Page 26 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Tome?

“I—no, you don’t have to.” With shaking hands, I fumble with a button on my jacket. My molecules are jittery, like someone stuck me in an electric socket and then hurled it into the sun. I probably won’t need caffeine anymore—Wouter van Leeuwen asking me to green-card marry him each morning would do the trick.

How did we go from tentative friendship to marriage proposal in just a few hours? What’s next—tomorrow we’re setting up a joint bank account? Adopting triplets?

He gestures to a bench at the edge of the canal, and I’m grateful because I may not be capable of standing much longer. “It wouldn’tbe permanent,” he says once we’re seated. “But it would give you some time to figure out your next steps. It would only have to be on paper, of course, and in front of my family. Aside from that…no one would have to know.”

The way he’s talking about it…it sounds like something we could actually, legitimatelydo. For one reckless moment, I allow myself to consider it: the extra time to figure myself out. To explore. To travel.

To do whatever the “something big” is that everyone thought I was going to do all those years ago.

“Right. Your family,” I say, unable to believe I’m entertaining the idea.No.Not entertaining it. Just poking holes in his logic. “I’m sure they’d love the idea of you marrying some random American.”

“We could tell a convincing-enough story.” He runs a hand down his stubble, a streetlamp catching a few flecks of gray. “Maybe we kept in touch over the years, and as soon as we saw each other…all those feelings came back.

“And you’re not some random American,” he continues. “We have history.”

I let all of this hang between us. Try to absorb it.

Marriage. A ring on my finger and some kind of official document stating that we’re legally bound.

I’m dizzy again, leaning over to balance my elbows on my knees, chin in my palms. Deep breaths.

A boat pierces the stillness of the water, a group of people bundled up and drinking, singing along to a pop song blasting from their speakers. It’s a welcome distraction, and the sight of it tugs at something in my chest. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved being on the water. Ferry trips to Catalina Island that made the hours in the car more than worth it, summers at Santa Monica Beach and rushing into the waves as my parents yelled at me not to go too far but loving the spray of the ocean too much to stop.

Here I am, in a city that was quite literally pulled from the depths of the sea.

The truth is, I do want to stay here. I don’t know if I can go back home with the knowledge that I barely even fought for it.

I sit up straight again. “Then—and I’m not agreeing to it yet—there’s the whole issue of, you know, breaking the law.”

He bites down on his lip, turning sheepish. I wish it weren’t such an endearing look. Maybe it’s because he’s over six feet tall that this giant showing any amount of shyness has always made me soft.

“Actually…a friend of mine did it after university,” he says. “So I have a bit of secondhand experience. Her boyfriend was from Australia, and his student visa expired when he didn’t find a job after graduation. So they got married, then divorced a couple years later.”

“And they’re still together?”

The sheepishness turns to a grimace. “Well—they broke up before they got divorced—”

“Of course they did.”

“—but they stayed married until he could get a proper visa! And it would be much easier for us, since we’re not dating.” The breeze has pulled some of his hair across his forehead, and he reaches a hand up to push it back. “Even after they broke up, it was fairly drama free. No one’s going to be banging on our door, demanding proof that we’re really together.”

I lift my eyebrows at him. “Didn’t realize you’d become such a rule breaker in the past decade.”

He gives me a smirk to match my sarcasm. Nudges my knee with his, sending a shock of electricity up my spine. “Guess I’ve changed, too.”

I think back to his palm on my skin. That whisper of touch that now makes me wonder whether I’ve just been starved for human contact these past few weeks. Then I urge myself to stay rational inthis thoroughly irrational situation. If I say yes, whatever glimmer of attraction I might have felt even an hour ago cannot become more than that. I’d have to douse those feelings in cold water—far more willpower than I ever had when he was living across the hall from me.

What he’s really offering here, with this proposal, is the gift oftime. The ability to find the right job, to do all the exploring I want, to discover whether this place could truly become my home.

If I let feelings get in the way, I’m not sure I’d be able to forgive myself.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he says. “It’s just an idea. If you hate it, I’m not going to push you. I promise.”

Maybe I don’t actually hate it, though. “How long would we be doing this for? Hypothetically?”

He thinks for a moment. “A year? Enough for my grandmother to know that we’re serious. Just until the deed is transferred over to me and you have a steady job. And then we’d have a quick and simple divorce. No legal ties to each other, nothing uncomfortable.”

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