Page 21 of What Happens in Amsterdam

What I might have done to change his mind.

“We don’t have to litigate it,” I say, because the last time we attempted to discuss it, it did not end well. “You moved on. I moved on. And then I moved to Amsterdam.”

He nods, taking his time before he speaks again. “It’s still so surreal, seeing you here. I never imagined—I mean, of course I thought about it, but—and then you told me you didn’t want to be friends, and I wanted to respect that…”

When he trails off, I can hear something wistful in his voice. His earlier chilliness was so jarring that I should be leaping at the chance for something normal.

Of course I thought about it.

Phoebe’s words echo in my mind, almost to combat what he just said:You don’t really know him anymore.

I want to, though. Even if it doesn’t help me unravel the mystery he left me with. Even if it only means I have one other person in this country who doesn’t want me to fail. He was mine during such a vital part of our lives, and that affection doesn’t just go away. Years can pass, but certain songs and scents and pieces of art take me right back to seventeen.

“Unless you want me to just keep being your landlord,” Wouter rushes to say when I haven’t responded. “In which case, you’ll tell me if you break anything else?”

A welcome laugh bursts out of me. “The sink wasnotmy fault!” Then I sit up straighter, brushing stroopwafel crumbs from my wool jacket and finally becoming serious. “Maybe—maybe we should amend that part of the contract, too. Assuming I don’t get sent back to the States anytime soon.”

“You won’t,” he insists, and I wish I had that confidence.

Even now, I’m unsure what a friendship looks like between us. I should be cautious, the way my sister said, because he is still a semi-stranger.

Then again, I was supposed to be a new version of myself here—and this is something I’ve never done before.

“To fresh starts,” I say, holding out my hand.

His whole face changes, eyes softening behind his glasses. His hand meets mine, warm and firm and solid. Thumb on my knuckle, the lightest brush. Even if he’s no longer making art, I’m suddenly relieved he’s in a field where he works with his hands—it would be an utter waste not to.

It’s the first intentional beat of physical contact we’ve had since the bike accident, when he pulled me from wet pavement up to my feet.

“Fresh starts,” he echoes. “And fresh stroopwafel.”

A little dorky, sure, but when he smiles, I’m convinced it’s the most genuine one I’ve seen from him so far. It’s a time machine, that smile, lighting up his whole face, bringing out his dimple, and making too many long-buried memories rush back.

When I made that list of anti–tourist attractions, spending weekends taking him to the most bizarre places I could think of, he only ever beamed at me, like I was expanding his world in ways he’d never dreamed of. Ridiculous ways, and yet they meant something because it was the two of us. Sunken City at night. Clownerina at Venice Beach. The world’s largest paper cup in Riverside.I miss Amsterdam, he said once.But I’m going to miss all of this even more.

I slide my hand from his.

“If I’m going to be a real tourist,” I say, vowing to leave the past in the past, “then I think we should get high and go to the Red Light District.”

Seven

We decide to wait untildark, filling the afternoon with more food tourism. I try kroketten, Dutch licorice called drop, and about a hundred samples of cheese. Then, when I declare I need more dessert, we stop at a gourmet bakery that sells all manner of pot-laced sweets.

Look at us, I want to say to everyone we pass on the street.Look how evolved we are, former lovers who can casually stroll the streets of Amsterdam together. Look how mature.Though we mostly stick to surface topics like work and the Netherlands, I realize I’ve been lonely. There’s a comfort to this kind of connection after weeks of stumbling around on my own. A familiarity, of course, but a newness, too.

De Wallen, the official name of the Red Light District, has old medieval streets, much rougher than in other parts of the city, and it’s easy for a shoe to get caught in cobblestone. Tonight’s partying has already begun, people spilling from bars and terraces and lingering along the canals, shouting and singing and laughing.

“Amsterdam isn’t just weed and the Red Light District,” Woutersays as we pass the grand Oude Kerk, the old church, glowing bright against the darkening sky.

My head is already delightfully calm from the edible we shared, a slice of lemon cake, and I’m trying my best to keep away from cigarette smoke to avoid triggering my asthma. “Right, it’s also tulips and windmills.”

He rolls his eyes at this, but I get what he means. There’s an interesting duality there. The Amsterdam stereotypes are this mix of wholesome—tulips, clogs, windmills—and indulgent—weed, mushrooms, the Red Light District.

“I just want you to know that I fully support tonight’s mission, but people who live here aren’t getting high like this on a regular basis. Most tourists aren’t, either.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “But it was impossible to tell someone I was moving to Amsterdam without them making a crude, uninspired joke about it.”

We dodge a group of a half dozen guys in full bachelor party attire, dressed in baby onesies with pacifiers around their necks. The groom is wearing a sash that loudly proclaimsLAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM.

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