Page 11 of Love, Take Two
"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.
