Page 46 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Why would they judge you for having an asthma attack? You can’t help it.”

“I know, it’s just—not the first impression I wanted to make.” Another deep breath. Air is wonderful. Air is everything.

“We can go home, if you want. They’ll understand.”God, the concern is still written all over his face, from the crease between his brows to the slight downward turn of his mouth.

“No, no. I want to stay.”

He nods as he stretches out his legs on the white duvet, and I let myself do the same. Husband and wife sprawled on a tiny bed and explicitly not touching.

“You scared me,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I thought I’d stay calm if it happened here, but…for a moment there, it was really fucking terrifying.”

“Youwerecalm. You were perfect.” This close, I can feel the heat buzzing at the surface of his skin. “You were so fast, too—thank you. And I’m fine! That’s the first attack I’ve had in months.”

Still, he’s looking at me with genuine relief, and something about a six-foot man being frightened for me…it lands in a strange place in my heart. Aside from my parents, I’ve never experienced anything like this. Anyone this protective.

It almost makes me wish he’d stroke my hair again.

“What did your mom say to you in Dutch?” I ask.

“We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Oh god. I can handle it,” I say, bracing myself for the worst.

“It’s not bad. She’s not unsupportive,” he starts, “but she wants to understand. She said that if we did this just for us, without a ceremony or party, and if that was truly what we wanted, then she supports it. I told her we wanted something small, without any of the fanfare. We didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“Right.”

“So she’s just a little sad none of the family could be there. That they couldn’t celebrate with us.”

I can understand that—I imagine occasions like this took on a different meaning after his father passed away.

“I’m sorry,” I say around the guilt. “I hope I didn’t make anything uncomfortable between all of you?”

He shakes his head, not quite meeting my eyes. “They just—they want to make sure you really care about me?” He says this with a laugh, even phrases it as a question, as though this part has never been important to him.

And then I can’t stop myself—I lay a hand on his arm. Graze his elbow with my thumb. His skin goes taut beneath my touch, and I’m quick to move my hand away. Right. No one’s watching us. We don’t have to perform when we’re alone.

“I do,” I say gently.

That, at least, isn’t a lie.

—

Once Wouter’s certain my lungsaren’t going to tense right back up, Anneke and Maartje ask if they can talk to him alone in the backyard while Roos joins me in the guest room.

She tells me about her job: she works in marketing for an Amsterdam attractions site. “So I basically get to pretend to be a tourist every day. If there’s ever something you want to do, I canprobably get you in for free.” Then she wants to know all about growing up in LA. “Is it just likeThe O.C.?”

“Yes,” I joke, “only everyone’s even hotter in real life.”

“I knew it. I knew they were only putting the uggos on TV.”

“My parents weren’t in entertainment, but plenty of my friends’ parents were. The food is great, the beaches are great, but I don’t miss sitting in traffic. And the air didn’t agree with my lungs, so I tried to stay inside as much as possible during wildfire season.” I gesture around the room. “You didn’t mind it when they moved to Culemborg?”

“I love it, actually,” she says. “I can relive my childhood at my brother’s apartment, even if he’s made some very boring decor choices, and when I want to relax, I come down here.”

We hear the screen door open and shut.

“Should we go outside and see if they’re gossiping about us?” Roos asks, and I fight a laugh because they’re almost certainly gossiping about me.

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