Page 6 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Also windmills,” I said as her toddler flung a piece of waffle at my face. “And cheese.”

This did not help her understand. Maybe even I didn’t understand it, not really. I only knew that I feltbehind, like everyone’s lives were moving in these exciting new directions and I was trapped in amber.

But so far I haven’t seen any windmills, and the only cheese I’ve had is the packaged kind, shredded and zipped in plastic.

Charlotte drops a stack of paperwork on my desk with an ominous thud. “If you have a moment, would you be able to organize these chronologically?” And because I know I should be grateful to be here, I tell her yes.

—

On Friday morning, I getout of bed and step right into a puddle of cold liquid. I grab for the switch next to my bed, the pale beam of light offering just enough visibility to shock me fully awake.

The entire apartment is flooded, and there’s really only one culprit.

“Shit.” I yank my phone charger from where it hangs lifelessly from a power outlet. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Last night I ventured into the bedroom bathtub because it had been a long week and I wanted to unwind. I’d almost made peacewith the dungeon—I bought a couple new lamps and a cheap blanket to drape over the couch, where I eat all my meals because I don’t trust the dining table. The water didn’t drain very fast, to the point where I wondered if it was even draining at all, but I figured I could just leave it and it would drain overnight.

In a way, I guess it did. Onto the floor.

I snatch up yesterday’s pair of soaked jeans, tossing them to safety before I beeline to the hall closet for some towels. The tub, still a quarter full, emits a defeated gurgle.

As quickly as I can, I stuff every article of clothing that isn’t wet into my suitcase and urge myself to breathe. Inhale for four seconds. Hold it for seven. Exhale for eight. Just like that therapist taught me years ago during those few weeks I completely disconnected from the rest of the world. Then I fire off a message to the rental agency Yesenia connected me with before she left CommerX for her exciting new opportunity.

Or maybe she realized she was on a sinking ship, whispers a tiny voice at the back of my mind.

Preparing to grovel, I throw on a hoodie and knock on my neighbor’s door.

“Hi—sorry—I know it’s early,” I manage when Iulia answers. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. My apartment flooded, and I’m guessing this isn’t what you imagined when you asked me if I needed help, but…I’m not sure what to do.”

She clutches a robe around her pajamas, sleepy eyes growing wide. “You poor thing! Of course, of course, whatever you need.” She opens the door, offers to hold on to my suitcase while I figure out my next steps. “I promise Amsterdam usually isn’t this hostile to newcomers.”

“Thank you so much. I owe you.” I say it about a million more times for good measure as we exchange numbers.

I jam everything I need for the day into my backpack, gettingdressed in Iulia’s bathroom but unable to bring myself to ask if I can use her shower. The rental agency doesn’t open until nine, so I grab a latte and croissant from the café—not coffeeshop—across the street and browse apartment listings. Just in case.

They are not cheap.

In fact, after ten minutes, I’m convinced that basement apartment was a hidden gem of the Amsterdam real estate market.

I send a panicky text to Phoebe, waiting for a response before remembering she won’t be up for at least six more hours. I’m still not used to sharing only half the waking day with my sister, and I kind of hate it.

Bright side: after two weeks, the sky is no longer dark right when I wake up, even if today is another gray, rainy day. Like someone dipped a paintbrush in water and blotted out all the city’s charm—because I’m struggling to see any of it right now.

My rental agency doesn’t get back to me until after lunch.

“All our other properties are full at the moment,” the guy tells me on the phone. “We can send a plumber tomorrow morning, but it’s a very old building. You probably shouldn’t use the water until next week.”

“What do you recommend I use instead?” I ask, and maybe it’s the language barrier, but he just repeats his previous sentence, slower this time.

Toward the end of the day, after another meeting I’m not invited to, I approach Charlotte’s desk. I’ve had some shitty jobs—the time I dressed up as a Saint Bernard and passed out flyers for a mobile dog groomer for a summer during high school, the company that wouldn’t let any two team members take PTO at the same time—but surely there’s more to CommerX than this.

“I’m wondering if there’s any product work I could be doing,” I say. “Or if I could talk to the other designers on the team?”

They work remotely, Charlotte told me on Monday, and suddenly I’m not sure if that’s the only reason I haven’t met them yet.

Now I’m starting to wonder whether they exist at all.

“Next week,” she says with a tight smile. “I promise.”

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