Page 81 of What Happens in Amsterdam

I’ve assumed my specific college degree qualifies me for this one specific thing, but even Wouter knew when he remet me: this isn’t my passion. Halfway across the world, I’m still trying to force it.

I don’t have to tie myself to those long-ago expectations imprinted on me before I had the words to fight back. Maybe during all those years as a serial hobbyist, I was looking for something I was good at when I could have picked something that made mehappy.

Somehow that was never a priority, and now I can’t understand why.

“You know what, I’m so sorry,” I tell Todd as he’s escorting me out of the building. “I’m so grateful for your time, but I don’t know if this is the right fit for me.”

He gapes at me. “Not sure I’ve had this happen before, but okay. I’m glad you figured that out sooner rather than later.”

“Hope I didn’t waste too much of your time. Thanks for the opportunity.”

A crisp handshake. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I’m already unbuttoning my suffocating blazer as I head out to Little Devil. Then I hit the pedals faster than I ever have before, electric-charged with a false sense of urgency, because what if that job doesn’t exist anymore and they found someone else, when the truth is—I might want it more than I’ve wanted anything in a while.

“Hi,” I say, breathless, bursting into the office of Dam Fine Boat Tours.

Iulia is at a long desk with a couple coworkers, all of them whirling to face me. “Dani, hi,” she says. “What’s up?”

I hold a hand to my chest as I try to catch my breath. “Are you still hiring?”

Twenty-two

My new favorite way towake up: Wouter, softly nudging me after spending the night tangled in my bedsheets. His nose in the crook of my neck, mouth on my shoulder. I’m already mostly lucid; now that we’re closer to daylight savings, the mornings are much brighter. A dramatic difference from when I got here in the dead of winter. George is cuddled on my other side, having jumped on the bed sometime in the middle of the night.

“I have a surprise for you later,” Wouter says into my ear. “Think of it as a pre-wedding gift.”

“I thought we told your family no gifts,” I mumble.

He kisses my temple. “But this is from me.”

Dam Fine Boat Tours wound up interviewing me on the spot yesterday. It was just the first step of the process, but I left feeling giddy, like I’d said everything I wanted to. I admitted I’d never captained a boat before but I was eager to learn, and that I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend my waking hours than showing people the most beautiful parts of Amsterdam.

The more pressing issue on my mind, though: the wedding is tomorrow.

I’m jittery about it all day as I pick up my port-wine dress, freshly altered. Phoebe and Maya took a day trip to a windmill village called Zaanse Schans, and I want to let them enjoy their vacation. Plus, my parents have been quieter than usual. They skipped our usual Sunday call, told me they were busy and that we’d talk next week.

Still, I could use a distraction.

So in the early evening, I meet Wouter at a pottery studio on the first floor of an old house in the Jordaan. Ceramic tiles are displayed in the front window, some of them in the traditional Dutch style, swirls of blue on white backgrounds. Others are more abstract, more modern.

“I thought we could paint our own tiles.” He suddenly looks sheepish, a hand on the back of his neck, as though unsure this was a good idea after all. “It’s time to redo the backsplash in the kitchen, and this way…the apartment could be a piece of both of us.”

“That—sounds great,” I say, swallowing back the emotion.

And in theory, it does. It’s only about 15 x 15 centimeters, a small square of shiny clay. But this new backsplash, this imprint I make on the apartment…it’s only temporary.

I was an idiot, thinking I could do casual without it amplifying my affection for him. It’s too easy to close my eyes and let myself fall, no matter how high the cliff is.

The painting itself is soothing, but I’m still too stuck in my thoughts. I don’t want the tile to represent me in any way, don’t want him to be forced to think about me long after I’m gone. I decide on a teapot, since he loved tea long before he liked me, and that feels safe. Next to me, Wouter mixes blues and greens for water, darker hues for shadows. The view from the window in his apartment.

In the end, both our tiles are lovely but imperfect. The instructor collects our pieces to put them in the kiln and tells us we’ll be able to pick them up next week.

After we leave the class, we wander the narrow alleyways, the unseasonably warm evening doing its best to soothe my residual nerves.

“It’s going to be okay, right?” I ask, and I have to clarify because of course, Wouter does not live inside my brain. “The wedding. I know it’s basically just a party, but…”

“They already like you,” he says. Reassuring. Solid. “You don’t have to prove anything. And you’re feeling good about this job opportunity?”

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