Page 5 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Every time I devoted myself to something new, I was certain it would expose some dormant untapped skill. Maybe I’d discover I had a talent for baking, though I burned all my attempts at brownies. Or I’d find that despite using SparkNotes every time we read Shakespeare, I had a knack for writing snappy dialogue. For about six months, I’d convince myself I was the next great chef or playwright, only to realize I didn’t have a fraction of the talent needed to succeed.

UX design was a lucky accident. I’d taken too many intro classes and had to declare a major, and my advisor squinted down at my transcript and noticed I had the most credits toward either a BFA in art or an informatics major, of all things—which had included a class I’d signed up for because all my top choices were full. So I picked the more stable one and spent my twenties ping-ponging between different tech companies while my hobbies continued to spiral out of control, because if I could just find thatone thing, then I could finally stop running.

This career has never been a true passion, not the way my sister and Maya love their jobs, and with astronomical housing prices, I couldn’t afford more than the monthly rent on my one-bedroom apartment. Until Jace, I’d never had a relationship last long enough to have a conversation about living together, and in hindsight I’m relieved we never signed a lease.

Admitting I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life prompted fewer eye rolls five years ago than it does now.

Which is why I’ve learned to keep that to myself.

Deep breaths. Fresh start.

A green-and-white logo is splashed across the wall behind the minimalist reception area. In fact, the whole place is minimalist: a couple rows of spare white desks, a conference room in back, too-bright lighting for the semidark sky. Aside from a few haphazard mugs, it doesn’t look as though anyone’s really made the spacetheirs. Even the fake potted plant looks droopy.

I step inside, wary of my jacket dripping onto the linoleum. “Hello?” I chance.

A man who looks like a stock photo for a startup bro in jeans and a Patagonia vest pokes his head around the corner, looking startled. “You’re not here for the audit, are you?”

“Uh…no. I work here?” I say, hating the way my voice tilts into a question, distantly wondering if an impending audit is standard procedure or something I should be concerned about. “I’m Dani Dorfman. I’m supposed to start today?”

The confirmation that I am not an auditor seems to relax him. Which pretty much does the opposite for me.

A mid-thirties blond woman in a denim minidress that can’t be practical for this weather speed-walks toward me with a grin that looks mostly genuine. “Danika?”

It happens again, because of course it does—her gaze lingers on my right cheek before she forces her smile even wider.

“Dani. Hi,” I say, extending my hand. The bike ride wrinkled my black high-waisted pants, which I paired with a white V-neck and a striped blazer. I didn’t know if business casual would mean something else on this side of the pond, and I’m relieved I haven’t overdressed.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Charlotte in HR.” Her accent is British. “Sorry no one was here to greet you! We lost our receptionist at the start of the month, unfortunately, and we haven’t had a chance to replace him.”

I love that the vagueness of “we lost our receptionist” implies he quit, died, or wandered into the woods where no one could find him. Charlotte does not elaborate.

“Totally fine. Is Yesenia in today? She’s my recruiter.”

Charlotte grimaces. Lowers her voice. “I thought someone would have told you. She…left last week.” Her eyes grow wide as she realizes that in the space of thirty seconds, she’s told a new hire about two employees recently leaving the company. “Very different circumstances, a new opportunity; you know how it goes. But not to worry! I’m here to orient you, and I think you’ll get on with everyone just beautifully. It’s a very international team.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s great to finally be here at, uh—CommerX.” My mouth trips over the name.

“Lovely.” Another broad smile, a flash of her teeth. Charlotte leads me deeper into the office, gesturing toward the rows of desks. Most are unoccupied. “We’re big fans of hot-desking here. Modern office and all of that. You can take a seat anywhere that’s free.”

I follow her as she points out the conference room, the tiny kitchen, the bathroom we share with the other startup on the floor. Apparently—and thankfully—I showed up a bit early, and once others start to arrive, Charlotte introduces me around. I meet Natalia from Turin. Mehmet from Istanbul. Beatriz from a small town just north of Lisbon.

“The C-suite are out of town trying to secure more funding,” Charlotte explains when we conclude the tour back at the row of desks. “You’ll adore them. They’re all brilliant, just brilliant—it’s no wonder people are throwing money at them!” There’s a slight strain in her voice, one I can almost convince myself I don’t notice. “We’rea small company, as you can see. Everyone pitches in. We actually thought we might start you doing something a little more administrative.”

“Sure.” I force my smile not to falter. “What did you have in mind?”

Being the receptionist, it turns out. Answering the phone that only rings once (a wrong number), working through some digital new-hire orientations, and making multiple coffee runs.

Midday, when there’s a rush to the conference room, I close my laptop and start to get up.

“No need,” Charlotte says breezily. “This is just a quick Zoom with the CEO.”

My mind drifts between rudimentary PowerPoint trainings about payroll and core principles. There’s a teeny window at the end of the hall allowing me a view of a Uniqlo. Clusters of tourists wait out the weather in line for Madame Tussauds. A tram glides by, but—as Charlotte took great joy in telling me—these windows are double-paned, nearly soundproof, so I don’t hear any of it. A pang of something I can’t name settles low in my stomach, and I try my best to force it away.

This is only day one. I couldn’t have expected to be thrown into meetings right away, and even if I’m not really longing to be in that conference room down the hall, I’m not sure what it is that I’d rather be doing. Given how my previous job ended, I’m half convinced I’m the problem. I could call it a mistake, falling for a coworker who was cheating on me, but my hand didn’t exactly slip when I forwarded all those emails he’d sent me before I caught him. The subtle ones. The over-the-top flowery ones I couldn’t read without cringing. The downright explicit ones, though there were only a couple of those. Spite may be petty, but it sure felt fantastic, and in those rage-warped moments, it seemed like the only way to regain some sense of control.

Until all he got was a slap on the wrist and I was the one kindly escorted from the building and asked, in the plainest of language, to turn in my badge and never set foot on the premises again.

“I don’t get it,” my friend Nora said when we met up for brunch a week before I left. Her toddler was screaming that he wanted more syrup while she rocked her newborn in a sling. “I thought you and Jace were talking about moving in together. And now you’re moving to the literal weed capital of the world instead?”

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