Page 74 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Now he lifts his eyebrows. “Are you asking why I’m still single?”

This makes me groan, because it’s such a cringe-inducingquestion. The question no single person ever wants to hear. “I’m notnotasking. But…yes.”

“I did think I’d be settled down with kids at this point,” he admits after a while, sliding a blade of grass between his fingertips. “When I was taking care of my dad…that became my whole life. I don’t regret any of it, but my mom was always encouraging me to go out, and I did—sometimes. But I don’t think I was a very present partner.”

My heart breaks for him all over again, the ways he closed himself off because he wanted all the time with his father he could have. “What was your dad like? If you want to talk about him, I mean.”

A slow nod, as though he’s making the decision in this moment that he does want to talk about him. “He was a lawyer. That was how my parents met, actually—in law school. That might make it sound like he was this strict, very by-the-book kind of person, but he was only like that at work. He had the most booming laugh, one that I swear I could hear sometimes when I was outside turning onto our street.”

“And—what was his name?” I ask, realizing I don’t know, and it feels crucial.

“Joost. Very Dutch name,” he says. “He was good with his hands, too. Always working on the apartment, because he knew how much it meant to my mom. When I was younger, I wanted to know everything he was doing. He humored me, getting me a little wrench so I could pretend I was fixing things up, too. And he loved American pop culture,” he continues. “He’d seen everything, and he always knew the popular shows on HBO. I’ve never met anyone who lovedEntouragemore than my dad.”

I can’t help laughing at that, and Wouter’s smiling, letting me know it’s okay. “I really love that for him.”

“He was a huge part of the reason I wanted to go to the US. Especially to LA.”

“I am so sorry I couldn’t help you live out yourEntouragefantasies. You could have at least called me Turtle when I was driving us around. I wouldn’t have minded.” I squint one eye at him. “Were you more of a Vince or an E? Don’t tell me you were an Ari.”

“They’re all terrible in their own ways,” Wouter says, leaning over to nudge my shoulder. Then he turns serious again. “Now you can understand why I hadn’t dated anyone in a while. Sometimes I even wonder if I’d be a good partner. A real one,” he says, tapping my ring with his index finger. “My family and my work have been my whole world for so long. It felt like I didn’t have space for hobbies or for travel or forfun, really. My whole life has revolved around being practical, being logical, being available. I told you why I wanted to keep that apartment, even if it’s falling apart—I used to imagine my parents growing old there, that I’d bring my kids to visit. That’s changed, of course, and now I want so badly to raise children in the place I love so much.” Another pause. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I want it too much.”

I think back to what his mother said about his desire to feel needed. All of that caretaking he did for his father—and then when he passed away, he didn’t know how to take care of himself.

My throat is dry when I speak again. “I have absolutelyzerodoubts that you’ll be a phenomenal partner. For—for the right person.”

Slowly he nods, and I wish I could explain why that cracks my heart in half.

“For what it’s worth,” I continue, “I don’t think you want too much. At all.” Because that’s the truth—he deserves the fucking world, and whoever gets to give it to him is going to be indescribably lucky. “And…I’m trying to think of a delicate way to ask this, but you’re doing okay?”

“I spent some time in therapy after my dad passed away. Just needed to talk to someone who could be gentle with me, and who could help me be gentler on myself.”

“I’ve been in therapy, too. Not that I’m saying that my issues are anywhere near yours.” The words come out too quickly, before I can second-guess them.

He frowns at this, and for a moment I’m worried this wasn’t the right time to share it. “Why does it have to be a competition?”

“It’s not. I just…” I take a deep, shaky breath. I hadn’t planned on telling him any of this, not now and maybe not ever. But now it’s out there, and he’s already shared so much…“I had a bit of a breakdown. About four years ago.” The way he’s watching me doesn’t make me feel as though there’s a spotlight on me, like I’m onstage confessing this while sweat drips down my back. There’s no pressure here. “I was in the same place I am right now, pretty much—no boyfriend, a job I didn’t care about, and everyone else was doing great things and getting married and having kids, and I just…felt so far behind. Like I’d never be able to catch up. I’ve always had that. This worry I’m not living up to my potential. I mean—you know my whole birth story.”

He nods, because he knows the basic facts. “There was a lot of trauma there for all of you. I remember the photos your family showed me. The news stories.”

“God, those stories. I couldn’t help feeling I was supposed to do somethinggood, something thatmattered, all because I’d survived. I was a ‘miracle baby,’ and therefore I needed to go out and do something miraculous. And my parents—I know they meant well, but they had me in a bubble, like I could get a paper cut and it would be a national emergency.” I’m breathing hard now, my chest aching a little.Four. Seven. Eight.When I say it out loud, none of it sounds worthy of that hospital stay or the pills in my nightstand drawer. How could something that happened solely in my head measure up to everything he’s just confessed? The horrible things he’s been through? I’m such a fucking idiot, embarrassed to have brought it all up. With a trembling hand, I shade my eyes from his.“It all just kind of caught up to me. I spent two weeks in the hospital with therapists, getting stable and figuring out the right kind of medication. It…was probably the best thing I could have done at the time.”

Wouter’s eyes are full of an emotion I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him. Sympathy, but it’s misplaced. “I’m so sorry, lief,” he says softly, cupping my knee with his hand. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through any of it, but I’m so glad you got help.”

“It was a positive experience,” I say honestly. “I’m grateful I was able to do it. But sometimes even now, it’s like—what right do I have to depression?”

“The same right as anyone else,” he says. “You don’t have to feel any shame about asking for what you needed.”

“But on paper, there was nothing wrong with my life. And yet I just couldn’t make myself be happy.”

“You took charge and prioritized yourself. You should feel the opposite of ashamed. You should feel…” He searches for a word, fingertips stroking along my jeans. “Strong. That’s what I always think when I look at you.”

I bite back a laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. “Strong?Me, the thirty-year-old woman who’s learning to ride a child’s bike?”

“Yes,” he insists, and there’s something in his conviction about it that washes over me and makes me want to believe him. “You’ve always been brave. Ever since you were a baby—you’re a fucking fighter. You moved here with no idea what it was going to be like. You didn’t know anyone, didn’t have a backup plan. You just took a leap.”

“But you did the same thing.”

“Completely different. I didn’t have to worry about money or a job or where I was going to live.” A crooked smile. “Although I probably should have worried about how I was going to keep my cool, living in the same house as you.”

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