Page 12 of What Happens in Amsterdam

The question is innocent enough, and yet I wrench my gaze away from his mouth, my cheeks burning with the memories.

He was. He always was.

“Maybe you could think of it as a peace offering,” he continues. “A fresh start.”

I don’t hate the sound of a fresh start, especially since that’s the refrain I’ve had in my head since I decided to leave LA.

Until it hits me, what this apartment might actually be.

Not just a peace offering—but an attempt to buy my forgiveness.

The realization is tinged with shame, a familiar emotion when it comes to Wouter. I’d been so embarrassed when it ended, thinking he was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. This is the man who broke my heart—and now I’m the one who needs his help.

Butfuck, I really want this apartment.

I wander through the living room, lingering on a framed print where a swimming pool takes up nearly the whole canvas. Upon closer look, the figures in the pool aren’t people but dogs. A dachshund lounges on an inflatable hot dog, and a human man sits nearby in a lifeguard tower. “I like this. Who’s the artist?”

He shakes his head. “I got it in some local shop or another—I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not still into art?”

It’s the oddest thing to have known him so intimately when we were seventeen and not know the answer to this question. I get a flash of his palms grayed with charcoal, a smudge of paint on his thumbnail. There’s not as much creativity in UX design as I’d like,especially when you’re working for massive corporations. I hoped this startup would change that—and maybe it still could. This apartment makes me want to be optimistic.

Wouter joins me in front of the painting. I can sense his warmth next to me, his much taller frame; that barrier we once crossed so frequently might as well be made out of concrete now. We are washing dishes in my family’s kitchen, splashing each other with suds, giggling but never touching. A domestic flirtation.

“I’m afraid I don’t have as much time for it as I used to,” he says.

“So the whole European work-life balance is a myth.”

A hard crease of a smile as he leans against the wall. Broad shoulders swathed in green corduroy. I have to tilt my head upward to keep making eye contact, and suddenly I think the heat might be working just fine. “Not a myth. I guess I just have other hobbies,” he says. “What about you? Still a…what did you call it back then?”

He absolutely knows, and he’s just waiting for me to say it.

“A basic art bitch,” I say, crossing my arms. “Yes, I am, and proud of it.” I have a deep and abiding love for Monet’sWater Lilies, Klimt’sThe Kiss, all of Degas’s ballerinas. I even have a trio of Van Gogh’s sunflowers tattooed on my hip. They might be some of the most commercialized pieces of art in history, and that’s because they’re magnificent. Every time I look at them, I see something new. “I had a massive Monet landscape in my living room in Burbank—beautiful.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was.”

If he were anyone else, I’d lean forward and swat his arm. The sleeve of his corduroy shirt looks soft. Inviting. But even if we can joke around like this, we are not close. “There’s a reason they’re so popular! As I’m sure I told you a thousand times.”

He’s laughing now, the dimple back. “I don’t dislike them. There’s just much more unique stuff out there.”

This genuine laughter gives me such an endorphin rush that I can’t help joining in—until he pushes back his hair with his left hand and I find myself searching for a ring.

Out of simple curiosity.

“So. Uh. Are you…” The sentence trails off, my face burning once again. “…seeing anyone?” I head for the kitchen and open up the cupboard—my cupboard, I suppose—for a glass of water.

“Ah—no, I’m not. And you?”

“Ended a relationship a few weeks before I left.” I take a sip. Clear my throat.

The relationship had been fun at first, casual sex that became casual dinner dates and then a not-so-casual meeting of his parents. Jace was the kind of guy who swept effortlessly through the office, friendly with everyone, as confident in a one-on-one meeting as he was giving a presentation in front of a hundred people. When he said he wanted to settle down, I believed him. For eleven whole months, I believed him.

Until one of my sister’s friends matched with him on Tinder.

“I just—didn’t want to run into your wife or something in the hall and make anything awkward.”

“No risk of that,” he confirms, following me into the kitchen.

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