Page 23 of Love, Take Two

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.

"We should talk," Emory says, though he makes no move to stop dancing or create distance between us.

"Probably," I agree, though talking is the last thing I want to do right now.

His hand moves lower on my back, thumb tracing along my spine in a way that sends electricity through my entire nervous system. When I shift closer to him in response, I can feel his sharp intake of breath and see the way his eyes darken with something that has nothing to do with the evening lighting.

"There's something I should tell you," he says, voice rough with emotion I can't quite identify.

"What?" I ask, though I'm more focused on the way his thumb continues its maddening pattern along my spine.

"I never really got over you," he admits, the words barely audible over the music.

My heart stops completely, then restarts at double speed. Because that's exactly what I've been trying not to admit to myself since we started couples' yoga just hours ago.

"Emory," I start, not sure if I'm planning to agree or protest.

"I know it's complicated," he says quickly, like he's afraid I'll shut down the conversation. "I know we said just friends. I know this is Jared and Erika's week and we're supposed tobe supporting their happiness, not creating drama. But I can't pretend anymore…this feels like something more.”

He's right. Nothing about this feels like friendship. The way we're pressed together, the way his hand is stroking my back, the way I want to kiss him more than I want my next breath, this is desire and longing and something that feels exactly like love.

"What are we doing?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want him to answer logically.

"I don't know," he admits with a soft laugh. "But I don't want to stop."

The band transitions into another slow song, buying us more time in this intimate bubble we've created. Around us, I'm dimly aware of other couples dancing, of Maya watching from the sideline with obvious approval, of the spectacular sunset providing a perfect romantic backdrop.

My focus is on the way Emory feels against me, the way he's looking at me like I'm the only person in paradise, the way eight years of separation seem to disappear when we're touching like this.

"This is crazy," I whisper, but my free hand tightens in his hair.

"Completely crazy," he agrees, leaning down until his forehead rests against mine. "But I've missed this. I've missed you. I've missed the way everything feels possible when we're together."

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