Page 44 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“So nice to meet you. Thank you so much for having me over.” I lost both my grandmothers when I was very young and a grandfather just last year. My only remaining grandparent is in a retirement home in Sherman Oaks, and being here with Wouter’s grandmother makes me want to call him up the moment I get home.

His grandmother says something in Dutch again, and Wouter translates. “She says this happened very fast. But she can understand sometimes that’s how it goes when you’re really in love, and she and my grandfather knew right away that they were meant for each other.”

This is where we really have to sell it. Wouter slips his arm around me, though not before he lifts his eyebrows to confirm it’s okay. I give him a slight nod as his hand comes to rest at my waist.

I lean in, placing a hand on his chest just long enough to feel the rise and fall of a single breath, wishing my lungs had that same steadiness. “Your grandson is very special, but I’m sure you know that,” I say, and Wouter translates again. “We fell in love thirteen years ago and never stopped thinking about each other.”

“Lunch in about fifteen minutes,” Anneke calls, moving into the adjoining kitchen to finish up. A warm, savory aroma already fills the house.

Roos volunteers herself to give me a tour. She has this frenetic kind of energy, like if you touched her, you might get zapped—and her lack of judgment is so opposite what I was expecting that I probably wouldn’t mind it at all. The house isn’t large or showy; there are bedrooms for his mother and grandmother, a guest room for Roos or Wouter when they’re visiting, and just one bathroom. Iwonder if there’s some strangeness there: Wouter took over his childhood home that no longer resembles where he grew up, while his family moved farther away, to this house that doesn’t have as many memories in its walls.

“I wish I could see what the Prinsengracht house looked like when you were kids,” I say, and the siblings exchange a grin before leading me back to the kitchen, where a photo wall separates it from the living room.

The collage is a burst of nostalgic joy: baby photos and awkward preteen years and vacations and everything in between. Wouter as a baby with tufts of strawberry blond hair, peeking out from a crib. Dragging a paintbrush along a canvas in the room that’s now our kitchen. Roos dressed as a fairy, spread out on her back on the apartment’s treacherous stairs. Their father holding a birthday cake. Kissing their mother on the cheek. A trip to Disneyland Paris, the kids wearing mouse ears and posing with Mickey and Pluto.

“This is precious,” I say, pointing to a picture of toddler Roos and what must be a five- or six-year-old Wouter missing his two front teeth. “You two were the cutest kids.”

“Here’s his sweatpants phase, as promised.” Roos gestures to photos of a ten- or eleven-year-old Wouter at a backyard party, goofing off with friends, giving a presentation at school—all in the same frayed pair of navy joggers. “And a series of increasingly bad haircuts to go along with them. Didn’t Dad threaten to burn them?”

“They were comfortable,” Wouter says in protest. “Oh—and here’s our parents on their first King’s Day together. Or I guess it was Queen’s Day back then.” He points to a photo of a twentysomething Anneke dressed all in orange, with Wouter’s father next to her in a giant orange hat and a feather boa. Now that I’m seeing their parents this much younger, Roos looks more like Anneke while Wouter has his father’s intense eyes and broad shoulders.

“I think it’s my favorite photo,” Roos says.

Wouter goes quiet for a moment. Reverent. “Mine, too.”

I don’t realize until he says it that this is what I wanted when I moved in. A deeper understanding of this family and their history.

Anneke says something in Dutch, calling Roos into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Wouter.

He inches closer, ducks his head. “You’re doing great,” he whispers with a palm on my lower back, as though he knows I needed the confirmation.

Then he strides into the kitchen to help his mother and sister set the table. It lingers, the phantom heat of his hand pressed to my sweater. The slight twitch of his fingertips.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, feeling slightly useless, but his mother just gives an adamant shake of her head.

When we sit down to eat, Maartje gestures to the ceramic baking dish in the middle of the table. “Stamppot. Very, very Dutch.”

Anneke offers a more thorough explanation: “It’s potatoes and vegetables mashed together—‘stamped’—all in one pot, with sausage on top. I use kale, carrots, and onions. It’s very wholesome in the winter, which always lasts longer than any of us want it to. Much more common for dinner, but we thought you needed to experience it.”

“And I certainly can’t cook it,” Wouter says, which makes Roos nod vigorously in agreement. “Not the way my mom does.”

I’m so touched by this that I could almost ignore the rush of guilt that comes with it. They’re treating me so nicely, too nicely—and of course they are. They don’t know the truth.

After a chorus of “eet smakelijk,” we dig in. The dish is hearty and savory, something I imagine would be even better in the colder months, and I make sure to tell Wouter’s mother how much I like it. Everyone else murmurs their approval, and for a couple minutes, the only sound is the scrape of forks on plates.

“We know so much and yet very little about you,” Anneke says.Now that we’re all in the same room, it immediately becomes clear that she’s more suspicious than Maartje. “We’re all so curious. You’ve only been in Amsterdam since January?”

Wouter and I agreed we wouldn’t mention my company’s collapse in front of his family. “Yes. I’m a UX designer—a startup brought me over here.” Technically not a lie.

“That’s very interesting.” Anneke dabs her mouth with a napkin. “It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you would need to leave the States to do.”

Roos slants her mother a disbelieving look as she reaches for more sausage. “Are you serious? Companies here are always trying to poach talent from abroad. We just hired an American developer last month.”

I give her a silent thank-you.

“She’s very talented,” Wouter says, his free hand coming up to rest on the back of my chair. If my hair were longer, he’d be touching it. “Has a great eye. Isn’t that right, lief?”

Lief. A Dutch term of endearment, I’m guessing. Even without knowing the meaning, I can feel the sweetness there—or at least the performance of it.

---