Page 43 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Hi, I’m Roos!” she says, and given the sheer wattage of her smile, I’m positive no one else has been more excited to see me in the history of my life. What’s more, it seemsgenuine. She needs to bend down for the customary Dutch greeting: three kisses on alternating cheeks. “So amazing to finally meet you. Wouter has told us…well, he used to talk about you all the time, but it’s been a while!” An easy laugh as she pats me on the shoulder. “But I’m very much looking forward to getting to know you.”

He used to talk about you all the time.

All Wouter told me was that his family knew about our relationship. That’s not quite the same thing as talking about me all the time. Next to me, he rubs at the back of his neck, determinedly not making eye contact.

“Dani,” I say. “It’s great to be here. This might be one of the most charming cities I’ve ever seen.”

Roos expertly raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t have a reaction to my port-wine stain, either because she’s seen pictures of me or because it really doesn’t faze her. “I’ll have to tell the mayor you said that. She lives on the next block.”

Footsteps, and then Wouter’s mother appears at the door. She has the same dark blond hair, thinner and streaked with gray; largeglasses; an inscrutable expression. And the height—I’ve married into a family of giants.

Of course they’re going to be suspicious. I’m the outsider, the American interloper. And even though this is fake, I desperately want them to like me.

“My apologies, I had a pot that just started boiling,” she says, her accent much more pronounced than her kids’. When her eyes land on me, she gives a hesitant smile. My face heats up more than it usually does when I’m meeting new people, because now I’m intensely aware that she’s assessing me, and I can’t help wondering what she might consider a flaw. My birthmark. My slight stature. The way I’m dressed, or the way I speak.

I’ve never been as self-conscious about any of it as I am right now.

“Mam, this is Danika,” Wouter says. “Or Dani, but I’ve always liked Danika. Sounds like it could be Dutch.”

“You’re still the only one who calls me that,” I say, and somehow it manages to sound like this is an in-joke we’ve had for years. I even catch Roos biting back a smile.

His mom leans in for the three cheek kisses. “Aangenaam, Dani. I’m Anneke.” Her gaze lands on the ring on my finger, and she gives a nod of approval. “Very classic. At least Wouter had good taste—that hasn’t always been true.”

Wouter lets out a dramatic groan. “Is this about the year I refused to wear anything but sweatpants to school?”

“Of course it is.” Roos clasps my arm and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, I have pictures.”

Anneke gives Wouter a ruffle of his hair. “That was only a year? It felt so much longer.”

“Fair warning,” Wouter says to me, “this is going to be alotof them teasing me.”

“All the more reason to be excited,” I say as we step inside and I unzip my boots. “Your house is lovely.”

“Thank you so much.” Anneke gestures to my skirt. “I like your…” She fumbles around as though searching for the right word. “Panty.”

Panic flares through me.

“Sorry, my what?” I crane my neck over my shoulder, wondering if this is her way of telling me my underwear is showing. I guess it’s not impossible I accidentally tucked my shirt into my underwear instead of the teal tights I paired with a black skirt, but surely the universe wouldn’t do that to me today?

“Panty,” Anneke repeats, louder this time.

Wouter has turned a deep shade of scarlet. “It’s Dutch for ‘tights,’ ” he says to me, motioning to my legs. “Pantyhose.”

“Oh. Guess my class hasn’t covered that yet.” Then, to Anneke: “Dank je wel.”

“ ‘Panties’ in English is underwear, Mam,” Roos offers helpfully, and I’m grateful she’s the one explaining it instead of her brother.

Then it’s Anneke’s turn to cover her hand with her mouth, muffling a laugh. “Ah. I assure you, not what I meant,” she says as she takes our coats, hanging them in a shallow closet. “You’re taking Dutch classes, Dani?”

I allow myself to relax as I tell her more about them. I love the rules and the pronunciation, learning which sounds you drop at the end of a word and which ones you emphasize. It’s challenging, of course, but I think I’ve needed that.

Even if part of me is worried it’s just another hobby I’m going to abandon a few months from now.

Wouter’s grandmother is in an armchair in the adjoining living room, a cozy space with one wall painted blue and plants dangling from the ceiling. A tall bookshelf is filled with all manner of knickknacks, along with some framed family photos.

Wouter greets her with a gentle hug before introducing me in Dutch. I only catch a few words.

“Aangenaam,” his grandmother says in a sturdier voice than I’m expecting, and then points to herself. “Maartje.” She’s small and soft-featured, her hair a cloud of white-blond wisps. A knitted blanket is draped over her lap, and on top of that, a sudoku book.

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