Page 63 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Everything okay?” he asks when I slide in next to him, trying to ignore the extra heat from his body even with a foot of space between us. His citrus-and-peppermint scent.

“Yep. Great.”

Finally, he puts down the book and gazes at me over the top of his glasses. “Danika,” he starts, but I don’t want to hear where that sentence ends. I have a feeling we’ve been there before.

“I’m pretty tired from the trip. And you have a busy day tomorrow. We should probably just go to sleep.”

He pauses, caught off guard by my sudden chilliness. “Sure. Okay. If that’s what you want,” he says, and takes off his glasses, folding them on top of his book before switching off the light next to his bed. “Good night.”

“Fijne avond,” I say, wishing I weren’t such a fucking coward.

My chest tightens as I roll over to face the wall. In an alternate universe, we’d cross the invisible line in the middle of the bed and make up for so much lost time.

That’s not the only way I want him, though, and that might be the scariest part.

Waffles, I remind myself with a fierce resolve. In the morning there will be waffles, and maybe I won’t be thinking about all the ways this could be different.

Maybe I won’t be missing something I never really had.

Seventeen

Breakfast the next morning issheer perfection. The Belgian waffles are a toasty bronze and gloriously fluffy, their deep squares filled with syrup. It’s possible I go overboard on the toppings: strawberries and blueberries and fresh cream, a dusting of powdered sugar, a dollop of Nutella. Truly, the Platonic ideal of a waffle. No notes.

The sugar rush is enough to lift my mood a little, along with the anticipation of some Bruges tourism, since we arrived too late last night to see any of the city.

Wouter, however, has barely touched his waffles. I can understand why—he opted for a bit of butter as his sole topping. He’s wearing a slate-gray collared shirt with thin white stripes, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the furrow between his brows has made a reappearance. He was already showered and dressed when I woke up at seven o’clock, so clearly he’s still barely sleeping.

“I have a dinner with some colleagues after the conference,” he says. “It might go late. You’re sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

I take a sip of orange juice. “No problem at all.”

Already this trip is undoing our progress. Turning us into friendly strangers.

“Wouter van Leeuwen!” calls an Irish-accented voice, belonging to a bald man dropping his breakfast tray on the other end of the table. “It’s been ages!”

Though Wouter gets to his feet and extends his hand for a shake, the other man pulls him into a hug.

“Rory McDonagh,” Wouter says, instantly seeming lighter. “Where are you working these days?”

“Went back home to Belfast for a while, but now I’m in Leiden. Got my own practice there. Fell hopelessly in love with a Dutch girl and now I fear I may never leave,” he says with an amiable shrug, his brogue making it sound all the more charming.

“Well done, on both counts.” Wouter turns to me. “Rory and I were in university together.” Then he swallows hard, his hand wavering as though unsure where he should place it. Nowhere, he ultimately decides. “This is my wife. Danika.”

The ring on my finger feels more like a lie than it ever has.

Rory gives me an enthusiastic handshake. “I didn’t know you’d gotten married! Hey, congrats.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say as the three of us sit back down. “You must have tons of great stories about the two of you from college.”

“Loads. Has he ever told you about the time we got absolutely jarred and decided to climb the tallest tower at school?” When I shake my head, Rory keeps going. “We made it halfway up. Stopped at a balcony…at which point this guy decided to take a nap.”

“That was where the university police found me the next day,” Wouter says. “Passed out with a Sharpie eye patch and mustache on my face to make me look like the world’s least-threatening pirate.”

I force a smile, wishing I could find this as endearing as it is.

Rory feigns innocence. “No idea how that got there, mate.” Hegestures to me with a cup of coffee. “You’re not a physiotherapist too, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m…” I trail off, unsure what to call myself. A liar in a green-card marriage. A woman who has no idea what the fuck she’s doing.

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