Page 29 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Seinfeld. I know.”

We spent so much time watching oldSeinfeldepisodes when he lived with us, my parents on the sectional, Phoebe curled up in the armchair, Wouter and I cushioned on the floor with a couple of pillows. A wholesome family activity, something all of us could do together. Wouter found the show hilarious in its Americanness. We made our way through two and a half seasons, shocked by the number of plotlines that could be resolved with the simple presence of a cell phone.

All these years later, he named his dog after a character from a show that had to—in some small way—remind him ofme.

“Some of my fondest memories from the States,” Wouter says, bending to pick up George and giving him a kiss on the head. “Guess I have a weakness for American sitcoms.”

I needed only a couple days to pack everything up again, during which time I replayed our bridge conversation over and over. I spent hours researching green-card marriage horror stories, convincing myself we could really do this without getting caught. I half expected he’d get cold feet and I’d wake up to a message asking if we could talk. More than once, my own fingertips hovered over his name on my phone, debating the same thing.

And every time, I stopped myself.

Now that I’m in his home, I realize I didn’t spend enough time contemplating the reality of not just marrying Wouter van Leeuwen butlivingwith him, sharing this space from morning until night, seven days a week. I’ve only ever lived with my family, my sister, and a handful of female roommates. Never alone with a man—and the rational assumption was that if and when I did, it would be out of love, not pragmatism.

This man is about to become your husband, I think as he explains that George is around seven or eight, a rescue brought over from Hungary a few years ago. The dog’s little pink tongue darts out to lick Wouter’s cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.Four.Seven. Eight.The breathing technique that always sounded much too simple to work, and I’m still surprised when it releases some of the anxiety from my body.

Four. You’re not going to get caught.

Seven.It’s not permanent.

Eight.This is the best option.

It’s not an instant cure for every spiraling thought, but at least I can breathe a bit easier.

When I imagined his apartment, I expected it to be covered with art. The reality is that it’s lovely if a little stark, with modern built-in shelves, a coffee table with a single book on it, a blanketed bench by the windows with that unbelievable canal view that looks like the perfect reading nook. A basket of dog toys in one corner, though Wouter says George was probably never socialized as a puppy and doesn’t understand the meaning of fetch.

“The only things he ever plays with are my socks, so you might want to keep a close eye on yours if you don’t want holes in them.”

There’s a kitchen table that seems used mostly to store mail, a couple barstools at the counter, a balcony. Some of the original details remain, like the tiled fireplace and those cursed stairs, but aside from a few family photos, there’s nothing that screamsthis is where Wouter grew up.

Then something becomes apparent that I should have noticed right away.

“Wait, is the floor…”

Wouter turns sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s not level, yes. The house is tilting.” He grabs a pen from the kitchen table, sets it down on the floor. Both of us crane our necks as it slowly starts rolling.

“I didn’t notice it downstairs,” I say.

“It’s more pronounced on the upper floors. We need to level it off, but it’s not cheap.” Another shrug. “My parents always lovedthe floors, so we never got around to fixing them, although the angle wasn’t quite as pronounced back then.” He pats one of the walls. “I painted a couple years ago, but that was the last major change I made. I love this place, though. Maybe too much. Almost makes me feel guilty that I can’t devote more time or money, but it feels like a separate full-time job.”

I linger on one of the photos hanging above the sofa. Wouter and his parents, sister, and grandparents at what must have been his high school graduation. They’re posed in front of this apartment, the Dutch flag behind them with a backpack hanging from it—a Netherlands tradition. His sister’s grin is the widest; she’s hugging her brother like he’s her favorite person in the world. His father has his arm around his mother, his grandmother—thegrandmother, the one I’m going to have to impress—next to her. The boy in this photo is so close to the Wouter I knew. Ganglier, maybe a bit more self-conscious, with the kind of thick-framed glasses that were in style back then, contrasted with the thin circular frames he wears now.

The house is almost three hundred years old. It’s staggering to imagine all the people who lived here before the Van Leeuwens, all the milestones and heartbreaks they endured within these walls.

Wouter leads me down the hall, tapping on the first door. “My bedroom,” he says, and then in front of the second, “and yours. Hopefully it’s okay?”

I peek inside the tidy minimalist space, dropping my backpack on the bed while Wouter leans in the doorway, as though now that he’s christened it mine, he needs permission to come inside. The duvet is a neutral paisley pattern, and everything else is white: lamp, sliding wardrobe doors, slim dresser.

And there’s a small print of Van Gogh’s sunflowers on the wall.

“Did you—was that here before?” I ask, somehow already knowing the answer.

He bites back a sheepish smile. Runs a hand through his hair. “Wanted to make it feel…a bit more like home for you.”

“It’s perfect, truly. Thank you.” Then I wander into the bathroom across the hall and let out a bewildered laugh, grateful to move past the way that Van Gogh print tugged at my chest. “Still with the tiny sinks with cold water?”

“What’s wrong with our tiny sinks?”

“Why are they that small?” I ask. “And what if you have big hands?”

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