Page 52 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Bilal holds up his glass. “Nah, I thought that was the whole point?” he says, which makes Sanne and Evi groan.

At the very least, sitting in his lap means Wouter can’t see me blush.We get creative. I wonder if he’s remembering the two of us in the back seat all those years ago, how difficult it was to find a position that didn’t have his head bumping against the roof of the car. The rare times we had the house to ourselves, he’d tuck me up against him in my bed like I was the perfect size. “I love the way you fit right here,” he’d say.

If he can play the game, then so can I, so I give his friends my wickedest grin. “And it never seems to matter when I’m on top.”

Given where I’m currently positioned, this sparks some laughs and a hoot from Evi. Even Wouter joins in, which means I can feel the vibrations against my back, the puffs of air on my neck.

Thomas holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, let’s keep it family friendly.”

“We’re so curious aboutyou,” Evi continues. “We’ve heard about you from Wouter, of course, but what brought you to Amsterdam? And how do you like it?”

I give them the story Wouter and I decided on. I want to be the charming, fascinating girl his friends can believe captured his heart, but I’m deeply distracted by the fact that his thumb is a small swipe from my navel, and that two pairs of jeans is barely any fabricat all. Every time I shift, I’m aware of his sharp inhales and slow exhales, like he’s trying to prevent a certain situation from rising up as a result of having a woman in his lap. Surely any attractive girl in this position might test his self-control.

And yet despite all the anxiety and the intense and unexpected glute workout, because I still haven’t let my body relax—it feelsgood, sitting in his lap like this. To be this close after thirteen years.

“Sorry,” I say when he takes another rough breath, and I wonder if I should recommend the 4-7-8 exercise. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “You’re fine, lief.”

“What are the biggest differences between America and the Netherlands, do you think?” Sanne asks, and I’m grateful for the subject change.

“Wouter’s going to get mad if I bring up the sinks,” I say, which draws another round of laughter. I can feel him shake with it beneath me. “The public transportation, obviously. And the air quality here is much better.”

It’s true—with the exception of that stress-induced asthma attack in Culemborg, I’ve felt healthier than I have in ages. Long walks around the city don’t aggravate my lungs the way short ones did in LA. I never imagined I could have this kind of lifestyle, and it’s exciting to realize that I’m capable of it, that my personality wasn’t set in stone. That even at thirty, I can change.

“The desserts aren’t number one?” Wouter asks.

“I was getting to it!” I say, giving his ribs a gentle jab of my elbow. “I think poffertjes would break America. It’s a good thing they don’t know about them.”

“Evi and I went to New York a few years ago,” Thomas says, and she holds a dramatic hand to her heart.

“Still obsessed. It was an architect’s dream,” she says. “And the subway there was pretty great. Smelled awful, though.”

“We have maybe three cities with decent public transportation,where you could legitimately get by without a car. But the vast majority are still car dependent—and it’s not any single person’s fault for driving one. It’s just the way the cities were laid out.”

“And everything is so big.” Thomas rolls his eyes even as he says it. “Yes, I know that’s a cliché, but it’s a cliché because it’s true. I couldn’t believe the size of the portions you’d get at a restaurant.”

“LA, too,” Wouter says. “Every time we went to dinner with your family, we brought home leftovers.”

“I do love leftovers, but you’re right. The US always has so much of everything. You can get exhausted by the number of options.” I take a sip of beer. “When I go to the grocery store here, sometimes there’s only one brand of each thing. Like…diced tomatoes.”

Bilal looks perplexed. “Why do you need more than one brand of diced tomatoes? You just get whatever they have at Appie.”

“In America, you can’t set foot in a store without someone rushing over and asking if they can help you,” Wouter says. “It took me a while to get used to it. I thought it was sarcastic at first—but it really isn’t. They genuinely want to help.”

“Here we find that very annoying,” Sanne says.

Evi nods. “If someone comes up to me and asks if I need anything, I’m like, ‘Uh-huh, sure, thank you,’ and then never ask.”

“That’s one of the stereotypes about Americans, isn’t it? That they can seem a little fake?” Sanne says, but there’s no animosity in her voice. “There’s more small talk. We don’t do that as much here.” She clears her throat, putting on an exaggerated American accent that sounds more like Cher inCluelessthan any actual American I’ve met. “Oh my gosh, how are you? Iloveyour shirt. Where did you get it?”

I can’t help laughing. “But what if I really do love their shirt?”

“Even the American chains are a little different,” Bilal says. “It was a big deal when we got the pumpkin spice latte over here. People lined up for hours. It was madness.”

“Look, we don’t fuck around about pumpkin spice in the US, either.”

This leads to a discussion about Starbucks’ holiday drinks, and the ones they have in the Netherlands that they don’t have in the US—like the stroopwafel latte, which I fully intend to order the moment it hits the menu. Then Sanne and Evi get up to use the bathroom, and Bilal and Thomas head to the bar for another pitcher and a couple more baskets of bitterballen.

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