Page 58 of What Happens in Amsterdam

I’ve never met someone like this, someone seemingly without a shred of cynicism. “You and Wouter have that in common. That deep love for the city.”

“It’s only the best place in the world,” she says. “Plenty of people who grow up here never leave. They have Amsterdam in their veins.”

I always liked LA well enough, considered myself a true Angeleno in the sense that I’d slept through a few earthquakes and always noticed when a movie was shot in LA but was supposed to be some other major city. But in my veins? I don’t know if I ever had that kind of connection to it.

“This is going to sound strange,” I say, “and don’t take it the wrong way, but…you’re being really nice to me.” Given all those false friendships I left back in California, it feels like a gift, being let into the Van Leeuwens’ world like this.

Roos almost chokes on her latte. “Are you not used to that?”

“Well—it depends.” I try to backpedal, since I don’t want to verge on giving the truth away. “I guess I thought you’d be more skeptical?”

“What can I say, I’m a little sappy. I know it was more than ten years ago that you two met, but I always wondered if anyone could ever be as special to him as you were. Even though I hadn’t met you—I could just tell. And then fate brought you together again, and, well…” She punctuates this with a little shrug, gesturing to my ring. “It’s kind of magical.”

She doesn’t ask me to defend it. She doesn’t press me for details. It’s not naivete—I can tell, and Roos isn’t an idiot. She saw, once, how much he loved me, and she believes it’s still there.

“And you love my brother,” she says.

I swallow hard, the lie settling uncomfortably in my stomach. Wouter must be selling this harder than I’ve given him credit for, and I should be doing the same. Even if what happened in our rooms obliterated my capability for rational thought.

“I do,” I manage, the words tasting far less acidic than I thought they might.

“Then that’s all I need to know.” She tosses her empty cup into a nearby trash can and steers us toward the dock. “He’s just…he’s been a little closed off, ever since our dad passed away. So focused on work, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but…”

“I’ve noticed that.” He admitted the same—and that he wants to change.

“Getting George was a huge deal. That gave him more of a reason to get outside, to go to the park. And he obviously has his friends, but I don’t know how muchjoyhe has in his life on a regular basis, you know? When I saw you together, I could tell right away—I hadn’t seen him that relaxed in a while.” She clutches my arm as we approach the dock, and I wonder if physical touch is alove language that runs in their family. “I’m just really glad he has you.”

—

DAM FINE BOAT TOURSis emblazoned on the side of alittle blue boat on the Keizersgracht. A perfect bit of kismet that Roos’s assignment brought us to Iulia’s company.

While we wait, Roos asks what kind of dress I might want for the wedding celebration, which the Van Leeuwens have planned for early May. It’s only another performance, and yet when I imagine Wouter’s broad shoulders in a suit jacket, a tie around his neck…I feel a little unsteady on my feet.

“I’m not sure,” I tell Roos truthfully. The best summary of my current emotions.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find something. If you want to go less conventional, maybe a lavender or powder blue would look good with your complexion? Or even something darker, like a navy or forest gr—”

“Welcome, welcome,” a familiar voice interrupts us, thankfully. “It looks like there was going to be a family of six with us, but they called to say they have food poisoning, so I guess it’s just us three!” Iulia beams at us, looking casual in jeans and a utility jacket, hair in its usual ponytail.

After I introduce the two of them, Iulia tips her head toward me. “You have Dutch friends already? Very impressive.”

Roos beams right back. “Well, she did marry my brother.”

At that, Iulia’s dark brows leap all the way to her hairline, this expression of sheer confusion.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

As it turns out, I left all my brain cells in North America. Iulia knows I’m out of a job. She knows I’ve only been here for a coupleof months, and I can see her putting the pieces together right in front of us.

“It’s, uh—very new,” I manage.Idiot, idiot, idiot.“We dated when we were teenagers, and we just reconnected…” I stumble my way through the spiel, certain I’m giving myself away with every word.

To her credit, Iulia simply puts on a grin. “I had no idea—gefeliciteerd.” Then she motions us toward the electric boat, flashing me a side eye that Roos can’t see. I can only offer an awkward grimace in return. “Let’s get on board and start this thing, shall we?”

She holds out her hand to help us climb inside. The boat rocks for a moment, adjusting to our weight, and then Roos and I take seats on either side of the captain’s chair.

“Here at Dam Fine Boat Tours, we pride ourselves on being Amsterdam’s alternative canal tour company,” Iulia says with all the breeziness of someone who makes this same speech multiple times a day. “Which means you can drink, you can swear, you can ask all your burning questions about the underbelly of the city. Just keep it civil, okay?”

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