Page 28 of What Happens in Amsterdam

And my own family…

If my parents found out I’d run away to Amsterdam and gotten married, they’d be on the next flight out of LAX, ready to drag me home and back to my senses.You’re not thinking clearly, they’d say.This isn’t like you.

Maybe that’s exactly why I should do it.

“I’m not really an impulsive person.” I’m not sure why I say it—a last-ditch effort at common sense?

His knee taps mine again. “You packed up your entire life and moved to a different continent. A country you’d never been to before.”

When he says it like that, I can’t help wondering if maybe there is some hidden bravery inside me, something he can see but I can’t. Maybe this is sheer idiocy, or maybe it’s just a means to an end. Either way, by the time we get divorced, he’ll own his building and I’ll have figured out what I’m doing with my life.

Quick and simple. Nothing uncomfortable, just like he said.

Inside my coat pocket, my fingertips graze a scrap of paper. I pull out the straw wrapper from an afternoon iced latte and give him a lift of my eyebrows as I pinch the ends together, tying them in a knot.

He’s grinning when I hand it over to him, and I can find his dimple even in the dark. I used to sketch that smile over and over, never able to do it justice. His lips would be too thin. Too crooked. Eventually I gave up and watched him draw me instead, with a focused intensity I was never sure I deserved.

His fingers shake as he reaches for my hand again. With his thumb, he traces the slope of a knuckle. Up and then back down,like he’s trying to soothe me or himself or maybe both of us. Promising, with those strokes of his finger, that this is a good decision.

“I always imagined I’d be a little more suave when I did this,” he whispers.

God, he’s nervous, even giving me this paper ring.

“You’re doing great,” I tell him, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of my voice. There’s a giddiness there, too, the feeling that comes with doing something that goes against all rational thought—and yet we’ve found a way to rationalize it.

If I went searching for a new version of myself in Amsterdam, I think I’ve found her.

“What do you say, Danika?” My name in his accent shouldn’t be this irresistible. His questions shouldn’t be this earnest. “Do you want to be impulsive with me?”

Somehow it’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long, long time.

“Yes.” The word is trapped inside a laugh, a tiny, incredulous thing. He slides the wrapper ring onto my finger so carefully that for a moment, I can convince myself it’s made of gold. “Yes, I do.”

Nine

The first time we livedtogether, there were rules. Foreign exchange students had to attend school every day and help out with chores around the house. They weren’t allowed to drink, drive, or get a job, and Wouter’s program strongly discouraged dating.

“We’re supposed to treat him like a member of the family,” my mother said. “Not like a guest.”

Wouter became our newest family member two weeks before junior year started. And I was completely unprepared.

In the beginning, we were overly polite. My mother brought out a stack of board games we hadn’t played in years, and my father tried to incorporate every major food group into our dinners. Then slowly, we let out the real Dorfmans, who weren’t bad by any means—just a little less polished. We traded Monopoly for Netflix, grain bowls for pizza night. We stopped brushing our hair before going downstairs to breakfast.

I was used to sharing a bathroom with my sister, but now her familiar scents and sprays had been replaced with all these products that signaled Very Boy, Much Man. The guys I sat next to in classwere always overcologned and underwhelming. Observing one in his natural habitat—or as natural as it could be, an ocean away from home—turned me into a scientist. Every discovery unstitched me a little more: body wash with a label in Dutch, aftershave with a hint of cloves that made me dizzy in a way I instantly loved. Then there were the clothes Wouter wore just to lounge around in, a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a faded Ajax T-shirt for Amsterdam’s football team. A smiley face drawn in the condensation on the shower glass, and later, a heart.

Here we are thirteen years later, about to share another bathroom.

“Third home’s the charm,” I say as I haul my backpack up the steepest, narrowest flight of stairs I’ve ever seen. I’ll never make fun of anyone onHouse Hunters Internationalagain.

With far too much ease, Wouter nudges my suitcases over the threshold. A tiny dog clambers toward us the moment the door opens, nails clacking on the hardwood floor. He’s deep brown with long tufts of hair on his head and chin and above his eyes, maybe a dachshund mixed with a terrier, absolutely adorable. His tail goes wild as I kneel to try to pet him, but he’s leaping around too quickly to catch, such a flurry of activity that I can barely take in the apartment. He wants love from his human, but he’s also out-of-his-mind delighted that Wouter’s brought him a new friend.

The dog zips from the hall over to the living room, does a lap, and races right back to us. And again. He carries something into the hall and drops it at my feet—a sock?

“Are you calm enough for a proper introduction?” Wouter says, and the dog seems to understand exactly what’s being asked of him, plopping down on the floor and tilting his head. “Danika, this is George Costanza. George, this is Danika.”

“Sorry, your dog is named…”

“George Costanza. After the character from—”

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