Chapter Eleven
Eleven
As I’m leaving class, my mind swimming with basic grammar and verb conjugations, I spot someone familiar exiting the room just across the hall.
“Iulia?” I call out, and she turns around.
“Dani!” she says, sounding delighted, an emotion I’m not sure I’ve earned. We stand off to the side to avoid disrupting the flow of students. “How are you? Are you taking a class here?”
“Just finished my first one. Slightly overwhelmed, but in a good way.”
“I know the feeling. I’m in an advanced conversation class where we mostly talk about current events all in Dutch, because apparently I love pain.” She slides her bag to her other shoulder. She’s dressed casually, the way I’ve always seen her: joggers, boots, oversized sweatshirt, her long hair loose and wavy. I can admire someone who prioritizes comfort. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.”
Immediately I’m struck with embarrassment. “I should have reached out—after I moved. You were so nice to let me keep my stuff at your place.” Then I chew the inside of my cheek, unsure how to navigate this. It’s been years since I went from acquaintances to friends with someone, and I’ve never gotten the hang of doing it as an adult. In the end, I decide to go with honesty. “I thought maybe it would be annoying to hear from someone still stumbling their way along when you’ve been here for a while. I…didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Iulia’s dark eyes grow wide. “Are you serious? I’m sorry. I was worried about overstepping if you had a million other things to stress about.”
I have to bite back a smile, because maybe our anxieties are kindred spirits. “Do you want to grab coffee?”
We find a spot on the next block, where I learn that she has the coolest job I’ve heard of in quite some time.
“I’m a boat tour captain,” she says after we sit down with our mugs. “Not for those giant boats down by the train station. We’re sort of alternative—we take a max of ten people, and they can even bring alcohol if they want. And I’m allowed to swear.” A sip of her coffee. “What about you?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out, actually.” I fiddle with the wrapper of the biscuit that came with my latte—it’s rare to be served coffee without one. “My company sort of fell apart, so I’m looking for something new.”
She gives a somber nod. “Not easy sometimes, I’m sorry. And where are you living? Hopefully somewhere with better plumbing?”
“Oh—I found a place in the city center.” And since that feels too Wouter-adjacent to discuss with someone I barely know, I change the subject.
Iulia Bojescu, I learn, came over here in her early twenties from Bucharest. She’d visited with a few friends and fell in love with the city, vowing to do whatever she could to make it work. She waited tables, bartended, and then took a boat tour that changed her life.
“I get to talk about what makes Amsterdam amazing all day,” she says. “Even when it’s pouring rain and I’m out on the water, I still can’t believe someone’s paying me for it.”
It’s impossible to miss the way her eyes light up, and there it is: another person who’s found exactly what they’re meant to be doing.
This time, though, it doesn’t inspire any jealousy.
“Come on the boat sometime soon,” she says when it’s time to part ways, and I promise I will.
I break into a grin the moment she leaves, like my parents dropped me off at kindergarten and I just made my very first friend.
—
My confidence peaks on my way to Wouter’s office, when an older couple approaches me and offers up a shy wave.
“Excuse me,” a woman with short gray hair asks in a heavy accent I can’t place. Her husband is frowning at a paper map. “Do you speak English?”
Oh my god.
They think I’m a local.
I’m much too giddy as I reply, “Yes! I do!”
She and her husband look relieved. “We’re trying to go to the Rijksmuseum. Is nineteen the right tram?”
I nod, even more thrilled that I know the answer to the question. “It’s that stop over there, on the other side of the street.”
They’re effusive in their thank-yous, and I just give them a bright wave before I board a different tram to Wouter’s office.
Once I sit down, my phone buzzes with a text from my mother.
How was your first Dutch class? Did you make it home okay?
I fight back a flicker of frustration. The last time we talked, my parents asked what time the class was, and I told them I’d let them know how it went. Apparently the fact that I didn’t do it right away means something went horribly wrong.
I am thirty years old, and my parents are still checking up on me like this.
Great, just had coffee with a friend. I promise, I AM FINE.
The building is on a quiet street in Amsterdam’s Oud-West neighborhood, just outside the city center. Dusk fell an hour ago, and while there are still a few bikers making their way home or to after-work plans, the streets are a bit emptier over here.
He’s on the third floor in a practice with a few other therapists, the space tidy and well-lit, with a large plant in one corner of the waiting area that seems to be thriving. The receptionist is gone for the day and the whole place is quiet, so I’m guessing Wouter’s the last one here.
When I call his name, he pokes his head out of his office, and I have to take a moment to process him here, like this. He’s in a charcoal-gray shirt, the sleeves pushed past his elbows and the top button undone, his hair in slight end-of-work disarray.
Without meaning to, my eyes drop to his waist, just above his belt, where that deep V I noticed earlier is now swathed in denim.
File under thoughts I cannot be having about my future husband.
“You’ll never believe what just happened,” I say to him, hoping the giddiness in my voice will cover up anything else. “A couple of tourists asked me how to get to the Rijksmuseum. They thought I was a local!”
“Oh? What did you tell them?”
“I said to take the nineteen going to Sloterdijk.”
Wouter’s jaw tenses as he tries to fight a grin. And fails.
“What?” I ask.
“That was the wrong direction. Right tram, wrong direction.”
“Shit. Is it too late to run out and find them?” Now Wouter starts laughing, so I give his arm a nudge with my elbow. “Nooooo, don’t laugh! I feel terrible!”
“They’ll figure it out,” he says. “I promise you, they’ll be okay.”
We small-talk about my Dutch class, and I mispronounce my way through telling him my name, my age, and where I’m from. Then he leads me into his office, a medium-sized room with a desk on one side and a platform table in the middle, a stack of clean towels and a laundry bin on the other side. There’s a rack of dumbbells, an exercise ball, and various stretching bands. His framed degrees hang on the wall alongside some artwork that looks like it came with the frame, the kind you’re supposed to replace.
“So this is where the magic happens.”
“If by magic you mean sweat and tears and muscle cracks, then yes,” Wouter says, but I can tell he’s proud of what he does. It reminds me of how he’d act after finishing a sketch or painting, never one to seek out compliments or disparage his own work. There was a quiet confidence there, a pride in completing it, whether it was a doodle or a detailed landscape, though he always preferred art with people in it.
In some ways, I’m still reconciling the wide-eyed artist with the logical physiotherapist. The boy who confessed his dreams in the middle of the night when it was just him, me, and the stars with the man who let go of those dreams long ago.
Then again, maybe this was always the person he was going to be, and I was just a detour on the way to some better destination.
Maybe it’s a Pavlovian response to where we are, but I can’t help stretching to one side, trying to soothe a stiffness in my back.
“Are you okay?” Wouter asks, mouth pulling into a frown. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Maybe just because of my line of work.”
“And it’s probably because of mine that my posture is a nightmare.” I extend my arms as far as they’ll go, to one side and then the other. “It wasn’t enough for me to be a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. I have to slouch, too.”
“You should see a doctor. A physiotherapist,” he says as his mouth kicks into a smile. “I could take a look if you want. Give you a bit of relief.”
“Oh, no—you couldn’t,” I say, although a bit of relief sounds like the loveliest thing I’ve heard all day. “I’d feel bad, not paying you.”
“I could charge you if that would make you feel better.” He pats the table. “It’s no trouble at all. Some of my friends have asked me to do the same, and I don’t mind it if you think it might help.”
I can’t deny that it would probably help a significant amount, so I tell him yes. He lays down a fresh towel while I hang up my scarf and jacket.
“How does this work?” I ask, leaning down to unzip my boots. “I’ve had a massage, but I’ve never been to a physio or a chiropractor or anything.”
“Well, you can keep most of your clothes on. That’s a major difference.”
“That’s a relief, because I’m not wearing underwear.”
The joke…does not hit the way I expect it to. Wouter immediately freezes as he’s adjusting the towel.
“Uh—sorry, that was a bad joke,” I say, fighting a full-body wince. “I’m wearing underwear. I promise. Not that it’s a big deal either way, I guess plenty of people like the freedom of it, but—I was just thinking about this morning when I walked in on you, and you weren’t wearing—you know what, now I’m making it worse. I’m just going to put my face in the face hole thing and we can forget I ever said anything!”
I climb on top and spread myself out. Wouter might be swallowing back a laugh, so at the very least, I’m glad my agony is entertaining.
With my head down, his voice sounds like it’s coming from farther away than right next to me. “I typically start by asking my patients where they’re experiencing pain and if they can describe what it feels like.”
“My ego,” I mutter.
“Sorry?”
“My lower back.” I consider the question for another moment. “And my neck, and maybe also my shoulders? I wouldn’t say it’s a sharp pain, more of a dull ache. I only notice it if I really stop to think about it, if that makes sense?”
“Yes, it does. That’s good to know.”
I hear the sound of running water, Wouter washing his hands at the small sink in the corner. Then he comes closer, soft footsteps until I can see his shoes on the floor below. Though his hands aren’t cold when he pats them along my back, I shiver at the lightest touch.
“How did you realize this was what you wanted to do?” I ask the floor.
“My dad had this excellent physio after his first stroke—that was what inspired me. He wound up mentoring me during my studies,” he says. “The connection between the mind and body fascinated me. I went to as many of my dad’s appointments as I could. I wanted to be able to help people in pain, to help them figure out how to be comfortable in their bodies, even when their bodies are working against them.”
“That’s really incredible,” I say, entirely genuine. “I’m so glad your dad had that.”
His hands travel up my spine, as though checking that each vertebra is where it’s supposed to be. “ Wow .”
“What? Is my back totally fucked?”
“No, no,” he says. “It’s just—I’ve treated a lot of injuries, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone this tense in a while.”
“It’s a gift.”
“You must carry a lot of tension here, in your shoulders.” His palms find my shoulder blades above my T-shirt, and I try my best to relax them. “If I gave you some stretches, would you practice them on your own?”
“Depends. Does our insurance cover this?”
And even though I can’t see him, I’m certain he’s rolling his eyes at me.
“Yes,” I say. “If it would make you happy, I’ll do your stretches.”
“You shouldn’t do it to make me happy. You should do it so you’re not in tremendous pain by the time you’re forty.”
“Why do you have to be so reasonable?”
At this, he finally laughs, and that makes me relax a little. He tilts me to one side and then the other, guiding me through a couple stretches before returning to the massage.
As he continues his survey of just how stiff my muscles are, the fabric of my T-shirt seems to get in his way. “Is it easier with my shirt off?” I ask. “Because I don’t mind—”
His hands pause. “Oh—only if you’re comfortable.”
“But most people do?”
“If I’m working on their back, yes.”
So, because I want the full experience, I sit up and he averts his eyes as I tug off my T-shirt before giving him my back again. His hands settle on my bare skin, fingers warm. Practiced. Intentional. I thought maybe he’d avoid the band of my bra, that it would be too intimate, but he doesn’t, like the professional that he is. He even stops for a moment and returns with some oil, and while the lavender scent calms my muscles a bit, my brain has not forgotten that I’m half-naked in his office. That slickness turns his movements smoother, makes his skin glide across mine.
What he said about being a physical person comes back to me—it makes sense, now, that his career would take this turn.
That this would be his something meaningful.
My mind wanders as I sink into the sensation. He lingers in certain places, repeats a movement when I let out a sigh of satisfaction. It makes me painfully aware of the fact that no one has touched me like this in so long, which is a sad thing to realize when someone is touching you in a wholly medical context.
“Good?” he asks.
“Very. Please don’t stop.”
This is a new peace between us, and while there’s so much we haven’t talked about, right now he feels closer to the boy I used to know—though the baggage we shared back then was significantly lighter.
Even once we’re married, I can’t imagine bringing up the past. Our relationship is too new, too easy to ruin by digging up a complicated history, and yet there’s still that unanswered question: Why? Teenage immaturity, like he said? Or something else entirely, something that might hurt to hear all these years later?
“I’ve been wondering,” he says, “how your parents reacted when you told them you were moving here.”
“Well, they thought I was on drugs when I told them. My mom put her hands on my shoulders and looked me deep in the eyes and said, ‘Danika, have you taken something? Do we need to go to the hospital?’ It was so outside the realm of what they expected when I said I had something important to tell them. Then they asked if there was a small town in California also called Amsterdam that they hadn’t heard of.”
Now Wouter’s laughing again, and yet his hands remain steady on my spine.
“They didn’t understand it. They probably still don’t. They were just concerned, you know. The way they always have been. That I’d fall into a canal or get run off the road by a cyclist.”
“Or the other way around.”
“Precisely.” I close my eyes while Wouter’s fingers massage deeper. “I have to admit, I’m a little nervous about your grandmother not approving of me.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Her English is a bit more limited, but she’ll love you. She’s loved all the girls I’ve brought home.”
“All of them, huh? How many would that be?”
He turns sheepish—I can hear the new shyness in his voice. “Maybe ‘all’ wasn’t the best word. All two. Is that better? My last serious relationship ended about a year ago and—I don’t really do casual, so…”
He trails off, as though realizing he’s gotten too personal. It takes me moment to connect the dots—if he doesn’t do casual, that might mean he hasn’t slept with anyone in a year.
Which is not something I need to linger on, especially not while I’m in his office in just a bra and jeans, my breasts pressed hard against the table.
“You know I’ve just had one, really. Unless you count you,” I say, because the way he’s loosening my muscles is apparently loosening my tongue, too. “Then that’s two.”
“It was that serious to you?” His surprise throws me off. I don’t know if this means we were only ever superficial to him or that he never felt any remorse for ending it. It’s one of my biggest regrets , he said the night I moved in.
I’m not sure which version of him is telling the truth.
“I—I don’t know,” I lie . “Everything feels intense when you’re that age, I think.”
“Hmm” is all he says in response, leaving me to interpret that single syllable in only a hundred different ways.
“Teach me some Dutch words,” I say, eager for a subject change. That seems like a much safer conversation. “I want to impress everyone in class.”
“Well. This is de rug.” He splays a hand on my back, and I repeat the word. “Some of these are very similar to English. De arm”—he touches my arm—“de hand”—grazes my palm with his fingertips—“de voet.” With that one, he gives my foot the lightest tap.
I can’t help laughing. “So I’ve been speaking Dutch my whole life.”
Then he moves backward from de voet, up to my left ankle, touching the top of my sock. “De enkel.”
“Now you’re just fucking with me.”
His voice is pure joy. “Oh, I’m very serious.” His fingers move to my shin. “Het scheenbeen,” he says, and it takes me a few tries to get the pronunciation right. “De knie,” he continues, and even though it sounds almost the same as in English, suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. With my chest to the table, he has to reach around to find my knee, his fingers skimming along my jeans and drawing out a shiver. “Ticklish?”
I shake my head. “De knie. Keep going.”
There’s a pause on his end as he drops his hands, and it takes me longer than it should to realize why: the body parts directly above my knees are ones he’s definitely going to skip.
“As we already covered: de rug.” In one fluid motion, he whisks his thumb up my spine like it’s made of silk. “De wervelkolom.”
For a while my muscles demand his full focus, the heels of his hands chasing down an ache I’ve never been able to reach for myself. It’s as though he knows exactly what’s twisted and tangled up inside me, and if he could just find it, just wrap his hand around it, he could soothe it with a single stroke.
He’s at my neck now, his breathing pattern growing steadily quicker. Fingertips press in on either side as his exhale rolls across my skin. Christ , it’s almost too good. He rubs me there for a long moment, until my lungs rush to keep up with his.
“What’s next?” I ask, not expecting the rasp of my voice.
“Right. The back of your neck is, quite creatively, de nek. De hals: the throat.” A clearing of his hals as he pushes back my hair to graze my ear, and even that brief touch drags a sigh up my throat. I muffle it just in time. “Het oor. And then we have het hoofd.” The pat he gives my head does nothing to calm the thudding of my heart.
This game wasn’t safe at all.
He works his way back down the column of my neck, down my spine, and it occurs to me that he could pull away at any moment. He could stop, and he probably should, since I’m not paying him and this can’t possibly be a good use of his time.
But he doesn’t. Either he truly believes my muscles need the attention or he wants a reason to keep touching me like this, a ridiculous thought when we’ve only just dipped a toe back into friendship. My body is simply broken, I conclude, just as his thumb digs into a spot between my ribs.
And oh . Right there. He dips in again, kneading the muscle back and forth until I have to grit my teeth against the sensation. Fuck , I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t pretend I’m not slowly turning to putty with him working my body like every time he gripped a paintbrush was child’s play compared to what his hands can do now.
His touch turns languid, like he could keep going and going, keep stretching my tightest spots until I snap. I’m shuddering, trying to keep my gasp locked away, but the pressure is so gorgeously intense, so unexpected—and then I can’t fight it.
I moan .
“Was that okay?” he asks, a hint of concern in his voice. “Do you want it a little gentler?”
“No, it’s fantastic.” I’m starving for air, bracing myself for him to do it again. Desperate for him to. “Harder. Please.”
With more force, he pushes deep into my skin as another throaty sound falls from my mouth. It’s just this side of painful, but somehow that’s even better, especially as he alternates between hard and soft, giving me a moment to catch my breath before he starts again, fingertips tracing some invisible map. The lavender oil should be stronger than any of it, but I’m still too aware of his scent. Peppermint shampoo, though it’s been hours since he washed his hair. Something earthy. Something citrus.
Then I sense him leaning over me, his forearms flat against my back. There’s a new heat, a new weight—all of that skin searing mine—and I’ve never been more grateful that he can’t see my face. He even lets out a sound of his own—a rough grunt, like he’s trying to keep himself from showing the effort of it all.
It shouldn’t be sexy, that sound. It shouldn’t rumble through my whole body, settling low in my stomach.
But god , the way it drags me back in time.
Now I’m remembering how quiet he used to be when we were together, even when we were alone. We both were, likely a combination of secrecy and the comfort we hadn’t yet found in our own bodies. Only on rare occasions—the back seat of my car, for instance—did he let himself go. Velvet moans and my name murmured like a plea when I kissed down his chest, teased the waistband of his boxers. Can I and are you sure and yes . I’d never imagined how it would feel to undo another person like that, to get to see them at their most vulnerable.
Gently, he brushes aside my hair so he can give more attention to my neck, a sensation that has the effect of beaming a pulse directly between my legs. He’s massaging behind my ears, beneath my jaw, but I can feel his hands on every outstretched limb. Every place that craves his fingertips.
For a moment, I let myself give in to the fantasy, because certainly there’s no harm if it stays inside my head, where I want him loud . I want those expert hands on my hips and thighs. I want his weight on top of me, a hot mouth on my skin while he pushes my body to its limits.
He lets out another low groan, one I’m worried I may have conjured through sheer desire—and that’s what makes me tremble back to my senses.
It’s too much. Too intimate.
“You—you can stop,” I say, the words shaky, and he instantly moves his hands away. “I think I’m good for now.”
I’m newly self-conscious as I lift myself from the table too quickly, my head spinning. Without looking, he passes me my T-shirt, and I’m so dazed that I put it on backward. Once it’s properly on and I give him the okay to turn around, his cheeks are pink with exertion.
The way that blush is spread across his face is downright sensual, as though he’s the one who’s been caught in the middle of a gasp. Sweat edges his hairline, and I picture him wrapped in that towel again, wondering if he blushes all the way down his neck. If I touched him the way he touched me, how hot his skin would be.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
Feverish. Trembling. My back, however, has never felt better. “Great,” I manage. “Thank you so much. You are…extremely good at what you do.” I reach for my scarf and jacket, feeling exposed in just a T-shirt, and grasp for a conversation topic that will throw cold water onto my indecent thoughts. “So. Friday’s the big day.”
Our appointment with city hall, more bureaucracy than romance, and thank god for that.
He nods. “And then I thought we could go to Culemborg to have lunch with my family.” Now his voice is steadier. Cheerful, almost, as though to confirm everything we did in this office was just part of his job. He tugs his sleeves down his forearms to rebutton them, and I try not to think about those long muscles flexing as he hovered over me. “Everyone will be dying to meet my wife.”