Page 23 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Two guys are bartering with a girl in a white negligee, long hair curling past her shoulders.

“What can I get for twenty bucks?” one of them asks.

“Hmm…a high-five?”

They let out a groan as she shuts her window, laughing.

“Have you ever—” I start, which is not a question I’d ever ask sober, but it’s impossible not to wonder.

Wouter shakes his head. “As you can imagine, a lot of people come here for stag nights,” he says as we round a corner. “Like our friends back there. Most Dutch people I know stay away from this area because it’s so crowded, and if they’re partying, they’re usually partying somewhere else.”

A hard elbow lands between my shoulder blades. Someone pushes past me, throwing off my balance, and as though on instinct, Wouter reaches for my arm. Holds me upright.

“Does it make me a local if I want to go somewhere quieter?” I ask.

As though looking for a reprieve himself, Wouter’s quick to steer us in the opposite direction, his hand shifting to the small of my back, this protective gesture that squeezes my heart just a bit. Like he wants to make sure no one else can mess with me.

Those six months we were together, we so rarely felt comfortable being affectionate in public unless we were certain there was no risk of running into anyone we knew. Sometimes I even considered telling my parents; after all, they loved him, they loved me, maybe there was the smallest chance they’d be happy for us. Supportive. But then I asked about going on birth control to help with acne andthey overreacted, and I remembered why we decided to keep it a secret in the first place.

Now the way he touches me is almost second nature, and I wish it didn’t make me ache for all the times he didn’t.

—

Once we’re on a quieter,car-free residential street, Wouter visibly exhales, his shoulders softening. I can’t believe people are still biking at night, but then again, it’s how most of them get around. The canals are still, serene, the houses bursting with tangerine light reflected in the water below.

It feels almost mystical that a place like this exists.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “For all of this. I’m a little mad I didn’t explore sooner.”

“I had fun, even if you refuse to accept that our licorice is superior to yours.”

“It’s so salty! Calling that dessert would be a punishable offense in America.” I’ve paused on a bridge to snap a photo, and he leans against it next to me.

“So…thirteen years.” He lets those words hang between us, drums his hands on the bridge. “Tell me, what have I missed? Besides everything.”

I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Where to start? Let’s see…I went to USC, like my sister, and majored in informatics with a minor in user experience. I’ve worked for a few different tech companies, but nothing’s ever felt like the right fit, I guess.” I’m not used to talking this much about myself outside of a corporate interview, but I’m guessing he wants more than my résumé. “Hmm…I like all the popular music I pretended to hate in high school just because it was trendy. I spend a lot of time with my sister. For a while I was really into acai bowls, which is probably a legally mandatedphase for everyone who lives in LA, but fortunately for my bank account, that’s over. Until about a month ago, I had a studio apartment in Burbank that also served as a shrine to Monet’s water lilies, as you know.”

“Of course. Very tasteful.”

“And I’ve always wanted a dog, but none of my building managers have agreed with me.”

At that, he lights up. “I have a dog,” he says. “George. He’s perfect when he isn’t being a little menace.”

“I thought I heard something from upstairs that sounded like scampering. Assumed it wasn’t you.” Then I give him my guiltiest look. “I stalked you online a few times over the years,” I admit. “I’ve always been curious.”

“I did, too. You haven’t always been the easiest person to find, though.”

“I deactivated everything a while back.”

I don’t tell him the reason why: that the updates from friends and acquaintances made me feel so far behind. Logically I knew social media was a highlight reel, but that didn’t make it any less crushing to look at.

“What about you?” I ask. “Where did physiotherapy come from? And is it different from physical therapy?”

His smile tightens for a moment, so slight in the darkness that I almost don’t catch it. “It surprised me, too. And there is a difference, yes. A physiotherapist is often more hands-on, with more stretching, more massage. A physical therapist does some of that, but there’s a bigger exercise component. I also considered studying occupational therapy, which revolves around how to perform tasks in daily life, while physio is about the ability to move your body in general. I like that I get to really use my hands.”

It’s nothing like what I expected for him, and yet somehow it makes perfect sense.

“And I love developing relationships with my patients, getting to see them improve. When they come to me, sometimes they’re in a great deal of pain, and being the person to take that away? It’s a privilege for them to trust me with something that significant.”

---