Page 17 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Blushing in the back seat of my car, breath hot on my inner thighs as he asked me in a voice that was all desperate wanting:Is this good? Do you like this?

Goodwas too weak a word, but I didn’t have the right vocabulary for any of it. How could you describe a feeling that split you open and snapped you together at the same time? So I stroked a hand through his hair, grazing the top of his ear, and gave him a feverishyes.

Just like we said the other day: a past life.

“No problem at all,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel fromhis back pocket before readjusting the tool belt. His face is still hooded, as though he’s making an effort to keep even the slightest emotion locked away. “Let me know if you have any other issues, but hopefully you won’t have to see me again for a while.”

“Right. Hopefully.” Now my voice is the faintest scratch in my throat. I can’t tell if he thinks I don’t want him here or if this is truly how he feels—eager to get away from me.

It shouldn’t bother me. Shouldn’t make my eyes sting. I should be relieved that we’re on the same page, even if it means we’re stuck inside a book with a terrible ending.

Once he’s gone, I drown my agony in sad-girl pasta night, wishing I’d said a hundred other things or maybe nothing at all.

—

The thing about working somewhereunstable is that it’s not actually all that hard to convince yourself the worst won’t happen. It’s what our brains do in most situations—protect us from the truth. CommerX clearly had the money to sponsor my move. They give us prepackaged sandwiches or salads for lunch every day. They can’t possibly be on the verge of going under.

Then on Monday, two more people quit.

On Wednesday, I catch someone sobbing in the bathroom.

The end of the week brings more secretive meetings and hushed conversations, and on Friday afternoon, after another plastic-wrapped ham-and-cheese, Beatriz in accounting slowly packs her bag and slips out of the office. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t looked like she was trying to be sneaky about it, her eyes darting in every direction before she rounded a corner. Ten minutes later, Mehmet in sales does the same thing.

And then it’s a free-for-all.

The twenty other employees are a flurry of jackets and paper and desperation. Mugs are snatched up, plants are inexplicably shovedinto backpacks. Some people even break into a sprint as they head for the elevators.

“Get out while you still can!” Anjali in marketing calls to me before she makes a run for it.

I get to my feet, half-eager to flee with the rest of them but unable to make myself without an explanation. “What the—”

“Some unfortunate news.” Charlotte rushes over to my desk with this massive understatement, her usually tidy blond ponytail in a state of subtle disarray. A messenger bag is slung over her shoulder, an extension cord spilling out of it. “The CEO might have made a couple…let’s say unwise financial decisions. We’ve had investors dropping out left and right, and we’ve been trying to get them to stay, but there might be an investigation into some of his behavior. So…” She ends this with a little hiccup of a laugh, as though positive energy will trick me into thinking this isn’t actually all that bad.

“But—but you said all the higher-ups were brilliant.” Somehow my mind hinges on this. As though a brilliant person cannot possibly make a financial mistake.

Charlotte drops a sympathetic hand to my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Now all the confusion morphs to panic. “Maybe…couldn’t someone else take over?” I ask feebly.

“There isn’t any money, I’m afraid. There, ah, isn’t that much of a company anymore.” She scoops up some extra coffee filters and drops them into her bag. “I wish you the best, really I do. A shame this didn’t work out, but I’m sure you’ll land on your feet!”

By this point, we’re two of the last people left. I half expect the roof to start caving in as I follow Charlotte to the elevator, where she passes a box of Kleenex to a crying colleague.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “I’m sure they won’t be able to trace it back to you.”

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting out.

At least, that’s how I feel until I’m standing dazed in the middle of Dam Square while tourists and pigeons swarm around me, trying to process the biggest what-the-fuck in a whole month of them. I could surrender myself to the birds. Let them peck out my eyes. It’d probably be less painless.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do now.

I stumble past the line spilling from the TikTok-famous place that sells only one type of cookie, hugging my coat against the wind because of course I haven’t adjusted to this weather yet. My lungs are too tight and I can’t get a full breath, so I close my eyes and make myself pause for a second, rooting around my bag for my inhaler before remembering I left it on the kitchen counter. Not an asthma attack, I realize, just anxiety—although it’s never reallyjust, is it? Four breaths in, hold for seven, release for eight. For a moment I wonder if those doctors who operated on me as a baby didn’t put me back together properly. Maybe my body was just waiting for a disaster before giving up on me, too.

This apparent dissolution of CommerX wasn’t entirely unexpected, but I’m left with hundreds of questions. They sponsored my visa—what happens with it now? A quick google informs me I have ninety days to find a new job before I have to leave the country. In theory, three whole months sounds like plenty of time. But now that I’ve browsed some listings, I’m not so sure it’s enough.

Holy shit.

I might not be able to stay.

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