Page 99 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Dani.” Wouter lets out a deep breath, runs a hand over his stubble. I’m already aching to touch his face. “I don’t want to disrupt the tour, but I have to tell you—I was so nervous I’d get home and all your stuff would be gone. You have no idea how relieved I was.”

I lean back against the bridge, drumming my hands along the railing. “I don’t think I would have been emotionally capable of lifting my suitcase.”

He waits a moment before speaking again. “I know you talked to my family. You didn’t have to, but it meant a lot to them. And to me.”

“They mean a lot to me, too.” It’s the truth. In such a short time, I’ve come to view them if not as in-laws, then at least as friends.

“Just them?” he asks with the smallest quirk of his mouth. Not begging. Not prodding. Just an innocent curiosity.

“That’s for a little later in the tour,” I say.

That quirk gives way to sheer amusement. He must realize I’m drawing this out, and I’m going to make it worth it for him.

“I talked to mine, too,” I say. “Not just because of what you said—it was long overdue. And…it was not a disaster.”

“I can’t imagine that was easy.” If there’s a way to grimace empathetically, that’s what his looks like. “I’m sorry for the way I said that to you.”

“No, you were right. It was necessary, and I think things aregoing to be a lot better between us. It might take a while, but we’ll get there. Eventually.”

“And you feel good about it?” he asks, because even now, he’s thinking about me. If I’m comfortable. If I’m content.

“I do. I really do.”

Next, we hop a tram that drops us at the Van Gogh Museum. There’s a line of people spilling out the front door, because there always is, and I’m hit with a pang of nostalgia for the morning we spent dodging each other.

“We’re not going chronologically,” I inform him, “because we’ve always had some trouble getting the timing right.” He nods, and I clear my throat. “This right here is where you tricked me into going to a museum with you.”

His mouth drops open. “I absolutely did not. I assumed you saw it was a two-for-one ticket!”

“Nevertheless,” I continue with a firm lift of my eyebrows, “it wound up being the first time we really connected after I moved here, and I realized there was a chance we could have something new. And…that something new was better and more unexpected than I ever imagined.”

“I loved that day,” he says. “It felt like I was finally starting to get to know you again, and it was such a relief that we could start over like that.”

“And because you finally admitted you love Van Gogh just as much as the rest of us.”

A soft smile. “That, too.”

Finally, I lead him to the dock of Dam Fine Boat Tours. One of their electric boats is taking off, and a tour guide I met the other day gives me a wave.

“This,” I tell him with a grin, because I’ve been struggling to hold it in since I got the news first thing this morning, “is where I work.”

The expression on his face is sheer delight, eyes lit up behind his glasses. He takes a step closer, arms lifting as though to hug me. “You got the job?” When I nod, he only hesitates for an instant, giving me a moment to back away if this isn’t something I want—but it is, so I exhale as he pulls me flush against his chest.

This. I missed this.

With my face against his heartbeat, he’s familiar and novel all at once. Citrus and warmth and an immediate sense of comfort. One hand on my waist and the other in my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear with his thumb. When he clutches me tighter, I can feel him trembling.

“So—I think that means you can divorce me now,” I say when we move apart.

The hug turned his glasses crooked, but he doesn’t even bother to fix them as he pins me with a heavy gaze. “Is that what you want, lief?”

With every ounce of courage I have, I shake my head. “Wouter…I’m sorry. I’ve always been the one breaking up with people before they could get too close. I’ve spent all these years sprinting in the opposite direction of a real relationship so no one could hurt me the way—the way you did, when we were seventeen. But the truth is, I’m tired of pretending to be your wife.” I swallow hard, urging myself to keep going. “Because if I really were, we’d get to come home to each other every day, and you’d be in bed next to me every night. I wouldn’t be running away the moment it got hard, just because I was scared.”

The longing never leaves his eyes. “I’ve been scared, too. I’m still terrified that you’ll leave, that you’ll decide you miss where you’re from, which is entirely valid, of course. But then I’ve been wondering…maybe it’s unfair to expect you to stay here with me when your whole life is on another continent.”

“That’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t know if it is anymore. Andwhat I’m realizing is that I don’t have to have everything figured out at thirty, or forty, or fifty, or ever. Isn’t that the whole point of being human? To always be growing and learning and changing?” I stretch a hand toward him. Graze his wrist. “I’ve never done anything permanent. Jobs, relationships, even hobbies. But with you…I want all of it. You make me feel like everything about me is on purpose. Like I’m not just flailing through life.”

“You most definitely aren’t,” he says, threading his fingers with mine.

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