Page 83 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Before the pages of the book turn blank, there’s a series of portraits that emphasize my birthmark. With paint and colored pencil and ink, he’s turned it into an ocean. A map. A galaxy of glittering stars.

“You inspired me,” he says as I gaze down at it, leaning in close to press his mouth to my neck. “I know they don’t come close to the real thing, but—”

All I can do is kiss him, this man who’s determined to wreck me.

A hand comes to my right cheek, and even though we’ve been far more intimate, he meets my eyes and softly asks, “May I?”

I nod. So, so gently, he runs the tip of his index finger along my birthmark. Beginning above my eyebrow, he follows the shape of it along the side of my nose. Over to my cheek, thumb coming up to graze my cheekbone. I might be holding my breath as he does it.

“You never touched me there. When we were teenagers,” I say.

“I think I was nervous. I didn’t know how you felt about it. If you were insecure.”

“I’m not now—for the most part. I was for a long time, and I used to beg my parents to let me get it lasered, but there was a good chance it would have only lightened it a little.” I cover his hand withmine, my heart in my throat. “I’d love it if people stared a little less, but I really am okay with it.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “Because I’ve always thought it was beautiful. All of you. Gorgeous Danika Dorfman.”

“You know, they call it a port-wine stain because it looks like someone spilled wine over my skin. It’s the same in Dutch, isn’t it?”

“Wijnvlek. Yes,” he says, but then he shakes his head, turning thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s what it looks like at all. More like…your face is a canvas, and someone was mixing all these colors of paint together to find the perfect shade.” Another brush of his fingertips along my cheek. “And this is what they came up with.”

He pulls me into his lap as his hands travel up my back and into my hair. I kiss him hard, my husband turned so much more, until I spot something bright yellow out of the corner of my eye.

The stack of Post-it notes on his nightstand.

I lift myself up to grab them and the nearby pen, scribbling a quick phrase.

Dank je wel, I write, and I stick it on his arm.

He glances down at it before reaching for the stack. I’m still in his lap, so I can see exactly what he writes:mooi, and then places it on my cheek.Beautiful.

I take back the pen and tap it on my chin, racking my Dutch vocabulary.Geïnspireerdgoes on his hand.Inspired.

Proberen hun best, he gives my lungs.Trying their best.

Bekwaam, I put on his mouth with a sly lift of my eyebrows.Competent.

Meer dan bekwaam, he puts on mine.More than competent.

Gevaarlijk—dangerous—has me lifting up his shirt to stick on the trail of hair beneath his navel, and he has to bite back a smile.

Oneerlijk—unfair—goes to my cleavage.

We must already look ridiculous, the Post-its flapping every time we laugh or shift positions.

I borrow his word for me,lief, and I don’t even hesitate before placing it on his heart.

Mijn, he writes, and puts it on my upper thigh.

We kiss in a burst of yellow, scraps of paper fluttering around us as I tug him down on top of me. Somehow it just feelsrightevery time our bodies come together, like we started something years ago and trusted our future selves to finish it.

“I can’t believe how much time we wasted not doing this,” he says, lips trailing down my neck, a hand braced on either side of me.

“Thirteen years?”

“Well, I was thinking ever since you moved in here, but sure. Yes.”

“Last time, you asked me what I like. And then there was the panic surprise, and the surprise surprise…so I need to know. What doyoulike?” I run my hands down his chest, lingering on his belt buckle. “And don’t just say ‘everything.’ ”

---