Page 20 of What Happens in Amsterdam

We journey through each stage of his life, from the Netherlands to Paris to Arles, paintings interspersed with sketches and letters.

And then we get to the sunflowers.

Van Gogh painted them a number of times, and I’ve always loved that he was so captivated by them that a single still life wasn’t enough. He wanted to be known as a painter of sunflowers, and themuseum even has a Paul Gauguin piece depicting Van Gogh painting them. When he died, mourners brought sunflowers to his funeral—a gesture he surely would have appreciated. This version of his sunflowers is from 1889, with a yellow background and an ornate gold frame, and we have to wait for a mass of people to disperse before we can get a clear view. I swallow down a swell of emotion as we move closer. There they are, shades of marigold and buttery yellow, brown paint thickly layered at their centers, splashes of green for stems and leaves. All that texture makes them look like they’re swaying even from inside their vase.

“Your favorite?” Wouter asks gently.

I nod. “I took this art class freshman year of college where we had to imitate the style of different artists. When we got to Van Gogh, the teacher went on about how sunflowers weren’t very common to paint at the time. They were rough and coarse, and other artists preferred more delicate flowers. But that’s exactly why Van Gogh liked them. And it’s just never left me—the idea of creating something lovely from something that isn’t typically viewed that way.”

Now he’s regarding me with a curious expression. “Why didn’t you do anything with art?”

“We both know I wasn’t good enough.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

There’s an almost painful familiarity to the way he says it, though he’s either just being nice or has holes in his memory. Because it wasn’t just art—it was every hobby I picked up hoping to excel at. The misshapen knitted scarves and the flute at the bottom of my closet and the half-built websites. I craved that ambition he said I didn’t have. If only I found something that made me feel extraordinary, I swore I’d make it my entire world.

But Wouter and art always seemed meant to be, which makes it all the more perplexing that it’s no longer part of his life.

Over my skirt, I touch my hip where the tattoo is. I neverthought I’d have the chance to see the sunflowers in person, which of course makes me think about all the chances I’ll miss if I go back to California.

I try my best to push that away. Today is for exploring, and for sunflowers. Not for wallowing.

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When we emerge from themuseum, my eyes take a few moments to readjust to the light. It’s a gorgeous cloudless day, the rare midwinter sunshine turning Wouter’s hair a rich gold, making him squint behind his glasses.

“So…” I say, just as he opens his mouth to speak, and then gestures for me to go first. “I sort of wanted to have a tourist day, since I haven’t done much of that yet. And, well…maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be shown around by a local.” I clear my throat, realizing he might have plans, or that maybe the peace we brokered inside the museum doesn’t exist out here. “I mean—if you want to, of course. You obviously have free will to decide if you want to spend time with me or not—” I break off, fighting a grimace.Tongue-tied, he’s probably thinking.

Instead, he gives me a quirk of a smile. “With that kind of ringing endorsement…” he says, but he’s already motioning to a cart with the wordsFRESH STROOPWAFELsplashed across the side. I might have had sugary cereal for breakfast and grabbed a pain au chocolat in the museum café, but I’ll never turn down sweets.

A grassy field sprawls in front of us, full of people even in early February. There’s a market here, too, dozens of stalls lining the path to the Rijksmuseum, the national museum. Dutch souvenir paraphernalia is everywhere, Van Gogh paintings emblazoned on everything from umbrellas to water bottles to clogs. I even spy some tulip bulbs for sale, though they won’t bloom until spring.

Wouter orders two stroopwafels in Dutch, and when the womanhands them over, golden brown and perched on a napkin, my mouth begins to water. I’m no stranger to street food—there’s a taco truck in North Hollywood I used to stop at once a week—but having to navigate traffic and parking always made the experience more stressful than I wanted it to be.

“Eet smakelijk,” he says after we grab a bench, and I give him an exaggerated lift of my eyebrows before I take a bite. I expect it to have a crunch to it since it’s so thin, but I’m delighted to discover it’s soft and chewy, warm but not too hot, with a syrupy sweetness and hint of cinnamon.

“I’m in love,” I declare, and Wouter finally bites into his with a grin, like his own enjoyment was dependent on mine. “Much better than the ones from Whole Foods.”

It’s only now that I’m eating one that I remember a stretch of time when he was living with us that he didn’t seem like himself. He laughed less than usual, went to bed early, slept in on the weekends when he never slept in. “I think I’m a little homesick,” he admitted when I asked if something was wrong. The next day, I scoured three grocery stores before I found something the label promised had been imported from the Netherlands: a package of stroopwafels in a blue-and-white-patterned box. I’d never seen his face light up like that, and I had a feeling it wasn’t because he’d missed stroopwafels so dearly—and when he kissed me, he tasted like cinnamon.

“They got the job done,” he says now.

An elegant gray heron surveys the market from a perch on top of a fish stall. I thought it was a statue at first, until it turned its head ever so slightly.

Once Wouter finishes his stroopwafel, he no longer seems certain what to do with his hands, jamming them into his pockets, zipping and unzipping his black windbreaker. It almost makes me wish I had a colored pencil to give him.

Finally he turns to me. “Danika…I’m sorry about your job.” He still looks a little uncomfortable, but he pushes forward. “I didn’t know what to say over text, but I probably should have started with that today.”

“Thanks. Not exactly ideal, but I’ll figure it out. I have to.” I do my best to shrug this off, not wanting to drag him down into my panic. “I promise you won’t have to lower the pathetic-American discount to unprecedented levels. I’ll still be able to make rent.”

His brow furrows. “Oh—I wasn’t thinking about that at all.” More twitching of his hands, and it’s impossible not to look at them when he’s doing this. The long lines of his fingers, the short, clean nails. The lack of ink or charcoal or paint. “It wasn’t just over text. I feel like…maybe I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”

My heart isn’t sure what to make of that. Tourists buy souvenir tote bags and kids play catch in the park. The gray heron swoops off to some new destination. “You’re doing it right now. Subjects, verbs, adjectives…it’s quite impressive. Perfectly coherent.”

He gives me a lift of his eyebrows, and I know I’m being petulant but it’s easier than having the serious conversation. “The way things ended between us—I’m sure we both could have handled it differently.”

There he goes again.We both.I’m not naive; I know that few conflicts are one-sided. And yet every time I replay the promises we made in the days before he left, I can’t understand what I did wrong.

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