Page 51 of What Happens in Amsterdam

—

Wouter reaches for my handon the way into the bar, and at first I’m so startled by it that I nearly yank my arm away. But then I understand: we’re about to put on another performance.

“Just so you know,” he says, “my friends are going to give me a lot of shit for not introducing you earlier, but that’s just how they express their love.”

“To be clear, I would also be giving a lot of shit if one of my friends got married without telling me.”

It hits me again, that guilt, because he’s the one carrying all the weight. I can’t imagine lying to Phoebe if the situation were reversed. Then again, the real estate market is broken everywhere. Who knows what I’d do if a house like his was on the line?

I thread my fingers through his while we wait for a table with his friends: Sanne, a girl who also grew up on the Prinsengracht; Thomas, a close friend since grade school; Bilal, a college friend whose parents immigrated to Rotterdam from Pakistan when he was a toddler; and Evi, who became part of their friend group when she started dating Thomas.

Thomas, who’s even taller than Wouter with a wave of slicked-back blond hair, claps him on the arm. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell us! We would have thrown you a bachelor party.”

“It was a surprise to us, too,” Wouter says. “But I’m so glad she hit me with her bike, because then we realized we’re just as in love with each other now as we were when we were teenagers.”

“Even more,” I say, reaching for his chin and giving it a little shake in this over-the-top gooey way.We can do this. “I just can’t get enough of this face.”

“So you married me only for my looks?” Wouter asks, mock-offended as he holds a hand to his heart.

I bat my lashes. “What can I say, none of the American boys could do it for me.” I drop his chin and clear my throat, turning back to his friends. “I’m going to apologize for not speaking Dutch. Or at least, for speaking very bad Dutch. I’m taking a class right now, and I could talk you through buying groceries or explaining various symptoms to the doctor, but we haven’t covered casual pub chats yet.”

“Wouter hasn’t been teaching you? What a terrible husband,” Sanne says, with this easy way of ribbing him that can only be achieved by someone who’s been part of your life for that long. She’s effortlessly chic in round glasses and a cropped black jacket, long hair parted in the middle.

“No, no, he’s been…very helpful,” I say, thinking back to the Post-its and the way he massaged his language into my skin.De wervelkolom. Het oor.I could live to be one hundred, learn a dozen other languages, and I’d never forget those words.

When we finally get a table, the booth only has room for four people with a single extra chair, even after we try our best to hunt down another one.

“She can just sit in your lap, yes?” Sanne says, and at first I assume she’s talking to Evi and Thomas.

But her eyes are on Wouter.

She can just sit in your lap.

A normal suggestion for two newlyweds who are madly in love, and exactly the reason I black out for a second.

Wouter rubs at the back of his neck as his eyes find mine, asking with a lift of his brows if that’s okay. If this is part of the ruse neither of us knew we signed up for.

And there is something so earnest about that expression, his forehead wrinkle on full anxious display, something that convinces me sitting in his lap can be a wholly innocent thing instead of the very bad idea it is.

“Right. Of course,” I say, hoping the words sound breezier than they do in my mind, where it’s all anarchy and flashing red lights.

So I slide into the booth and lower myself onto his thighs, about as gingerly as if his friends just suggested I sit on a box of live snakes. One arm comes around my waist, clutching me to him, while the other reaches for his drink.

And then I try to breathe. “You okay?” I ask, fully aware thatIam not okay. Because I am in his lap, and nothing about this feels innocent. My ass in his crotch. His hand lightly curved around the wool of my sweater. And he’swarmand sturdy and considerate, the solid wall of his body keeping me upright.

When he lets out a muffled laugh, his breath on the back of my neck makes me shiver. That doesn’t feel innocent, either. “Alles goed.”

I learn what everyone does: Sanne and Thomas both work at a tech company, Evi is an architect, and Bilal is a teacher—“but more importantly, a Feyenoord fan,” he says, gesturing to the beanie he’s wearing with the Rotterdam football club’s logo.

“And for that, we’re all deeply sorry,” Wouter says to a chorus of laughs, and I assume there’s a rivalry with his beloved Ajax.

I want a million more details about all of them, but they have just as many questions for me.

“I need to know how exactly this”—Sanne gestures to the two of us—“works. Wouter, you’re, what, at least twenty centimeters taller?”

Evi gives a suggestive lift of her brows while I choke on my beer. “I love a height difference.”

“We…get creative,” Wouter says, and I can hear the bashful smile in his voice. “It’s not as hard as you might think.”

---