Chapter Seven
Seven
We decide to wait until dark, filling the afternoon with more food tourism. I try kroketten, Dutch licorice called drop, and about a hundred samples of cheese. Then, when I declare I need more dessert, we stop at a gourmet bakery that sells all manner of pot-laced sweets.
Look at us , I want to say to everyone we pass on the street. Look how evolved we are, former lovers who can casually stroll the streets of Amsterdam together. Look how mature. Though we mostly stick to surface topics like work and the Netherlands, I realize I’ve been lonely. There’s a comfort to this kind of connection after weeks of stumbling around on my own. A familiarity, of course, but a newness, too.
De Wallen, the official name of the Red Light District, has old medieval streets, much rougher than in other parts of the city, and it’s easy for a shoe to get caught in cobblestone. Tonight’s partying has already begun, people spilling from bars and terraces and lingering along the canals, shouting and singing and laughing.
“Amsterdam isn’t just weed and the Red Light District,” Wouter says as we pass the grand Oude Kerk, the old church, glowing bright against the darkening sky.
My head is already delightfully calm from the edible we shared, a slice of lemon cake, and I’m trying my best to keep away from cigarette smoke to avoid triggering my asthma. “Right, it’s also tulips and windmills.”
He rolls his eyes at this, but I get what he means. There’s an interesting duality there. The Amsterdam stereotypes are this mix of wholesome—tulips, clogs, windmills—and indulgent—weed, mushrooms, the Red Light District.
“I just want you to know that I fully support tonight’s mission, but people who live here aren’t getting high like this on a regular basis. Most tourists aren’t, either.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “But it was impossible to tell someone I was moving to Amsterdam without them making a crude, uninspired joke about it.”
We dodge a group of a half dozen guys in full bachelor party attire, dressed in baby onesies with pacifiers around their necks. The groom is wearing a sash that loudly proclaims LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM .
“Hey!” one of the guys calls out to us, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We’re doing a scavenger hunt, and we get twenty points if we can nab a pair of women’s panties.” He leans closer, bats his lashes at me. “I happened to notice that you’re wearing a skirt, which would make them very easy to take off.”
I can barely contain my snort. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“We won’t do anything gross with them!” the groom assures me.
Next to me, Wouter stretches to his full height, at least a head taller than anyone in their group. “Hey, let’s move it along. And be safe.”
They let out a chorus of boos as we pass them.
“She wasn’t that hot anyway,” the first guy says, loud enough that I’m sure he fully intends for me to hear. “Am I already pissed, or did you see that thing on her face?”
They burst into laughter, drunkenly stumbling their way down the street.
Wouter’s head whips around, a muscle leaping in his jaw, and for a moment I think he may actually go after them.
“They’re not worth it,” I tell him, even if I’d love to see them fall into a canal.
“Fucking assholes.” He blows out a breath as we fall back into step. “Your face—”
I hold up a hand, not needing his pity compliment. “I’m fine. Really. More than used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be. I feel like I need to apologize on behalf of, well…men.”
“Then I think you might be apologizing for a very long time.”
Fortunately, the night air is cool enough to combat the rising heat on my cheeks, even if I’m regretting the long skirt and the breeze climbing up my legs. My high is peaking, and yet my mind won’t quiet down.
Your face is fine. Your face isn’t that bad.
Your face is beautiful.
Surely, trying to finish his sentence isn’t the best use of my time.
Aside from this interaction, the Red Light District is far less scandalous than I thought. Spread across a handful of streets and alleyways, the area may be packed on a Saturday night, with a few police officers to regulate traffic, but it seems like plenty of people are here to simply observe. All along the canal, neon lights advertise erotic shops, coffeeshops, and bars with names more groan-inducing than suggestive, nothing so risqué that it would make even my parents clutch their pearls.
“Sex show! Live sex show!” yells a man in a tuxedo T-shirt standing outside a theater. When I make the mistake of eye contact, he lifts thick brows at me. “A bit of fun for you and your boyfriend?”
“Oh—no, thanks,” I say, fighting the urge to correct him, because this stranger doesn’t care if Wouter’s my boyfriend or not.
The man looks us up and down with a genial grin. “I can make you a deal. Ninety euros for both of you.”
We shake our heads and keep walking.
“Eighty-five!” he calls after us as Wouter tells me in a low voice, “Complete rip-off. The least sexy thing you can imagine. Went with some buddies in school and we left after ten minutes. If you’ve ever wanted to watch two people have mechanical, emotionless sex in an auditorium packed with a few dozen drunk people, all while loud electronic music is blaring, then that’s where you’ll find it.”
“You don’t know my kinks,” I say with mock offense.
Wouter lifts his eyebrows. “We can go back, if—”
“No!” I say it too quickly. Because even if it’s mechanical and emotionless, the idea of watching two people stripped naked, their bodies tangled with each other, with Wouter next to me…
It doesn’t not sound sexy.
And that’s exactly why we shouldn’t do it.
We weave through the crowd, turning down a narrow street where sex workers pose behind windows with a red light on overhead, indicating they’re open for business. Although not all the lights are red, in fact—Wouter informs me that a purple or blue light indicates a trans sex worker. The windows are framed with red curtains, the majority of them open but a few of them closed, indicating a client is inside. Every block is plastered with signs that say NO PHOTOS OR VIDEO, and none of it feels seedy or unsafe—there are too many people around.
At first I stare straight ahead, not wanting to appear as though I’m gawking at anyone. When I finally let myself relax, I make eye contact with a few of the women, most of whom offer friendly smiles. They’re dressed as though to appeal to every fantasy: plenty of lingerie but some sweats and pajamas, too, some costumes. A few of them are even sitting and texting, passing the time between clients.
Two guys are bartering with a girl in a white negligee, long hair curling past her shoulders.
“What can I get for twenty bucks?” one of them asks.
“Hmm…a high-five?”
They let out a groan as she shuts her window, laughing.
“Have you ever—” I start, which is not a question I’d ever ask sober, but it’s impossible not to wonder.
Wouter shakes his head. “As you can imagine, a lot of people come here for stag nights,” he says as we round a corner. “Like our friends back there. Most Dutch people I know stay away from this area because it’s so crowded, and if they’re partying, they’re usually partying somewhere else.”
A hard elbow lands between my shoulder blades. Someone pushes past me, throwing off my balance, and as though on instinct, Wouter reaches for my arm. Holds me upright.
“Does it make me a local if I want to go somewhere quieter?” I ask.
As though looking for a reprieve himself, Wouter’s quick to steer us in the opposite direction, his hand shifting to the small of my back, this protective gesture that squeezes my heart just a bit. Like he wants to make sure no one else can mess with me.
Those six months we were together, we so rarely felt comfortable being affectionate in public unless we were certain there was no risk of running into anyone we knew. Sometimes I even considered telling my parents; after all, they loved him, they loved me, maybe there was the smallest chance they’d be happy for us. Supportive. But then I asked about going on birth control to help with acne and they overreacted, and I remembered why we decided to keep it a secret in the first place.
Now the way he touches me is almost second nature, and I wish it didn’t make me ache for all the times he didn’t.
—
Once we’re on a quieter, car-free residential street, Wouter visibly exhales, his shoulders softening. I can’t believe people are still biking at night, but then again, it’s how most of them get around. The canals are still, serene, the houses bursting with tangerine light reflected in the water below.
It feels almost mystical that a place like this exists.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “For all of this. I’m a little mad I didn’t explore sooner.”
“I had fun, even if you refuse to accept that our licorice is superior to yours.”
“It’s so salty! Calling that dessert would be a punishable offense in America.” I’ve paused on a bridge to snap a photo, and he leans against it next to me.
“So…thirteen years.” He lets those words hang between us, drums his hands on the bridge. “Tell me, what have I missed? Besides everything.”
I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Where to start? Let’s see…I went to USC, like my sister, and majored in informatics with a minor in user experience. I’ve worked for a few different tech companies, but nothing’s ever felt like the right fit, I guess.” I’m not used to talking this much about myself outside of a corporate interview, but I’m guessing he wants more than my résumé. “Hmm…I like all the popular music I pretended to hate in high school just because it was trendy. I spend a lot of time with my sister. For a while I was really into acai bowls, which is probably a legally mandated phase for everyone who lives in LA, but fortunately for my bank account, that’s over. Until about a month ago, I had a studio apartment in Burbank that also served as a shrine to Monet’s water lilies, as you know.”
“Of course. Very tasteful.”
“And I’ve always wanted a dog, but none of my building managers have agreed with me.”
At that, he lights up. “I have a dog,” he says. “George. He’s perfect when he isn’t being a little menace.”
“I thought I heard something from upstairs that sounded like scampering. Assumed it wasn’t you.” Then I give him my guiltiest look. “I stalked you online a few times over the years,” I admit. “I’ve always been curious.”
“I did, too. You haven’t always been the easiest person to find, though.”
“I deactivated everything a while back.”
I don’t tell him the reason why: that the updates from friends and acquaintances made me feel so far behind. Logically I knew social media was a highlight reel, but that didn’t make it any less crushing to look at.
“What about you?” I ask. “Where did physiotherapy come from? And is it different from physical therapy?”
His smile tightens for a moment, so slight in the darkness that I almost don’t catch it. “It surprised me, too. And there is a difference, yes. A physiotherapist is often more hands-on, with more stretching, more massage. A physical therapist does some of that, but there’s a bigger exercise component. I also considered studying occupational therapy, which revolves around how to perform tasks in daily life, while physio is about the ability to move your body in general. I like that I get to really use my hands.”
It’s nothing like what I expected for him, and yet somehow it makes perfect sense.
“And I love developing relationships with my patients, getting to see them improve. When they come to me, sometimes they’re in a great deal of pain, and being the person to take that away? It’s a privilege for them to trust me with something that significant.”
“That’s really lovely,” I say, meaning it.
He asks about Phoebe’s bookstore, and I tell him it’s the cutest little oasis in Pasadena: bright colors, beanbag chairs, bookish products from local artists. “You and your sister, Roos, were close, too,” I say, trying to pronounce her name the way he taught me to, not Rose but Rohss , with a rolled R . “You still are?”
He nods. “She lives near Vondelpark, only a short bike ride away. Works in marketing. We probably see each other once a week, although I’m not sure how much of that is her wanting to spend time with George.” When I make a pleading face at this, he laughs and says, “You’ll meet him, I promise! Anything else to help me update my Danika Dorfman file?”
“There’s a whole file?”
“A whole cabinet, even.” Then he clears his throat. “You said you broke up with someone right before you left? If it’s okay to ask about.”
“Sure. Yeah.” I tighten my hand on my purse strap. “My ex, Jace. We were together for about a year, and I thought we were going to move in together…until I found out he was cheating. Such a cliché, it’s embarrassing.”
But there’s a hard slant to Wouter’s brow. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed—you didn’t do anything wrong. I hope he’s embarrassed.”
“I’m not sure he is, but thank you.”
I’m hesitant to share any details that might make me seem immature, the way my friends were so quick to judge. Just like every other relationship, I made sure I was the one ending it. On my terms.
And maybe I went too far, but I only want Wouter to put the best version of me in that Danika Dorfman file.
We’re rebuilding something, the two of us, and I don’t want to dredge up the past. Even after today, there’s still plenty I don’t know about him: his past relationships and why they ended. Why he’s living alone in that beautiful house instead of with a partner.
If someone gave him a pencil, what he’d sketch.
Maybe I’d forgotten not just how handsome he is but how kind . My standards dropped so low over nearly a decade on the apps, and here he is, offering me a place to live and showing me around and putting his hand on my back to make sure I don’t stumble.
Before I got on that plane, I imagined Amsterdam as an escape. An adventure.
I never thought it might feel like trying to regain something I’d lost.
Again I feel that ache in my chest for the naive versions of ourselves who thought we’d be able to make a relationship work by sheer force of will and heady teenage desire, despite the thousands of miles between us. The fact that we’re in the same place again after all these years…well, it’s something that might make me believe in fate.
“I really like it here,” I say, gazing out at the water. At first it feels safer than looking at his face, but even this canal makes some new emotion take root in my stomach. “Three months feels like it could go by fast.”
“You’ll find something,” Wouter says, sounding more certain than I’ve ever felt about myself. His deep hazel eyes meet mine, so pure and focused behind his glasses. “I remember you always put your whole self into everything you did. I haven’t seen your work, but I have no doubts that you’re good at it. That startup wouldn’t have brought you over otherwise.”
“Maybe. Or I could do a hundred interviews but never make the final cut, or I could get let go again, or—” I’m so surprised by the waver in my voice that I have to take a moment to collect myself. But when I speak again, it’s still there. “This is going to sound stupid.”
“I promise you, it’s not.”
A shaky breath. “It wasn’t just my boyfriend cheating. After I found out, suddenly everything about my life seemed…wrong.”
How after years of casual relationships, I didn’t know I wanted something serious until it was over.
How I looked through my closet and realized I’d spent too much time in clothes that didn’t make me feel like myself, but I also didn’t know what “myself” was supposed to wear.
How despite being let go, I didn’t miss anything about the day-to-day work.
All these ways I thought I was supposed to act felt like some grand performance, one where everyone else had learned the choreography and I was stuck stumbling over the basic steps. I don’t know how else to vocalize it without exposing my deepest fear, the one about all my wasted potential.
I push my hands into my eyes, not wanting him to see me like this. Fragile.
“That doesn’t sound stupid,” he says softly. “If it makes you feel any better…I’m really glad you’re here.” Then, before I can linger on that: “And I don’t feel like I have my shit together, either.”
“I don’t know, the tool belt really communicated something else entirely.”
He cracks a smile at that.
“I think maybe I’d gotten so complacent in LA that I didn’t even realize I was unhappy. And now that I’m here, I have a chance to do things differently. Maybe that’s a drastic way of looking at it, and of course I miss my sister, and my parents, and burritos, but…I like it here. A lot. I—I’m not ready to leave.”
Wouter turns quiet for so long that I wonder if he heard me at all. “What if you didn’t have to?” he finally asks.
“I don’t want you to think you have to rescue every distressed American you come across.”
A twitch of his mouth. “No,” he says. “Just you.” Then he turns pensive, schooling his features back to neutral. “I’ve been thinking about this since you texted me last night, and there might actually be a solution to both our problems. But…fair warning, it’s pretty outrageous. Extremely unorthodox. Once you hear it, there’s a good chance you’ll never stop laughing.”
“Now you’re making me nervous.” I reach out to give his arm a nudge with mine. I mean it to be a friendly tap of encouragement, but I’m not expecting the rigidity of his triceps or the way his eyes close for a brief second, as though processing the physical contact. Now that the Red Light District isn’t monopolizing my senses, that single touch feels drawn out, somehow, as though it happened in slow motion. Friends , I remind myself. We are friends. And new ones at that.
“There’s no need, I promise. Really, you’re probably going to find it hilarious. Or horrifying. Or both.”
Swallowing hard, I force myself to keep my voice light. “You already have me convinced it’s something not quite legal.”
His grimace deepens.
“Holy shit. It’s not legal, is it?”
“Well…” A look I’ve never seen crosses his face, along with all the other new Wouter expressions I’ve tried to categorize. There’s an uncertainty mixed with something else as he runs a hand down his stubble. “Do you remember that I mentioned inheriting my building?”
“Yes?”
“My grandmother still owns it, and the rest of my family has no interest in it. But I love the place. It’s where I grew up, and no matter how crowded the city gets, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. It’s just—it’s home ,” he says. “My grandmother won’t sign it off to me unless I meet certain conditions—well, just one, actually. She wants me to be married first.”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, my pulse kicking into a frantic new rhythm. “Just a touch old-fashioned?”
“I think the hope was that I would raise a family there. Unless…there was a way around that. Something that would benefit both of us.” His gaze is expectant, eyebrows raised, as though he’s waiting for me to put all his hints together.
It dawns on me a moment before he says it, his words an unholy blend of serious and absurd:
“We could get married.”