that we were better as friends than as lovers.
"The adjoining room situation is going to make things interesting," I point out. "These walls aren't soundproof."
"I noticed," Vada says with a wry smile. "I could hear your entire phone conversation with Carlos earlier. Something about not being hung up on your college girlfriend and having to survive a week of forced proximity?"
Heat floods my face. "You heard that?"
"Hard not to," she says, but her tone is gentle rather than accusatory. "For what it's worth, I was telling Derek the same thing. We're both adults who can handle an awkward situation maturely."
"Right," I agree, though something about her casual dismissal of our past relationship stings more than it should. "Eight years is a long time. We're different people now."
"Different people," she confirms, but I catch her glancing around my suite in a way that suggests she's cataloging how much I've changed and how much I haven't.
"You seem like you're doing well," I say, curious about her life now. "The event planning business looks successful from what I could tell tonight."
"It's growing," she says with obvious pride. "Turns out there's a huge market for authentic behind-the-scenes content."
"That makes sense," I say. "Authenticity is huge in travel content too. My followers respond way better to genuine experiences than to perfectly curated posts."
"Though I imagine the perfectly curated posts pay better," she says with a knowing look.
"Significantly better," I admit, then catch myself before I elaborate on exactly how much financial pressure I'm under to maintain the lifestyle my brand requires. "But the authentic stuff builds better long-term engagement."
"I see that too," Vada says, and suddenly we're having the kind of easy conversation about work and creative challenges that used to happen naturally between us. "I've been trying to balance actual business growth with social media growth, and it's..."
"Complicated," I finish, without thinking.
She nods, and then we both realize I just completed her sentence the way I used to do in college.
The silence that follows is charged with recognition and something that feels dangerously like the old intimacy we used to share. I watch Vada process the moment the same way I am—with awareness that our natural compatibility is still very much intact.
"We should probably avoid doing that," she says finally.
“Right,” I agree, though part of me wants to explore exactly how easily we still sync up. "People might get the wrong idea."
"Or the right idea," she says quietly, then seems to catch herself. "I mean, the wrong idea. Definitely the wrong idea."
I study her face, trying to read the expression that flickers across her features. There's something there—awareness, maybe, or attraction she doesn't want to acknowledge. Something that suggests Derek's observations about chemistry might not have been entirely off base.
"Vada," I start, not sure what I'm planning to say.
"We should set some ground rules," she interrupts, clearly eager to get back to safer territory. "For the week. So things don't get complicated."
"Good idea," I say, grateful for the redirect even though part of me wants to explore whatever moment we just shared. "What are you thinking?"
"Basic professional courtesy," she says, settling back into planning mode. "We help each other navigate the awkward social situations, present a united front against Derek's oversharing, but keep things platonic."
"Platonic," I repeat, testing how the words feel.
"Friends," she confirms. "Two adults who used to date but have moved on and can support each other through an unusual situation."
"Sounds reasonable," I say, though reasonable feels like the wrong word for whatever this is.
"Perfect," Vada says, standing up in a movement that brings her closer to my chair. "We'll get through this week with minimal drama and maximum dignity."
She's close enough now that I can catch the faint scent of her perfume. I find myself remembering the way she used to lean against my desk while I was studying, close enough to touch but focused on her own work, comfortable in shared space in a way that felt natural.
"Emory?" she says, and I realize I've been staring.
"Sorry," I say quickly, standing up to put some distance between us. "Just thinking about tomorrow's schedule. Couples' yoga at sunrise ought to be interesting."
"Oh God," Vada groans. "I forgot about the couples' yoga. How exactly does that work when you're not a couple?"
“Carefully, I imagine," I say. "Though knowing Erika, she's probably already told the instructor that we're 'reconnecting old friends' or something equally optimistic."
"This is going to be a disaster," Vada says, but she's laughing as she says it.
"But at least we'll be disasters together."
"There's something reassuring about that," she says, moving toward the terrace doors. "Solidarity in awkwardness."
"If you say so," I add, following her. "And if Derek starts getting too inappropriate, you can always threaten to share some of his party stories."
"Oh, that's evil," Vada says with obvious delight. "I like it. Mutual assured oversharing."
"Derek's kryptonite," I agree, opening the door so she can step back onto the shared terrace.
"This is going to work," she says, turning to face me with a smile that's confident and friendly and absolutely nothing more than that. "Two adults, handling an awkward situation with grace and maturity."
"Grace and maturity," I repeat, matching her tone perfectly.
"Night," she says, moving toward her own suite's entrance.
"Good night, King," I reply, watching her open her door.
She pauses before going inside, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read in the soft lighting.
"For what it's worth," she says quietly, "it's good to see you again. Even under these bizarre circumstances."
"It's good to see you too," I say, and mean it more than I should.
She disappears into her suite, leaving me standing alone on the terrace with the sound of waves and the realization that I agreed to spend a week pretending to be "friends" with someone who still makes my heart race by existing in the same space.
I go back inside and close the terrace doors, but I can hear her moving around next door—water running, drawers opening, the familiar sounds of someone getting ready for bed. It's intimate in a way that feels both comforting and dangerous, and I find myself listening despite knowing I shouldn't.
My phone buzzes with a text from Carlos: "How did the party go? Any drama with the ex situation?"
I type back: "Complicated. Will call tomorrow."
But as I get ready for bed, I keep thinking about the moment when Vada and I slipped into our old pattern of finishing each other's sentences.
The way her presence in my suite felt natural despite years apart.
The fact that she heard my phone conversation with Carlos and didn't seem bothered by my claim that I wasn't hung up on her.
The problem is, sitting here in the quiet of my suite with the sound of her moving around next door, I'm starting to think Derek might be right about one thing: this week is going to be very interesting.
And our agreement to keep things "platonic" might be harder to maintain than either of us wants to admit.
The suite goes quiet except for the sound of the ocean and my own awareness that we're separated by nothing but a few feet and some very thin walls.