Page 30 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Now he’s laughing too, eyes turning bright behind his glasses. “That’s just how it is here,” he says. “Maybe your American sinks are too big.”

“That was what you took away from your life-changing year abroad? That our sinks are too big?”

“And your bread is too sweet.” Then, as I unzip a suitcase: “Can I help you with anything?”

“Sure. You want to open this mystery box with me?” I take out the package that arrived from the US yesterday. “A care package from Phoebe.”

Wouter returns to the kitchen, where he rummages around in a drawer, then reappears with a box cutter. George is making himself at home on my bed, jumping onto the duvet so he can get closer to me, wagging his tail as I bend to scratch him.

“It’s his only fault,” Wouter says, mock-solemn. “Anyone else he meets—he instantly gets more attached to them, even though I’m the one who supports his lavish lifestyle of canned food and fleece blankets.”

“I don’t think you have any faults at all,” I tell George, because I am already in love with his little face and perfect ears and the way he rolls over so I can scratch his belly.

My sister’s box is full of treasures: Trader Joe’s cookie butter, afew boxes of Annie’s white cheddar macaroni and cheese, a Costco-sized pack of NyQuil.

“You can’t get that here,” Wouter muses.

“Leave it to Phoebe to unknowingly smuggle me drugs.”

His hand dives into the packing peanuts. “What’s this—oh.” And he drops a lavender vibrator as though he’s just unearthed a tarantula.

My reaction is twofold.

One: complete and utter mortification.

Two: gratitude, because I tossed my old toys before moving, thinking this would be a good time to restart my collection.

“Not sure why she felt the need to include one of these,” I say quickly, even as I clock the brand as one of my favorites. “Obviously you have them over here. I mean—the general you, notyouspecifically, although no judgment if you do! Of course they can be enjoyed by—by anyone.”

Wouter’s face is a brilliant red, and I think he might be trying to hold back a laugh. “I don’t have one,” he says. “But now you’re making me think I’m missing out.” He nods his head toward the package. “Wow, twenty different vibration patterns.”

“You know, I don’t think I need help after all.”

On the bed next to the box, my phone starts buzzing, and the sound is so jarring that at first I think the vibrator somehow got switched on.

But it’s just a call from my mother, as though she knows exactly what’s happening, a garage door lurching beneath us just as I was about to drag him down onto my bed. The two of us splitting apart, Wouter darting to the room across the hall and pretending he’d been studying the whole time.

“I should answer that.” I’ve been avoiding my parents ever since Wouter’s proposal, as though they’d be able to tell just from thesound of my voice that something unusual was going on. I’ve never kept this much from them.

I wait until Wouter leaves to walk George before I pick up the phone.

“Danibear!” my mother croons, an old nickname that makes me feel ten years old again. “Is that really you? Our long-lost daughter?”

I fight rolling my eyes. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“Good, good. Your father’s out in the garden. The lilies are looking beautiful, but unfortunately the rabbits think so, too.”

My parents are two other people whose jobs seem perfectly suited to them: my father teaches high school math, and my mother works in public health for the county. Solid jobs. Jobs that give something back.

Even if no one said it, I knew it would have delighted them if I’d gone into a similar field, but I always felt awkward in front of kids, and spending so much time in hospitals when I was little left me with zero desire to go back.

“We haven’t gotten any photos from you in a while,” my mother continues. “You haven’t been updating the family album.”

“Oh—I haven’t?” I feign surprise. “Maybe something’s off with the connection. I’ll check once we hang up.”

“Loved the ones from the Van Gogh Museum, though. You must have been in heaven, seeing all of that in person!”

At that, I let myself smile. A rare moment of connection between us. “I really was. It’s still a little surreal to be here, but—I like it. I do. And before you ask, I’m taking all my medications.” Wouter’s out with George, but still, I say this quietly.

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