Page 82 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Better than I have in months.” The honest truth. “Of course, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me that worries I won’t be good at it, but I’ll cross that bridge if I get to it, et cetera. Literally,” I say, gesturing to our feet.

“I have zero doubts that whatever you decide to do—because it’s not just something that happens to you; you get to be in charge—you’re going to be incredible at it.”

“I don’t know,” I say, because my first urge is always to avoid accepting a compliment, even if it’s something I desperately want. “Remember, I’m the girl who flooded her apartment and escaped a failing company within the same week.”

But he remains steadfast. “You moved here and immediately wanted to take everything in. You’re learning a hard language. You don’t hold yourself back from enjoying something new. You think you don’t have ambition? Because I think you have more than most people I know. You’ve always been looking for a passion that felt likeyou, and you weren’t going to stop until you found it. What you were saying about this being your weakness, the way you’ve jumped from thing to thing? It’s my favorite thing about you, the way you approach it all with an honesty and open-mindedness, this pure sense ofjoy.”

Not aimlessness. Not wasted potential.

I’ve never heard myself described this way.

My voice is shaky when I say, “Like when I said yes to marrying you?”

“You can joke, but…” He waves an arm at the scene in front of us, the quaint bridge and tilted houses. There isn’t a single street corner that isn’t photo-worthy. “I love seeing this place through your eyes. Watching you fall in love with it makes me feel so fucking lucky to have a front-row seat.”

I want to tell him it’s so much more than that. Somehow he’s seen me so plainly when I never meant to show that much of myself.

He moves closer, places a hand on mine. “I know you said you were a late bloomer,” he continues, clearly determined to undo me with his words, “and obviously I am not an objective source, but…I think you’re blooming at exactly the right time.”

“Maybe both of us are.” I go quiet for a moment, and then: “You know, for someone who proposed that spontaneously, you’re a very good husband.”

I’m not expecting this to affect him, but it makes him pull back, brows creased with concern. The moonlight illuminates the yearning on his face. “Is that all you want me to be?”

“No.” I say it without hesitation, because it’s been the truth for weeks, hasn’t it? “I’ve been trying to rationalize it a hundred different ways, but…”

He gives me a soft smile. “I think I left rational behind a few months ago.”

I close the space between us as he bends down, the two of us exhaling into each other. My nose bumping his. Lips brushing for a stretch of an instant.

Maybe it can truly be as simple as that.

“I have all the admiration in the world for you,” I say. “And maybe that doesn’t sound romantic, but I need you to know that itis. Watching you with your family and friends, with George, seeing what you do for work, the way you care for the apartment, even the way you make your tea—you just turned out to be a really wonderful person. It doesn’t hurt that I’m a little obsessed with your hands, too. And your arms. And your mouth.” I touch his lips as I say this, feeling them curve into a grin. “I’m just—I’ve been very good at denial,” I say, which makes him laugh a little. “But it’s been a while since it felt like pretending. Unless you’re an even better actor than I thought.”

“A terrible actor,” he says. “This whole time. Absolutely terrible.”

I let my eyes fall shut, trying to imagine it. The two of us, giving this a fair shot. I want to believe that we could be good at it, and even if I’ve never done serious, it has to mean something that I want him like this.

With him, I would try my fucking hardest.

He wraps me in his arms, holding me close. This time when he kisses me, it’s not for anyone else. Not for show.

“Wouter,” I say into his chest, “take me home.”

—

“I lied earlier,” he saysafter we’ve walked George, a long one during which he tried to play with an aloof golden retriever and an overly friendly bulldog. “The tile painting—that was a backup panic surprise in case I lost my nerve with the real surprise.”

I’m unsure what to make of that. “Then that was a really great panic surprise.”

He beckons me to follow him into his room. Now he’s a little more anxious, hands twitching. I wait while he rummages for something in a dresser drawer—a sketchbook.

We sit together on the bed while he passes it to me, keeping a hand on the cover for an extra moment. “I may have been a bitrusty. Try not to judge too harshly.” He lets out a long breath. “But…it felt good, getting back to it. First it was just in between patients, and then when you were in class, or I was up late and couldn’t sleep. And…well, you’ll see.”

When I open it up, I’m speechless.

There are sketches of Amsterdam, our little house and the Prinsengracht. The Van Gogh Museum. A field of tulips. George curled up in his spot on the couch, a pile of socks next to him.

Then there are the sketches of a woman—ofme. Some are basic line drawings, and it’s taken him a handful of tries to nail my expression, but as I flip the pages, the paper girl slowly becomes more and more familiar.

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