Page 45 of What Happens in Amsterdam

He’s good at this.

I force my lips upward, as though this is a game we play all the time: who can compliment the other the most. “Just as talented as you are at taking people’s pain away.”

Wouter’s grandmother says something in Dutch, and the rest of them laugh.

“She said your hair is very beautiful,” Wouter translates for me, “and that she hopes our children inherit it from your side of the family.” He clutches the thinning patch of hair at the back of his head. “Low blow, Oma.”

Anneke takes this opportunity to switch to Dutch for Wouter, too rapid for me to catch anything but a preposition here and there.That furrow appears between Wouter’s brows as he answers her before switching languages again.

“Can we keep it in English?” he asks, and his mother’s mouth forms a harsh line.

“It’s just so romantic that you two found each other again after all those years,” Roos says, and then turns to her mother. “You remember how he used to talk about her.”

Anneke nods, and if she’s doing it begrudgingly, I can’t tell. “His face would just light up. You know, I can’t recall if he’s ever reacted that strongly to anyone else.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I put in, a little overwhelmed by all the attention. There’s that tightening in my chest again, and I lift an arm to cough into my elbow. If I can just calm myself down, I can avoid the worst-case scenario. Hopefully.

But Roos won’t let it go. “He said no one made him laugh the way you did. That you justgothim. It always seemed cruel that there was too much distance for you to give it a real shot.”

He told them it was the distance that split us apart? Even if that’s likely what would have happened if we’d continued the relationship, something isn’t matching up, but his mother and sister have no reason to lie to me about this.

They’re painting a picture of someone lovesick, while I was on the other side of the world certain he’d forgotten about me.

I raise my eyebrows at Wouter. “Really,” I say as he busies himself with his stamppot. “What—what else did he say about me?” It’s a struggle to get the words out through a rush of breathlessness, and when I try to take in more air, I can’t fill my lungs.

“That you were completely shameless,” Wouter says. “Not a hint of modesty.”

I try to laugh, but the pressure in my chest is getting harder to ignore. Heat rushes to my cheeks in a violent coughing fit, everyone turning to face me.

“Are you all right, Dani?” Anneke asks, and in that moment, it becomes apparent that no, I am not all right.

I am having an asthma attack. In the middle of lunch. At my fake in-laws’ house.

I turn to Wouter, hoping the panic in my eyes is enough to communicate what my words might not be able to. “I—I can’t breathe,” I rasp out. I’m desperate for air, but it’s as though I’m breathing through the thinnest straw, unable to suck in enough of it.

He drops his fork with a clatter. “Where’s your inhaler?”

All I can do is helplessly point to the foyer of the house, where I left my bag. He shoves out his chair and makes a mad dash for it.

“Do you need some privacy? Take her into the guest room,” Anneke says when Wouter returns, and he guides me down the hall and into the first room on the left with superhuman urgency, an arm around my shoulders.

Gently, he helps me onto the bed as I wheeze. Gives the inhaler a shake and passes it to me. I grip it with trembling hands, pressing down and trying to breathe as slowly and deeply as I can.

Wouter sits next to me while still giving me enough space, projecting a sense of calm. His breaths are steady, the slow, thoughtful inhales and the deepest exhales.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says softly. The same way he did in the bathroom when we were seventeen. “I’m right here breathing with you.”

Thirteen years, and he still knows exactly what to do.

As I take another puff, he runs a hand down my hair. A quick motion, something he’s probably barely thinking about, and yet it’s more soothing than it has any right to be. Slowly, slowly, I feel my muscles relax and I can gulp in more air.

“That’s it. You’re doing amazing.”

“At breathing?” I say when I can finally speak, and this makes his mouth quirk in the smallest smile.

Then he shudders out a long breath of his own, his shoulders leaping with the effort of it, almost as though he kept his anxiety at bay for my sake. I see it so clearly now, the kind of caregiver he must have been for his father.

I let out a groan as I bury my face in my hands. “I can’t believe they had to see me like that,” I say, peeking out from behind my fingers. “Terrible timing.”

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