Page 31 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“What about a therapist? I’ve heard that with universal healthcare, sometimes it can take a long time to get an appointment to see someone…”

“Haven’t looked into it yet,” I say, in part because I hadn’t been seeing anyone regularly in LA for a while. “But I will.”

“You just want to make sure you have someonebeforeyou need them,” she says. “What about friends? It breaks my heart to think of you feeling lonely out there. Have you made any yet, maybe some people from work?”

It’s hard, gritting my teeth and telling her half truths. I hear Wouter come back inside and move around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and setting a pan on the stove.

These secrets have to become easier to keep.

—

After a dinner of somestore-bought gnocchi and a salad, I clean up while Wouter opens a cupboard on the other side of the kitchen. “Tea?” he asks. “Unless you prefer coffee—I’m happy to make it.”

“I want the tea,” I say, which marks the first time I’ve uttered those words and meant them literally.

He places a ceramic kettle on the stove, showing me his various boxes of loose leaf so I can pick one out. Then he meticulously measures out tea leaves and pours the hot water over the strainer.

I wish I could tell heartbroken seventeen-year-old Dani that one day Wouter would be making chamomile hibiscus tea for her in Amsterdam.

“I love the ritual of it,” he says while the water turns a warm caramel color. “If I’m having an awful day, making a pot of tea always seems to help. It’s probably a bit more complicated than it needs to be, but loose leaf has so much more flavor than tea bags. They’re essentially tea dust.”

“No, this is cool.” And it is—there’s a reverence in the way he talks about it.

“That’s the first time anyone who owns five different teapots has ever been described as cool.”

We bring two mugs over to the couch along with a small plate of cookies, and George lifts his head from where he’s nestled in a blanket to sniff the air, just in case. I hold the mug to my face and breathe it in, letting the aromatics soothe some of my anxiety.

Wouter turns on some classical music as he sits down next to his dog, who instantly hops over to my lap. “See? No loyalty.” He crosses one leg over the other, leans back into the couch. This is more relaxed than I’ve seen him look so far, his posture less severe, sleeves rolled to his forearms and exposing a dusting of strawberry-blond hair.

The whole scene is so domestic, it could mess with my brain if I let it.

“You’re not regretting this yet, are you?” he asks. “I know it’s a lot of change in a short period of time. And if there’s anything in the apartment you don’t like—I’m not attached to any of the decor.”

I have a feeling he’s just being nice; I’m not about to redecorate his entire apartment. “Surprisingly? I feel calmer than I have since my plane landed.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “I think there are a few things we should discuss before the appointment.”

Appointment: the most accurate way to discuss our impending nuptials. We had to declare our intent to marry two weeks before the appointment itself, and in the end, that’s all it is, really. A time slot at city hall.

I alternate between petting George and sipping my tea. “Right. Getting our story straight for your family?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He brings his mug to his lips, waits a while before he speaks again. “It’s just my mom, my sister, and my grandmother. My dad passed away a couple years ago.”

The words are a punch to my stomach. “Wouter, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

A couple years.That’s hardly long ago at all.

“I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you,” he says. “But I suppose there never really is one. He had a stroke my first year of university. He was in the hospital for a few months, first for recovery and then for rehabilitation—it took a while for movement to come back. My mom made sure he exercised and ate as healthy as he could, and we really thought he was going to be okay after that. But a few years later…he had another one. And then he just wasn’t the same.”

I picture a Wouter not much older than the version I said goodbye to, all that fear and uncertainty twisted up inside him. That brow wrinkle he’d get from squinting down at his sketchbook, now a permanent fixture on his face. He would have been only eighteen or nineteen when the first stroke happened. A kid in so many ways.

Your parents must be proud, I said the day we first met, and he didn’t correct me.

Without even second-guessing it, I reach out and brush my fingers against the hand that’s resting on his jeans. I run my thumb along his knuckles in what must be only a marginal comfort, and yet his eyes fall shut for a moment.

“He needed a lot of help. His speech and mobility were impacted pretty significantly, and they weren’t coming back the way they had the first time. He was adamant about not wanting to leave Amsterdam, but the stairs weren’t possible anymore, so I moved with him to the ground floor unit. Helped him with his medications, exercises, eating and drinking. I’d been in De Pijp at the time, in a one-bedroom, but that felt much too far.”

“You took care of him,” I say softly, and he nods, not meeting my gaze again.

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