Page 62 of What Happens in Amsterdam

As I’m doing this, my bottle of antidepressants falls out of my case and rolls its way out of the bathroom, into the suite.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, bending to snatch it up before it lands at Wouter’s feet, my face burning. “Just—vitamins.”

I hate myself the moment I say it. Because I’m not ashamed of the fact that I take medication, but the history there often feels too complicated to unspool. I’ve always been anxious about telling people, worried they’ll wonder what made my problems so important I needed that kind of care.

Maybe I have some shame there after all.

My phone rings as Wouter starts unpacking. “Phoebe,” I say, reaching for it. “Do you mind if I—”

“Go ahead. I’ll take a shower, give you two some privacy.” He knows I’ve told her about the marriage, that I fully trust her, butstill I wait to pick up until he’s carried a toiletry kit and change of clothes into the bathroom.

Phoebe’s voice is almost too loud for the small room. “We’re coming to see you!” she shouts, and Maya lets out a whoop in the background.

“What?” I ask, plugging my other ear so I can hear her better. The shower turns on in the bathroom. “You’re coming…here?”

“Next month! For your wedding celebration thing. The dates matched up perfectly, and we figured, better to do it now, before the baby comes, and so…we’re doing it! We’re coming to Amsterdam!”

The grin spreads across my face like I’ve been waiting weeks for good news. “Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t wait. I have so many places to take you, and only half of them are dessert-related. You’re really coming?”

Phoebe lets out another squeal. “We really are. Free upgrade to economy comfort, so we’re going to be living that extra-legroom life.”

“You’re way too fancy for me.”

We talk more about logistics as my mind spins. “Before I go,” Phoebe says after I’ve told her to bring her most comfortable walking shoes, a rain jacket, and a few more boxes of Annie’s mac and cheese, “Mom and Dad texted wondering why you’re in Belgium?”

“They…oh.” I let out a groan as I run a hand down my face. “Shit, I don’t think I ever turned off my location sharing.” Something I only turned on for safety reasons because dating in LA was questionable at best. The water in the bathroom is still running. “I’m in Bruges for a physiotherapy conference. With Wouter.”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“It’s a really good thing you’re coming, Pheebs,” I say with a defeated little laugh.

“We’ll figure everything out,” she promises, and we exchangeI love yous before hanging up.

When Wouter emerges from the shower in shorts and an Ajax T-shirt, still drying off his hair with a towel, my heart twists. It’s not the same T-shirt he wore when he lived with us, but the memory’s still there.

“My sister’s coming,” I say, but I can only give him a wobbly smile. “At the end of April.”

He lights up at this, tells me how fantastic it is, how excited he is to see her. “But—it seems like there’s maybe something else?” he asks, mouth slanted in a frown.

“Just my parents. They’re freaking out that I went to Belgium without telling them, because they don’t realize how easy it is to just hop on a train. They still can’t accept that I’m a wholly independent person, I guess.”

He nods, gives his hair a final scrunch before hanging up the towel. “I remember. They’ve always been a bit overprotective. I hoped it would change as you got older, but…it sounds like it hasn’t?”

The words rub me too harshly—I’m not expecting such a strong reaction. But goddamn it, he seems to remembereverything, but he only lets on when it’s convenient for him. We can’t talk casually about my parents without acknowledging the gigantic thing we still haven’t discussed. Our history is too tangled to pick and choose, and if I’ve been looking for another reason to guard my body and my heart, here it is.

He doesn’t want to make things complicated? That’s just fine with me.

“It’s not a big deal. I should get ready for bed.”

With that, I grab my pajamas and shut myself in the bathroom, urging my breaths to stabilize.Four. Seven. Eight, and a loud exhalethrough my mouth. Fucking stupid is what I am, thinking that this trip could be normal after everything we shared.

How could it be, when he’s never offered a real explanation for the breakup?

I haven’t thought about it in weeks, and yet there it is again, pounding away at my skull. I thought we were letting each other in, beginning a new kind of closeness. Maybe I was fooling myself about that, too.

Once again I use all my skincare products, delaying the inevitable that is getting in bed next to Wouter. Apparently the secret to glowing skin is inner turmoil, because mine has never looked better.

He’s in bed when I exit the bathroom, sitting up with a book about the impact of stress on the body open in his lap, the sheets pooled around his hips. With his glasses and the soft light of a bedside lamp, he paints a painfully inviting picture. His hair is mostly dry now, and I wish I didn’t remember how it felt between my fingertips.

---