Chapter Six
Six
I spend the next few days in a frenzied state of job hunting, scrolling through so many listings I start seeing them in my sleep.
We’re sorry, but we just filled the position—
Recently had a round of layoffs—
Looking for someone with a little more experience—
I didn’t expect the rejections to pour in so quickly, but there they are, glaring back at me from my inbox. Each one of them a ticking clock.
Late one evening, a message from Wouter drags me out of a self-pity-induced stupor, but only briefly. I haven’t showered, and there’s a pile of delivery boxes on the kitchen counter I swore I’d deal with before the end of the day.
Not trying to overstep, but if you haven’t been yet, I have a free ticket for the Van Gogh Museum this weekend , his text says, along with an attachment. Best to go right when it opens to avoid crowds.
It’s enough to make me jolt upright in bed, wondering if he’s also in bed in the apartment above mine. If the bedroom is even in the same place, or if he’s on top of my refrigerator or shower instead.
I just got off the phone with Phoebe, who knows everything, and my parents, who know nothing. Yesterday I even talked to someone at immigration, who confirmed that I have ninety days—eighty-five, now—to secure new employment. Even if someone offers me an interview tomorrow, most tech companies have at least three rounds of interviews. That could take as long as a month, maybe more. Opportunities are slim, and though I vow I’ll do anything, the jobs that aren’t at international companies require at least a conversational level of Dutch.
There’s little holding me back when I reply to Wouter.
Perfect timing, thanks. My company…collapsed? Laid me off? I’m not sure, but it seems as though I am no longer employed, so I would love a museum day. This is me as a tenant letting you as my landlord know that I already have a few leads on new jobs.
If I’m stretching the truth, it’s only because my bruised ego needs it.
Regardless, he doesn’t respond.
Clearly my reading comprehension skills could use some work—because when I show up at the museum Saturday morning, Wouter is parking his bike, his hair still damp from a morning shower and a bit ruffled by the wind.
I give him a puzzled look.
He gives me one back.
“Sorry, I’m just a little confused,” I say as he approaches.
“It…was a two-for-one ticket,” he says. “Didn’t you get the attachment?”
Oh . The one I skimmed because it was in Dutch.
“It’s a big museum,” he rushes to say. “We don’t have to—obviously—”
I nod vigorously. “Right. I’m sure we won’t even run into each other.”
Ten minutes in, I’m no longer thinking about my own sad circumstances but Vincent’s, his lack of recognition while he was alive and the mental health care he desperately needed but wasn’t advanced enough at the time. His close relationship with his art dealer brother always makes me emotional. Theo died only six months after Vincent, as though the heartbreak was too much to bear.
As it turns out, the museum isn’t as big as Wouter claimed it was, or I’m too aware of him. I step closer to The Potato Eaters , one of Van Gogh’s earlier works. A family of five huddles around a table with a single bulb illuminating their faces, the light giving them a hint of dusky warmth. And there’s Wouter, approaching the painting from the other side, then making a hard right turn when he spots me.
I take my time reading the descriptions, listening to an audio tour, weaving around groups of excitable kids and tourists speaking different languages. But when I spot him in the crowd again near a series of sketches, I wait until he moves on to the next room. It’s the most awkward game of espionage.
When this happens a third time, I don’t even have to force the laugh. “This is a bit ridiculous, right?” I say. “We don’t have to avoid each other.”
Wouter visibly exhales, his shoulders softening. “You’re sure you don’t mind? I’d hate to make you uncomfortable.”
“Not any more uncomfortable than what we’re doing now.” We can wander an art museum together. Nothing in our rental contract said we couldn’t. “You’ve probably been here a hundred times.”
“A handful,” he admits. “But not since I was in school. That’s why I was curious to go today, actually. They have a self-portrait exhibit that closes this weekend.”
A salt-and-pepper-haired tour group passes us, a guide chattering in animated French.
“I might go slow,” I warn, and he just shrugs, indicating this doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t shift his weight like he’s eager for me to hurry up, doesn’t check his phone, only watches me with a calm curiosity, the sleeves of his button-up rolled loosely past his wrists, one hand tucked in the pocket of his dark jeans.
The whole time, I’m aware of him in the space next to me, though I do my best to keep a couple feet between us. Occasionally the light catches the bald spot on the back of his head, and I remember how effortlessly he joked about it when we talked about getting old.
At one point, he leans in close. Whispers my name. “Danika.”
Every molecule in my body becomes attuned to that low timbre of his voice.
When I glance up at him, and then behind me, there’s a little girl with a sketch pad gazing intently at Almond Blossom , with its teal background and delicate white flowers. I give her a smile as I inch to the side, where I’m no longer blocking her view, and I wonder if Wouter is thinking the same thing I am.
We used to do that, haunt a museum for hours on end, circle back to our favorite pieces before finding a corner to sketch in. Sometimes we’d even just people watch, his head resting on my shoulder, my hand on his knee. We could be anonymous there.
“That looks great,” I tell the girl when I get a glimpse of her rainbow-marker rendition of the painting. She gives us a toothy grin and says something in Dutch.
Wouter laughs as he translates. “She said he didn’t use enough colors.”
When we reach the self-portrait exhibit, Wouter’s gaze lights up with recognition. “Ah, I’ve always loved this one.”
Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat , 1887: one of his most well-known self-portraits. “ You liking a popular piece of artwork?” I say. “What about it?”
“There’s so much color, almost like he’s in motion.” Wouter gestures with his hands, mimicking the brushstrokes that make up Van Gogh’s face, beard, jacket, all of them spiraling outward and drawing the eye right to the center. “He doesn’t look unhappy, necessarily, but he doesn’t look happy, either. You can see the sadness underneath all the color. The yearning. How badly he wanted to be seen as an artist in a world that didn’t seem to have space for his style of art. No matter how beautiful, most of his work has that—that undeniable sense of melancholy.”
I just stare at him. “But you don’t care about Van Gogh.” I even try to pronounce it the same way he does, the proper way: Van Ghoff , with a guttural G .
Wouter presses his lips together, trying to look nonchalant. “I never said that.”
Our topic list has expanded: we can talk about the apartment, water management, and Vincent van Gogh.
We journey through each stage of his life, from the Netherlands to Paris to Arles, paintings interspersed with sketches and letters.
And then we get to the sunflowers.
Van Gogh painted them a number of times, and I’ve always loved that he was so captivated by them that a single still life wasn’t enough. He wanted to be known as a painter of sunflowers, and the museum even has a Paul Gauguin piece depicting Van Gogh painting them. When he died, mourners brought sunflowers to his funeral—a gesture he surely would have appreciated. This version of his sunflowers is from 1889, with a yellow background and an ornate gold frame, and we have to wait for a mass of people to disperse before we can get a clear view. I swallow down a swell of emotion as we move closer. There they are, shades of marigold and buttery yellow, brown paint thickly layered at their centers, splashes of green for stems and leaves. All that texture makes them look like they’re swaying even from inside their vase.
“Your favorite?” Wouter asks gently.
I nod. “I took this art class freshman year of college where we had to imitate the style of different artists. When we got to Van Gogh, the teacher went on about how sunflowers weren’t very common to paint at the time. They were rough and coarse, and other artists preferred more delicate flowers. But that’s exactly why Van Gogh liked them. And it’s just never left me—the idea of creating something lovely from something that isn’t typically viewed that way.”
Now he’s regarding me with a curious expression. “Why didn’t you do anything with art?”
“We both know I wasn’t good enough.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
There’s an almost painful familiarity to the way he says it, though he’s either just being nice or has holes in his memory. Because it wasn’t just art—it was every hobby I picked up hoping to excel at. The misshapen knitted scarves and the flute at the bottom of my closet and the half-built websites. I craved that ambition he said I didn’t have. If only I found something that made me feel extraordinary, I swore I’d make it my entire world.
But Wouter and art always seemed meant to be, which makes it all the more perplexing that it’s no longer part of his life.
Over my skirt, I touch my hip where the tattoo is. I never thought I’d have the chance to see the sunflowers in person, which of course makes me think about all the chances I’ll miss if I go back to California.
I try my best to push that away. Today is for exploring, and for sunflowers. Not for wallowing.
—
When we emerge from the museum, my eyes take a few moments to readjust to the light. It’s a gorgeous cloudless day, the rare midwinter sunshine turning Wouter’s hair a rich gold, making him squint behind his glasses.
“So…” I say, just as he opens his mouth to speak, and then gestures for me to go first. “I sort of wanted to have a tourist day, since I haven’t done much of that yet. And, well…maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be shown around by a local.” I clear my throat, realizing he might have plans, or that maybe the peace we brokered inside the museum doesn’t exist out here. “I mean—if you want to, of course. You obviously have free will to decide if you want to spend time with me or not—” I break off, fighting a grimace. Tongue-tied , he’s probably thinking.
Instead, he gives me a quirk of a smile. “With that kind of ringing endorsement…” he says, but he’s already motioning to a cart with the words FRESH STROOPWAFEL splashed across the side. I might have had sugary cereal for breakfast and grabbed a pain au chocolat in the museum café, but I’ll never turn down sweets.
A grassy field sprawls in front of us, full of people even in early February. There’s a market here, too, dozens of stalls lining the path to the Rijksmuseum, the national museum. Dutch souvenir paraphernalia is everywhere, Van Gogh paintings emblazoned on everything from umbrellas to water bottles to clogs. I even spy some tulip bulbs for sale, though they won’t bloom until spring.
Wouter orders two stroopwafels in Dutch, and when the woman hands them over, golden brown and perched on a napkin, my mouth begins to water. I’m no stranger to street food—there’s a taco truck in North Hollywood I used to stop at once a week—but having to navigate traffic and parking always made the experience more stressful than I wanted it to be.
“Eet smakelijk,” he says after we grab a bench, and I give him an exaggerated lift of my eyebrows before I take a bite. I expect it to have a crunch to it since it’s so thin, but I’m delighted to discover it’s soft and chewy, warm but not too hot, with a syrupy sweetness and hint of cinnamon.
“I’m in love,” I declare, and Wouter finally bites into his with a grin, like his own enjoyment was dependent on mine. “Much better than the ones from Whole Foods.”
It’s only now that I’m eating one that I remember a stretch of time when he was living with us that he didn’t seem like himself. He laughed less than usual, went to bed early, slept in on the weekends when he never slept in. “I think I’m a little homesick,” he admitted when I asked if something was wrong. The next day, I scoured three grocery stores before I found something the label promised had been imported from the Netherlands: a package of stroopwafels in a blue-and-white-patterned box. I’d never seen his face light up like that, and I had a feeling it wasn’t because he’d missed stroopwafels so dearly—and when he kissed me, he tasted like cinnamon.
“They got the job done,” he says now.
An elegant gray heron surveys the market from a perch on top of a fish stall. I thought it was a statue at first, until it turned its head ever so slightly.
Once Wouter finishes his stroopwafel, he no longer seems certain what to do with his hands, jamming them into his pockets, zipping and unzipping his black windbreaker. It almost makes me wish I had a colored pencil to give him.
Finally he turns to me. “Danika…I’m sorry about your job.” He still looks a little uncomfortable, but he pushes forward. “I didn’t know what to say over text, but I probably should have started with that today.”
“Thanks. Not exactly ideal, but I’ll figure it out. I have to.” I do my best to shrug this off, not wanting to drag him down into my panic. “I promise you won’t have to lower the pathetic-American discount to unprecedented levels. I’ll still be able to make rent.”
His brow furrows. “Oh—I wasn’t thinking about that at all.” More twitching of his hands, and it’s impossible not to look at them when he’s doing this. The long lines of his fingers, the short, clean nails. The lack of ink or charcoal or paint. “It wasn’t just over text. I feel like…maybe I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
My heart isn’t sure what to make of that. Tourists buy souvenir tote bags and kids play catch in the park. The gray heron swoops off to some new destination. “You’re doing it right now. Subjects, verbs, adjectives…it’s quite impressive. Perfectly coherent.”
He gives me a lift of his eyebrows, and I know I’m being petulant but it’s easier than having the serious conversation. “The way things ended between us—I’m sure we both could have handled it differently.”
There he goes again. We both. I’m not naive; I know that few conflicts are one-sided. And yet every time I replay the promises we made in the days before he left, I can’t understand what I did wrong.
What I might have done to change his mind.
“We don’t have to litigate it,” I say, because the last time we attempted to discuss it, it did not end well. “You moved on. I moved on. And then I moved to Amsterdam.”
He nods, taking his time before he speaks again. “It’s still so surreal, seeing you here. I never imagined—I mean, of course I thought about it, but—and then you told me you didn’t want to be friends, and I wanted to respect that…”
When he trails off, I can hear something wistful in his voice. His earlier chilliness was so jarring that I should be leaping at the chance for something normal.
Of course I thought about it .
Phoebe’s words echo in my mind, almost to combat what he just said: You don’t really know him anymore.
I want to, though. Even if it doesn’t help me unravel the mystery he left me with. Even if it only means I have one other person in this country who doesn’t want me to fail. He was mine during such a vital part of our lives, and that affection doesn’t just go away. Years can pass, but certain songs and scents and pieces of art take me right back to seventeen.
“Unless you want me to just keep being your landlord,” Wouter rushes to say when I haven’t responded. “In which case, you’ll tell me if you break anything else?”
A welcome laugh bursts out of me. “The sink was not my fault!” Then I sit up straighter, brushing stroopwafel crumbs from my wool jacket and finally becoming serious. “Maybe—maybe we should amend that part of the contract, too. Assuming I don’t get sent back to the States anytime soon.”
“You won’t,” he insists, and I wish I had that confidence.
Even now, I’m unsure what a friendship looks like between us. I should be cautious, the way my sister said, because he is still a semi-stranger.
Then again, I was supposed to be a new version of myself here—and this is something I’ve never done before.
“To fresh starts,” I say, holding out my hand.
His whole face changes, eyes softening behind his glasses. His hand meets mine, warm and firm and solid. Thumb on my knuckle, the lightest brush. Even if he’s no longer making art, I’m suddenly relieved he’s in a field where he works with his hands—it would be an utter waste not to.
It’s the first intentional beat of physical contact we’ve had since the bike accident, when he pulled me from wet pavement up to my feet.
“Fresh starts,” he echoes. “And fresh stroopwafel.”
A little dorky, sure, but when he smiles, I’m convinced it’s the most genuine one I’ve seen from him so far. It’s a time machine, that smile, lighting up his whole face, bringing out his dimple, and making too many long-buried memories rush back.
When I made that list of anti–tourist attractions, spending weekends taking him to the most bizarre places I could think of, he only ever beamed at me, like I was expanding his world in ways he’d never dreamed of. Ridiculous ways, and yet they meant something because it was the two of us. Sunken City at night. Clownerina at Venice Beach. The world’s largest paper cup in Riverside. I miss Amsterdam , he said once. But I’m going to miss all of this even more.
I slide my hand from his.
“If I’m going to be a real tourist,” I say, vowing to leave the past in the past, “then I think we should get high and go to the Red Light District.”