Page 72 of What Happens in Amsterdam

That only makes me hug her tighter.

A saleswoman sees us embracing and swoops in with a box of tissues. “I know it can be a very emotional time,” she says, and Iulia and I fight a laugh as we each accept one.

Roos returns with her arms full of tulle, and Iulia tells us about one of her colleagues who just got fired for breaking into the Dam Fine office after hours and taking one of the boats for a joyride. Her manager found it crashed into the dock the next day, littered with liquor bottles. “So if you know anyone with boating experience or even someone who’s a quick learner, let me know.”

“I’m almost impressed,” Roos says. “It’s so hard to get fired here.”

“I got fired. Before I left the US.”

Both of them whirl to look at me. “Unexpected and intriguing,” Roos says, tapping her nails on her chin.

There’s a moment when I debate sharing it with them. It’s never an easy thing, unpacking your trauma for new people, but I like this feeling of closeness. I want to cling to it as long as I can.

After I’ve told the whole sordid story, Iulia shouts, “Fuck him!” a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a few other women browsing the shop. A wince as she lowers her voice to a whisper: “Sorry. Fuck him.”

This was what I wanted when I told my friends, I realize. How is it that people this far from home can understand me better than people who knew me for years? Is it just that I’ve already become someone different here, that thing I was aching to be?

“I can’t believe you got fired for that. Everyone wants dirty details about their coworkers,” Roos says, and when Iulia lifts her eyebrows, she amends: “Fine, most people.”

“It wasn’t my finest hour, but you know what? I don’t regret it.” When the words leave my mouth, I’m surprised to find that they’re true. “Maybe it was childish, but I don’t regret it.”

“Because all of it brought you back to your one true love!” Roos says.

Iulia plucks another dress from the rack, a red so dark it verges on merlot. When I lift my eyebrows at her, she holds up a hand. “Don’t judge yet! I know it’s a bit nontraditional, but this one is speaking to me.”

I decide to humor her. The dress is a light gauzy material overlaid with lace, a dramatic V neckline that’s mirrored in the back, and though it’ll need to be hemmed quite a bit, it instantly feels like the most elegant thing that’s ever touched my skin.

Maybe in reality it’s a shade or two off, but from a distance, it’s the same color as my birthmark. It doesn’t try to mask it or pretendit’s not there. It emphasizes it. I bring a hand to my cheek, this part of me that I always wanted to hide.

All of us gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I imagine Wouter seeing me in this dress. The way it dips down low and emphasizes the curve of my hips, but most of all, howhappyI look in it.

“That’s it,” Roos says on an exhale. “That’s the one.”

Nineteen

The guy at our fifthbike shop sizes me up. Squints. “You’re looking for an adult bike?”

“Maybe a frame size under fifty centimeters?” Wouter says.

This earns us an exaggerated grimace. “Something that small…I’m afraid I only have bikes for children.”

“Can I see?” I ask, and he disappears into a back room.

When I got home from Dutch class late last night after missing my usual tram—a construction-related reroute—Wouter was on the couch reading, George curled up beside him.

“It would be so much easier if I could just bike home,” I said, breathless.

“Then that’s it.” He snapped his book shut and sat up straight. “We’re going bike shopping tomorrow.”

The bike the guy wheels out is secondhand and a little scuffed, black with red and yellow flames swirled on the side.LITTLE DEVILis written in aggressive white letters.

I’m instantly obsessed with it.

“I just don’t want to make any of the ten-year-olds in the neighborhood jealous,” I say as he raises the seat for me.

I can tell even before I climb onto it that it’s a perfect fit. My hands wrap loosely around the handlebars, and when I ring the bell, it lets out the shrillest little ding. I take it around the block a few times, getting used to the feel of it. It’s older, and there’s something comforting about that. Like this bike has seen a lot of kids through their most adventurous, carefree years, on their way to school and their friends’ houses and out for ice cream.

Wouter just watches me, a ridiculous grin on his face that must match mine.

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