Page 61 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“How long is a while?”

His teeth bite down on his lower lip. “About a year.”

A year.I had already assumed, but it still takes a moment to sink in. A year since he held someone that close. Sighed into their skin. Unraveled them with his beautiful hands.

It’s almost unbearable, how badly I want to be the one he’s unraveling.

“Well. All droughts end eventually,” I manage.

He waves this off, as though the drought doesn’t bother him, but there’s a cord of tension in his jaw. “I’m glad we could get that all out in the open. Now we can enjoy the trip.”

“I only want to eat chocolate and waffles for the next two days,” I say.

“No arguments from me.”

Wouter returns to his book, marginally less rigid, and I half-heartedly swipe through Duolingo on my phone, still waiting for that relief to hit. The hum of the train tracks is peaceful, though, and soon I’m drifting in and out of sleep, where my subconscious doesn’t seem to agree with our decision to forget Saturday ever happened.

We’re back in the kitchen, only this time, we don’t stop. He teases and teases and teases, lips on my shoulder before he pulls away, unbuttoning my jeans before he inexplicably buttons them back up. All of it turns me wild, makes me plead, and in this dream, Wouter loves to hear me beg. Finally, he tugs me to the edge of the countertop, hands pressed to my thighs as he drops to his knees. The look on his face is all hunger.

“We’re almost in Brussels,” he says.

I wake with a jolt to his hand on my shoulder, telling me it’s time to change trains.

These waffles better be life-changing.

—

“There should be two rooms,”Wouter tells the hotel receptionist. He uses English for my benefit, though Bruges is in the Dutch-speaking northern part of Belgium called Flanders. “One under Van Leeuwen and the other under Dorfman.”

The woman frowns at her computer. “I’m sorry, sir, I only have one here. One of our best suites.” She stage-whispers: “One of your colleagues told us you two were recently married, so we upgraded you!”

I’ve never forced a grin with as much effort in my entire life.

“That’s so kind of you,” I say, fumbling for the right words.“You’re sure there’s nothing else available? My husband snores like you wouldn’t believe!” I try to pass this off as some charming quirk. Just two deeply in love newlyweds who don’t want to sleep in the same room!

“Unfortunately not. We’re all booked.”

Wouter accepts the two keys. Forces a smile to match mine. “Thank you so much.”

We’re quiet on the rickety elevator up to the top floor of the quaint historic hotel, white-knuckling our suitcase handles. Both of us try to avoid our reflections in the full-length mirror, but I can’t help stealing glances. There he is, so much taller than me, his hands fidgeting in that trademark Wouter way. I wonder if we look like a happily married couple. If we look like we belong together, or if people wonder what we see in each other.

“Well,” I say when he unlocks the door. “I guess we’re on our honeymoon.”

Because not only is there a bed scattered with the reddest rose petals forming the shape of a heart and two towels meticulously folded into kissing swans, there’s also a bottle of champagne and a pair of flutes, a container of bubble bath, and a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. A large window looks out onto the city’s medieval main square, lit up at night.

“I could sleep on the floor.” Wouter drops his backpack. His cheeks are already flushed nearly the color of the rose petals. “Or in the chair?”

“This is your work trip. Yourphysiotherapywork trip. What would the other therapists say?” I give this suggestion a firm shake of my head. “We’re adults. We can sleep in the same bed without it being weird.”

But it’s not just the fact of there being a single bed that’s unusual for us. It’s that we havenevershared a bed.

When we were together, I always dreamed of it; nothing seemedmore romantic to me back then. As an adult, the romance of it faded and I realized I needed my space, and on those rare occasions I spent the night with someone, I’d complain I was too hot when a guy tried to spoon me afterward. In reality, I hated the feeling of being caged in. The lights would go out and an arm would go around me, and suddenly I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“I’m sorry about that. The upgrade.” He picks up the bottle of champagne. “Extremely nice, though.”

I pop a chocolate-covered strawberry into my mouth. “We might as well enjoy it, right?”

I open up my bag, finding my toiletry case and bringing it over to the bathroom. Even though we share a bathroom at home, this one feels far more intimate. Maybe it’s the curse of the honeymoon suite, or that this is a much smaller space. Or that we’re about to be sleeping in the same bed. Either way, it turns my hands shaky as I remove my little bottles of shampoo and conditioner and prop them on the countertop.

---