Page 13 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Great. I mean, not great that you’re single, unless of course you prefer being single, in which case, more power to you—but great in the sense of…now I know!” Surely some people are completely chill in front of their exes. I am not one of them.

Wouter just looks at me, and I can tell he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh.

“You’re making it worse,” I say with a groan.

“You still get tongue-tied when you think you’ve said the wrong thing.”

He’s right. There was the time early in our relationship when I asked if he’d been with any other girls. Before he could answer, Irushed to tell him it didn’t matter if he had—though I was relieved when he confirmed we had the same level of experience. And the time I told him I liked his accent, then worried maybe that was insensitive, and was I somehow problematic for saying it? So I overcorrected and wound up babbling about all the English words I’d ever mispronounced, until he cut me off and said he liked my accent, too.

“That’s me.” I place the glass on the counter and hold out my arms. “Between this and my taste in art—exactly the same as I was at seventeen.”

His eyes rove downward from my face, taking me in almost the same way he did when we first met. Except this time, I feel the weight of his gaze more than I should. I caught a glimpse of myself when he showed me the bathroom earlier, my cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the cold. I looked dazed but hopeful. Happy, in a temporary kind of way.

“No,” he says, a new roughness to his voice. “You’ve definitely changed.”

Then he rubs his fingertips together, that telltale nervous habit. If he doesn’t make as much art as he used to, he should probably reconsider that—his hands are clearly begging for it.

You’ve definitely changed. He might have meant it in a positive way, but the longer it sits between us, the heavier it is. Maybe only in the obvious physical ways, because sometimes I fear I haven’t changed at all. This man, though—aside from his nervous habits, he has changed in more ways than I can fathom.

Once upon a time, Wouter van Leeuwen really knew me, more than anyone outside my family ever has. I gave him so much of myself, the parts I liked and the ones I was still trying to understand, the ones I was shy about and the ones I wasn’t. And I thought that meant we would last.

An apartment andI was an idiotcan’t bridge the thirteen-yeargap. What would a fresh start truly mean? That we erase all our history and move on? Even if I’d love a familiar face in the vastness of a new country, starting over isn’t that easy.

“I want you to know,” I start, choosing my words carefully, “that you don’t have to babysit me here. Maybe we knew each other in a past life, but we don’t have to make this complicated. You’ll be the landlord, and I’ll be the tenant. That’s it. We don’t—we’re not going to be friends or anything.”

His jaw tenses, that wrinkle between his brows making another appearance. For a second, I’m worried I was too mean and he’ll snatch away this beautiful apartment before I’ve had the chance to unpack a single sweater.

Then he collects himself, features sliding back into neutral. “A past life,” he repeats. Now his voice is purely professional. Distant. “Understood. I’ll send you the rental contract tonight.”

“Oh—okay. Great.” I swallow, unsure why his words are hitting me like ice when I felt so certain I needed to make some rules. “I should go finish packing and bring my stuff over.”

He reaches into his pocket and passes me the keys. “Of course. You want any help?” Then he pauses. Taps his chin. “Actually—and I could be wrong—but I don’t think that’s an official landlord duty. Forgive me for asking.” The venom in his voice is subtle, but it’s there.

“No, no. You’ve done plenty. Really.”And now I would like to disappear.

I guess it could be a form of revenge, my shutting him down like this, but that wasn’t ever something I wanted when it came to him. I only wanted answers.

I walk with him back down the hall, past the artwork he doesn’t remember, and then I struggle with the doorknob, hating that I need his help yet again.

“Old houses,” he explains, reaching for it. His hand brushes mywrist, and because I am too stupid to realize he’s trying to show me how to open it, his fingers curve around mine for a moment. “You just have to give it a good yank.”

Heat attacks my cheeks with such fervor, he might as well have suggested we go at it in front of the street-facing window. And yet he seems wholly unfazed by his word choice. I step backward to give him space, his body shifting in front of mine so he can do all the good yanking he needs.

This man was my entire sexual awakening, every first sigh and first gasp he held in the palm of his hand.

And I need to do my best to forget all of that if he’s going to be living above me.

The door swings open on a creak. “Fijne avond, Danika,” he says, and then he leaves me alone in my new apartment.

Five

Amsterdam observations, week three:

Every public toilet I’ve encountered—a toilet, not a bathroom, because here it’s only a bathroom if there’s a shower—has the tiniest sink I’ve ever seen with one tap for absolutely freezing water. The old buildings, the modern buildings, there’s no difference. Always a tiny sink. Always cold water.

The preferred dipping sauce for fries is mayo, not ketchup, and it’s impossible to go a block without at least three shops selling them in a giant paper cone. The proper way to eat them is with a miniature fork, which I believe scientifically makes them taste better. After I order them with mayo for the first time, I decide I might prefer it, at least until I order them “speciaal”: with mayo, curry ketchup, and diced onions.

The city is more stunning than any photo or video could capture. The centuries-old architecture, the tilted houses—andeverywherein the Centrum is like that. I’ll come across the most gorgeous building I’ve ever seen, and it’ll be a Burger King. Especially living along the Prinsengracht, I can’t help taking pictures every time thelight changes, gazing out at the water where the sun touches the surface, the houseboats moored on either side of the canals.I am wildly lucky to be here, I think every time. None of the photos has particularly great composition—in the never-ending hobby quest, my photography phase of ’17 was short-lived for good reason—but that doesn’t matter.

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