Page 87 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Thank you so much. For everything,” I tell her in Dutch.

Anneke squeezes my hand. “Wat mooi, Danika,” she says, and in that moment, I can’t believe I was ever nervous. She’s a proud mother, hugging her son and kissing his cheeks, trying to sneak in a ruffle of his hair. “I didn’t know he had anything this nice in his closet,” she adds with a laugh, and the rest of us join in. “Clearly you’re a good influence.”

The doorbell rings as we’re moving into the living room, and when George barks, Roos gives him a half-hearted shush, as though trying to convey that she is fully in charge of the dog today.

“But you’re still my perfect boy,” she whispers.

“Isn’t this everyone?” Wouter asks, craning his neck to see who’s in the backyard. “Maybe it’s a neighbor concerned about the noise. You told the group chat we were having a party, right?”

His mother checks her watch. “We’re expecting two more.”

And then I think the ground might give way beneath me.

Because on the other side of the door, looking all at once baffled and furious and jet lagged, are my parents.

No fucking way.

I have to blink a few times to make sure it’s really them. That my anxiety hasn’t conjured up some worst-case scenario. But no, Sharon and Bill Dorfman are standing on the Van Leeuwens’ front steps, my father in the LA Dodgers cap he’s had for at least ten years, and my mother similarly casual in jeans and a white blouse.

“What are you—” Panic rises in my throat. Wars with the tightness in my lungs. “How did you—”

My parents are here. In the Netherlands.

At a celebration for a marriage that isn’t real, even if it’s started to feel that way.

I’ve never really liked end-of-the-world movies because I couldn’t ever picture that intermediate step, what happens before our world becomes a wasteland incapable of supporting human life.

In this moment, I understand them completely. Because this, I am certain, is how the apocalypse begins.

Phoebe is just as shocked, reaching out to grab my hand and holding on a bit too tight. “Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit,” she says under her breath. On my other side, Wouter’s been stunned into silence.

My father locks their rental car while Anneke beckons them inside. They look the same as they did when I waved goodbye to them in January, if a little ruffled by the travel. Maybe when he takes off his hat, I can see my father’s hairline has retreated a bit more, and my mother has a new dye job, but they’ve brought with them the scent of my childhood home.Familiar.

And terrifying.

“Sweetheart, we missed you so much,” my mother says as she wraps me in a hug. “You look fantastic.”

“Sharon. Bill,” Wouter says, finding his voice before I do, and I can tell he’s trying his best to stay calm. His palm finds my lower back—a reassuring warmth. “It’s so good to see you again.”

The strained smiles they give him in response make me wistful for our alternate timeline, the one where my family visits him in the Netherlands the way we always planned. The one where we all remain close. They’ve certainly never regarded him with this much trepidation; they only ever welcomed him with open arms.

We’re supposed to treat him like a member of the family.

“Wouter. Did you get even taller?” A classic dad joke, and yet there’s no amount of humor in it.

Anneke shines her brightest grin before launching into the explanation I’ve been waiting for. “We invited them! Roos and me. We thought, this is such an important day, they ought to celebratewith us.” Then she stage-whispers to me: “We told them it was going to be a surprise for you. Isn’t that exciting?”

“I snooped through your phone for your parents’ number,” Roos puts in. “I hope you don’t mind! Also, you should really change your password.”

There’s too much chaos between my ears. All the nerves feel like they might finally burst from my chest in some kind of anxiety confetti, and Wouter’s hand on my back is probably the only thing keeping me upright.

My mother’s knuckles tense on the strap of her purse, one of those RFID-blocking bags with industrial locking zippers that she uses only for travel. “I’m sorry to do this when you’ve clearly put so much effort into this party, but we need to have a word with our daughter.” At first I assume this means she wants a quiet moment, but she turns to me with the same intensity as when she demanded my schools let me waive gym class, or when I slept over at a new friend’s house and she wanted to make sure their parents knew about my fragile lungs. A fierce protector—or so I thought.

“Danika Hope Dorfman,” she says, my middle name the eternal reminder of my first few months in the hospital, “you are not getting married.”

An earsplitting silence rings through the house. Even the people chattering out in the backyard seem to stop, a dozen curious pairs of eyes swiveling toward the scene inside.

As though to protest the quiet, George lets out a low howl, and Roos scoops him into her arms.

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