Page 10 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“They’re all good. My parents have gotten really into kayaking, so that’s how they spend most of their weekends. We all thought they were going to buy one and it would just sit in the garage, but they’ve proven us wrong. Phoebe’s running an independent bookstore and loving it. She got married a few years ago, and her wife is pregnant.”

“Happy to hear that. Congratulations to them.” He watches me pick up the ice pack again, shifting it from my knee to my hip. “I could take a look at your leg, if you want.” It takes a moment to dawn on me why he’s offering: physiotherapist.

“No!” I say it so loudly that a few heads swivel our way. “You don’t have to. I’m sure I’m fine. A bruise or two, nothing major.”

An adult Wouter examining my adult body is not something I have the mental capacity for right now. Especially with the way he’s grown into his long limbs, with hands that could probably soothe an ache the way they used to sketch out a landscape, right before he’d lick his index finger to turn the page.

They used to explore my legs, my waist, my hips, with the same careful determination. Thumb on my jaw. Palm on my stomach.

“I don’t know if I’m destined to become a serious cyclist,” I continue, fighting a blush that my brain in no way sanctioned.These fucking memories.“Actually…none of this has been what I expected so far, if I’m being honest. And not just the biking. I don’t want to insult your city or anything, but…”

A frown deepens the line between his brows, just like I warned him about when we were seventeen. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Before rational thought can intervene, all of it spills out. “My job has mostly been grunt work, and I’m not sure there’s anyone else on my team. And—my apartment flooded last night.”

He pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Shit. Are youokay?” he asks. “And all your things? Well, they’re not nearly as important, but, you know—they still matter.”

“I managed to save most of them, but I’m not sure I can keep living there. I’m just wondering how anyone finds an apartment here. Some of these don’t even include thefloor, apparently?” Because I might as well get some advice, I swipe through my phone and show him a listing that saysUNFURNISHED, UNUPHOLSTERED. “What does that mean? How is that possible?”

Wouter doesn’t seem fazed by this. “Yes, that’s not uncommon. Obviously there’s something underneath you, but it’s just concrete. People buy their own flooring—hardwood, laminate, carpet—and then take it to their next apartment when they move out.”

“Do you have to bring your own toilet, too?”

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he barks out a laugh. “No, that’s ridiculous.”

“I’m glad my agony is hilarious to you,” I say, dragging a hand down my face with a groan. “Because I feel like the most pathetic American. Just give me an Uncle Sam hat and a bucket of hot wings, because there’s no way I’m ever blending in here.”

The laughter stops, and he shakes his head. He’s quiet for a while; his features look as though he’s waging some inner battle. He places a finger on his beer glass, drawing a design in the condensation, keeping his eyes there instead of on me. “Danika…I might be able to help you out, actually.”

Danika.

He’s said it a couple times now, but for some reason, it’s only this time that it truly registers. He was the only one who ever called me by my full name, whispering it into my skin with a sweetness that could crack me in half.Danika, Danika, Danika. Ik hou van jou.

I swallow hard, trying to push all of that away. The images are too vivid, those versions of ourselves still locked in time.

“My last tenant had to move on short notice, so…I have an apartment. My family owns the building.”

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay with you,” I say, unable to process what he’s telling me.

“No, I rent it out.” His finger, still inching up the glass. “Fully furnished, so most of my tenants end up being expats. I live upstairs. Entirely separate entrance.”

I vaguely recall hearing about this. Back then, the Netherlands seemed this idyllic, fairy-tale place: tulips, windmills, Wouter. My parents occasionally talked about doing a family trip to Europe, but it took them years to pay off my medical bills, and then years after that to get stable again, which left me with a not insignificant amount of guilt.

Wouter slides his phone from his pocket, pulls up some photos of a charming ground-floor unit.

“There’s no way I could afford that.”

“I’ll give you the pathetic-American discount.” The dimple makes its first appearance. Slight, but it’s there. “Although I don’t think you’re pathetic at all. Unlucky, maybe, but luck always turns around.”

I’m inclined to keep brushing him off, because surely this is ridiculous, renting a room from the guy who lived across the hall from me during the best, then worst, year of my life. Then again, I’m low on options. None of my other ex-boyfriends are offering up lovely fully furnished apartments.

“And you’d be…my landlord?”

“Yes, that’s how it works.” Then his brow furrows with an expression I can’t quite interpret—concern, maybe. It’s been too long since I was able to read his face. “I wouldn’t intrude on your privacy or anything. I’m fairly hands-off unless one of my tenants needs something.” His eyes finally meet mine for a long moment, enoughfor a shiver to climb my spine that I could easily attribute to the slowly melting ice pack. “You’d barely even see me.”

Something like hope hovers in my chest. “Well then,” I say, downing the last of my beer. Fate or karma or simple coincidence—I’d be an idiot to say no without seeing it first. “I guess I can take a look.”

Four

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