Page 85 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Once we’ve recovered, our bodies sprawled out on the bed, he gently runs his hand through my hair and plucks out a sticky note.Gevaarlijk.Then he continues down my back, landing on my left hip. “Ah. We have to talk about this.”

“I’m surprised you held out this long,” I say, biting back a smile as I turn to face him. “I was drunk and stupid. End of story.”

He can hear the truth in what I’m not saying: that he made such an impact on me that I couldn’t help but immortalize him on my skin.

“Nah, I’m not buying it.” He examines the orange and yellow flowers, slightly faded with age. “You have a Dutch tattoo.”

“As you know, Van Gogh’s art really transcends cultur—”

He cuts me off with his mouth. “You have a Dutch tattoo,” he repeats, and then moves down to kiss it, his lips tracing the ink.

“Then we have to talk about yours, too.”

“This date—my parents’ wedding.” He gestures to the roman numerals on his calf. “I wanted to get something when my dad passed, and I liked the idea of picturing them at their happiest.”

“That’s really lovely.” I give his hand a squeeze before skimming my thumb along the petals on his shoulder. “And this one?”

He swallows hard, eyes not leaving mine. “The California poppy. A few years after I got back. For…what I imagine are obvious reasons.” He covers my hand with his. “Even if I wasn’t ever going to see you again, even if I thought I’d ruined things forever…I wanted a way to remember it all.”

“Did we really each get a flower that symbolized the other person?” My voice nearly breaks.

“In all seriousness,” he says, “you probably should have gotten a tulip.”

It evolves from there, the two of us telling stories of the scars and marks on our bodies, some from the past ten years, some from long before that. There’s this joy in relearning each other as adults, giggling like the teenagers we used to be, those versions of ourselves locked in time and yet still so plainly present. I’d put a concrete wall between myself and joy for so many months that it’s a relief to break it down and let myself fall.

George jumps up into bed, planting himself right between us, licking our arms and our faces like he overheard us laughing and didn’t want to be left out. I love that, too, this little dog who’s whittled my sock collection down to a precious few. “I warned you,” Wouter said a few days ago when I was getting dressed and couldn’t find a matching pair.

When I pull Wouter in for another kiss, my hand lands in the thinning patch on the back of his head.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’m going bald, and I’m no longer in denial about it.”

Without missing a beat, I stroke him there, letting him know itdoesn’t bother me. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d look terrible bald.” I pretend to examine him, squinting one eye and framing my fingers like I’m taking a photo. “You have the right head shape. I think you can pull it off.”

He laughs. “Thank you,” he says, dropping his forehead to my bare shoulder and kissing along the pink marks he left earlier. “I’ve gone through my whole life assuming my head shape was completely normal, nothing to brag about. But now that I know it’s special, this changes everything.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You bring it out in me.”

“Are you trying to tell me you never sit around with your friends discussing the shape of each other’s heads? Because that goes against everything I know about Dutch culture so far.”

“Danika,” he says, his tone serious, indicating he’s no longer joking. “I mean it. I love being ridiculous with you. I love beinganythingwith you. I think…I think I’m the brightest version of myself when I’m with you.”

In that moment, the words I’ve been running from for thirteen years cross my mind without hesitation.

I could love you again,I think.Maybe I already do.

—

Later, once we’re on ourthird cups of tea, after we’ve showered and dressed in our coziest pajamas, we settle in on the couch with a couple flickering candles on the table next to us, just about as gezellig as I can imagine. Even when he accidentally sips from my mug and nearly spits it out.

“This is how much sugar you’ve been putting in your tea?” he says, incredulous but amused, and I give him my most innocent smile.

When he reaches for the remote, I’m shocked by howcomfortable it feels, watching TV with my boyfriend—if that’s what he is. We haven’t put words to it, but maybe since we’re already legally bound, there’s no need.

“What do you think?” he asks, lingering onSeinfeld. “For nostalgia’s sake?”

“I haven’t watched any of this…since you lived with us.”

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