What Happens in Amsterdam

Chapter Twelve

Twelve

When I imagined getting married, I never had the clearest vision. I didn’t have dreams of long white dresses or flower arrangements, but I did picture a kind face at the end of the aisle. Someone who loved me.

I certainly didn’t picture the amount of paperwork involved, or that it would all be in Dutch.

The gemeente building, Amsterdam’s city hall, is a modern structure that looks out of place in a neighborhood of canal houses, all glass and concrete. We take our place in the waiting area, and because we’ll need two witnesses to sign the wedding certificate—who can be anyone at all—Wouter asks another couple if they wouldn’t mind stepping in.

I bury my hands in the sleeves of my cable-knit sweater, probably stretching them out past the point of no return.

Four. Everyone knows this is fake.

Seven. The police are on their way.

Eight. I’m going to waste away in a Dutch prison and bring eternal shame to my family.

It’s possible the therapist who taught me those exercises never accounted for this specific circumstance.

When it’s our turn, Wouter translates for me. A middle-aged woman gives us a restrained smile as she conducts the ceremony, and I have to remind myself she’s just doing her job, that she sees dozens of couples every week and can’t tell that we’re not madly in love.

The whole thing takes less than fifteen minutes, as anticlimactic as waiting in line at the DMV. The past month and a half tumbles through my head in a bizarre tableau. Moving across the world. Everything falling apart. Crashing into the man who was able to pick up some of the pieces.

Then there’s the form we have to sign declaring this isn’t a marriage of convenience. Standard procedure when a national is marrying a foreigner, the woman tells us, which only yanks my anxiety out of its hiding place. My chest is tight—either a symptom of an impending asthma attack or just the consequences of my actions coming back to bite me.

Marriage of convenience.

Schijnhuwelijk.

The Dutch even have a single word for it.

That’s exactly what this is. Marrying him is extremely fucking convenient for me, and yet seeing it in such plain words makes the illegality sink in.

“You all right?” Wouter asks.

I keep my voice low, hoping my shakiness looks like regular wedding jitters. “I didn’t expect there would literally be something we’d need to sign declaring this isn’t a marriage of convenience.”

He gives my hand a squeeze as though he knows I need not just the reassurance but some kind of anchor. “That’s the beauty of it, though,” he says. “We’ve been madly in love for the past ten years.”

If only , I think, and then I sign my name next to his.

Gefeliciteerd to us.

“One last thing,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a small velvet box. “They’re nothing special, I’m afraid. I didn’t know your size, so I borrowed one of the rings you left by the sink. I hope that was okay?”

I’ve never been someone to fawn over a piece of jewelry. Even during a brief jewelry-making phase right before I was hospitalized—when I thought my exhaustion was because I needed a new creative outlet and figured I could open an Etsy shop and work for myself, and wouldn’t that be the dream?—my heart was never really in it. I only wound up making one bracelet, which I gave to Phoebe.

Even though these rings are fake, even though they don’t actually mean anything, they steal my words for a moment. They’re simple gold bands, nothing fancy, but they manage to gleam even in the dim lighting of city hall.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, meaning it, my lungs still tight. “You didn’t have to.”

His face is so earnest, as though he’s genuinely relieved I like them. “We have to look the part, right?”

And with that, he lifts an eyebrow, motioning for me to take his ring.

“Many Dutch people wear it on their right hand,” he says. “But we can do whichever you want.”

I go first, sliding the band onto the ring finger of his right hand, wanting this to be as authentic as possible. When we did this with the straw wrapper, he was the nervous one. We’d barely touched at that point, and now he’s familiar with all the tightest muscles along my back. It should be less awkward, this kind of physical contact—and maybe it is for him. Because this time, when it’s his turn to slide the ring onto my finger, he grasps my hand to steady it, and it’s only then that I realize I’m still shaking.

“There.” He extends his hand so we can admire both rings. “How does it feel?”

I turn my hand over a few times, getting used to the new weight of it. “Just like the real thing.”

—

The nerves only intensify as we get closer to meeting his family, a sense of breathlessness that follows me around the next week, enough to keep my inhaler closer than usual.

Culemborg is about an hour southeast of Amsterdam, and since Wouter doesn’t own a car, it’s my first time on a train. As we pass each platform at the station, dodging frantic travelers, I’m shocked to discover this is the same place you can board a train to Paris, London, Berlin, Zurich. All these cities suddenly at my fingertips, itching at a wanderlust that’s been dormant for too many years.

The train ride is a pastoral postcard, the familiar quickly giving way to great swaths of green, farms dotted with cows and sheep, powerful old windmills in the distance.

“Welkom in Culemborg,” Wouter says when we get off the train. “The city that feels like a village.”

I slot my transit pass back into my wallet. “A city? Not a town?”

“Actually, yes. They may only have a population of thirty thousand, but they’re very proud to have city rights.”

His mom’s house is only a ten-minute walk from the station, mostly through farmland. More animals graze behind low fences on either side of us. The roads are single-lane and unmarked, cyclists and drivers sharing them without effort. I wonder what would count as a traffic jam. I’m not used to this kind of quiet, but I can see the appeal, how peaceful it might be with all this space to hear yourself think.

Wouter’s in jeans and a black jacket, his face newly shaven, and while I prefer the stubble, the clean-cut look isn’t a bad one, either. I fear the man doesn’t have a bad look.

Lately I’ve caught my gaze traveling to his hands when I’m not paying attention, imagining the way they pressed and stroked and worked out knots I didn’t know I had. My libido was out of control, I deduced after the massage. The next day when he was at work, I locked myself in my room and held the vibrator between my legs until I was sweaty and spent. Yet each orgasm had felt unfinished somehow, grit-your-teeth just barely there—good, but not enough of a relief to fully take me over the edge. Almost more of a frustration than if I hadn’t touched myself at all.

Wouter—innocent, clean-shaven Wouter, who knows nothing of what I do when he’s not at home—leads me through a small neighborhood of modest homes with actual yards , which don’t exist much in Amsterdam.

“I feel like I might need to say thank you a few more times, so really: thank you.” He’s stopped in front of a single-story home with tall hedges and a couple of trees in the front yard. A garden that looks like someone has lovingly tended to it. “Maybe I’m too sentimental, but I can’t imagine ever selling that house, and if all of this means I never have to…it’s going to save me a lot of sleepless nights.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Now if I say thank you, we’re going to be saying it back and forth forever.” I square my shoulders, worrying my ring. That’s one additional benefit: it’s essentially become a fidget toy. “Any final words of wisdom? Faux pas I should avoid?”

“I didn’t want to say this earlier, but they don’t really like Americans.” He’s completely straight-faced. “Can you do any other accents? That might help.”

And I just gape at him until he finally breaks into laughter.

“You asshole,” I say, biting back my own smile as I give him a gentle whack with my purse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. But you’re relaxed now, aren’t you?”

“A little,” I say begrudgingly.

One more deep breath past the tightness in my chest, and then I’m ready to meet my in-laws.

The girl who opens the door is in her mid-twenties, with strawberry blond hair tumbling past her shoulders and huge blue eyes, wearing a linen blazer paired with wide-legged jeans. Though she’s not quite as tall as Wouter, there’s an undeniable resemblance in the angles of their features.

“Hi, I’m Roos!” she says, and given the sheer wattage of her smile, I’m positive no one else has been more excited to see me in the history of my life. What’s more, it seems genuine . She needs to bend down for the customary Dutch greeting: three kisses on alternating cheeks. “So amazing to finally meet you. Wouter has told us…well, he used to talk about you all the time, but it’s been a while!” An easy laugh as she pats me on the shoulder. “But I’m very much looking forward to getting to know you.”

He used to talk about you all the time.

All Wouter told me was that his family knew about our relationship. That’s not quite the same thing as talking about me all the time. Next to me, he rubs at the back of his neck, determinedly not making eye contact.

“Dani,” I say. “It’s great to be here. This might be one of the most charming cities I’ve ever seen.”

Roos expertly raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t have a reaction to my port-wine stain, either because she’s seen pictures of me or because it really doesn’t faze her. “I’ll have to tell the mayor you said that. She lives on the next block.”

Footsteps, and then Wouter’s mother appears at the door. She has the same dark blond hair, thinner and streaked with gray; large glasses; an inscrutable expression. And the height—I’ve married into a family of giants.

Of course they’re going to be suspicious. I’m the outsider, the American interloper. And even though this is fake, I desperately want them to like me.

“My apologies, I had a pot that just started boiling,” she says, her accent much more pronounced than her kids’. When her eyes land on me, she gives a hesitant smile. My face heats up more than it usually does when I’m meeting new people, because now I’m intensely aware that she’s assessing me, and I can’t help wondering what she might consider a flaw. My birthmark. My slight stature. The way I’m dressed, or the way I speak.

I’ve never been as self-conscious about any of it as I am right now.

“Mam, this is Danika,” Wouter says. “Or Dani, but I’ve always liked Danika. Sounds like it could be Dutch.”

“You’re still the only one who calls me that,” I say, and somehow it manages to sound like this is an in-joke we’ve had for years. I even catch Roos biting back a smile.

His mom leans in for the three cheek kisses. “Aangenaam, Dani. I’m Anneke.” Her gaze lands on the ring on my finger, and she gives a nod of approval. “Very classic. At least Wouter had good taste—that hasn’t always been true.”

Wouter lets out a dramatic groan. “Is this about the year I refused to wear anything but sweatpants to school?”

“Of course it is.” Roos clasps my arm and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, I have pictures.”

Anneke gives Wouter a ruffle of his hair. “That was only a year? It felt so much longer.”

“Fair warning,” Wouter says to me, “this is going to be a lot of them teasing me.”

“All the more reason to be excited,” I say as we step inside and I unzip my boots. “Your house is lovely.”

“Thank you so much.” Anneke gestures to my skirt. “I like your…” She fumbles around as though searching for the right word. “Panty.”

Panic flares through me.

“Sorry, my what?” I crane my neck over my shoulder, wondering if this is her way of telling me my underwear is showing. I guess it’s not impossible I accidentally tucked my shirt into my underwear instead of the teal tights I paired with a black skirt, but surely the universe wouldn’t do that to me today?

“Panty,” Anneke repeats, louder this time.

Wouter has turned a deep shade of scarlet. “It’s Dutch for ‘tights,’?” he says to me, motioning to my legs. “Pantyhose.”

“Oh. Guess my class hasn’t covered that yet.” Then, to Anneke: “Dank je wel.”

“?‘Panties’ in English is underwear, Mam,” Roos offers helpfully, and I’m grateful she’s the one explaining it instead of her brother.

Then it’s Anneke’s turn to cover her hand with her mouth, muffling a laugh. “Ah. I assure you, not what I meant,” she says as she takes our coats, hanging them in a shallow closet. “You’re taking Dutch classes, Dani?”

I allow myself to relax as I tell her more about them. I love the rules and the pronunciation, learning which sounds you drop at the end of a word and which ones you emphasize. It’s challenging, of course, but I think I’ve needed that.

Even if part of me is worried it’s just another hobby I’m going to abandon a few months from now.

Wouter’s grandmother is in an armchair in the adjoining living room, a cozy space with one wall painted blue and plants dangling from the ceiling. A tall bookshelf is filled with all manner of knickknacks, along with some framed family photos.

Wouter greets her with a gentle hug before introducing me in Dutch. I only catch a few words.

“Aangenaam,” his grandmother says in a sturdier voice than I’m expecting, and then points to herself. “Maartje.” She’s small and soft-featured, her hair a cloud of white-blond wisps. A knitted blanket is draped over her lap, and on top of that, a sudoku book.

“So nice to meet you. Thank you so much for having me over.” I lost both my grandmothers when I was very young and a grandfather just last year. My only remaining grandparent is in a retirement home in Sherman Oaks, and being here with Wouter’s grandmother makes me want to call him up the moment I get home.

His grandmother says something in Dutch again, and Wouter translates. “She says this happened very fast. But she can understand sometimes that’s how it goes when you’re really in love, and she and my grandfather knew right away that they were meant for each other.”

This is where we really have to sell it. Wouter slips his arm around me, though not before he lifts his eyebrows to confirm it’s okay. I give him a slight nod as his hand comes to rest at my waist.

I lean in, placing a hand on his chest just long enough to feel the rise and fall of a single breath, wishing my lungs had that same steadiness. “Your grandson is very special, but I’m sure you know that,” I say, and Wouter translates again. “We fell in love thirteen years ago and never stopped thinking about each other.”

“Lunch in about fifteen minutes,” Anneke calls, moving into the adjoining kitchen to finish up. A warm, savory aroma already fills the house.

Roos volunteers herself to give me a tour. She has this frenetic kind of energy, like if you touched her, you might get zapped—and her lack of judgment is so opposite what I was expecting that I probably wouldn’t mind it at all. The house isn’t large or showy; there are bedrooms for his mother and grandmother, a guest room for Roos or Wouter when they’re visiting, and just one bathroom. I wonder if there’s some strangeness there: Wouter took over his childhood home that no longer resembles where he grew up, while his family moved farther away, to this house that doesn’t have as many memories in its walls.

“I wish I could see what the Prinsengracht house looked like when you were kids,” I say, and the siblings exchange a grin before leading me back to the kitchen, where a photo wall separates it from the living room.

The collage is a burst of nostalgic joy: baby photos and awkward preteen years and vacations and everything in between. Wouter as a baby with tufts of strawberry blond hair, peeking out from a crib. Dragging a paintbrush along a canvas in the room that’s now our kitchen. Roos dressed as a fairy, spread out on her back on the apartment’s treacherous stairs. Their father holding a birthday cake. Kissing their mother on the cheek. A trip to Disneyland Paris, the kids wearing mouse ears and posing with Mickey and Pluto.

“This is precious,” I say, pointing to a picture of toddler Roos and what must be a five- or six-year-old Wouter missing his two front teeth. “You two were the cutest kids.”

“Here’s his sweatpants phase, as promised.” Roos gestures to photos of a ten- or eleven-year-old Wouter at a backyard party, goofing off with friends, giving a presentation at school—all in the same frayed pair of navy joggers. “And a series of increasingly bad haircuts to go along with them. Didn’t Dad threaten to burn them?”

“They were comfortable,” Wouter says in protest. “Oh—and here’s our parents on their first King’s Day together. Or I guess it was Queen’s Day back then.” He points to a photo of a twentysomething Anneke dressed all in orange, with Wouter’s father next to her in a giant orange hat and a feather boa. Now that I’m seeing their parents this much younger, Roos looks more like Anneke while Wouter has his father’s intense eyes and broad shoulders.

“I think it’s my favorite photo,” Roos says.

Wouter goes quiet for a moment. Reverent. “Mine, too.”

I don’t realize until he says it that this is what I wanted when I moved in. A deeper understanding of this family and their history.

Anneke says something in Dutch, calling Roos into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Wouter.

He inches closer, ducks his head. “You’re doing great,” he whispers with a palm on my lower back, as though he knows I needed the confirmation.

Then he strides into the kitchen to help his mother and sister set the table. It lingers, the phantom heat of his hand pressed to my sweater. The slight twitch of his fingertips.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, feeling slightly useless, but his mother just gives an adamant shake of her head.

When we sit down to eat, Maartje gestures to the ceramic baking dish in the middle of the table. “Stamppot. Very, very Dutch.”

Anneke offers a more thorough explanation: “It’s potatoes and vegetables mashed together—‘stamped’—all in one pot, with sausage on top. I use kale, carrots, and onions. It’s very wholesome in the winter, which always lasts longer than any of us want it to. Much more common for dinner, but we thought you needed to experience it.”

“And I certainly can’t cook it,” Wouter says, which makes Roos nod vigorously in agreement. “Not the way my mom does.”

I’m so touched by this that I could almost ignore the rush of guilt that comes with it. They’re treating me so nicely, too nicely—and of course they are. They don’t know the truth.

After a chorus of “eet smakelijk,” we dig in. The dish is hearty and savory, something I imagine would be even better in the colder months, and I make sure to tell Wouter’s mother how much I like it. Everyone else murmurs their approval, and for a couple minutes, the only sound is the scrape of forks on plates.

“We know so much and yet very little about you,” Anneke says. Now that we’re all in the same room, it immediately becomes clear that she’s more suspicious than Maartje. “We’re all so curious. You’ve only been in Amsterdam since January?”

Wouter and I agreed we wouldn’t mention my company’s collapse in front of his family. “Yes. I’m a UX designer—a startup brought me over here.” Technically not a lie.

“That’s very interesting.” Anneke dabs her mouth with a napkin. “It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you would need to leave the States to do.”

Roos slants her mother a disbelieving look as she reaches for more sausage. “Are you serious? Companies here are always trying to poach talent from abroad. We just hired an American developer last month.”

I give her a silent thank-you.

“She’s very talented,” Wouter says, his free hand coming up to rest on the back of my chair. If my hair were longer, he’d be touching it. “Has a great eye. Isn’t that right, lief?”

Lief . A Dutch term of endearment, I’m guessing. Even without knowing the meaning, I can feel the sweetness there—or at least the performance of it.

He’s good at this.

I force my lips upward, as though this is a game we play all the time: who can compliment the other the most. “Just as talented as you are at taking people’s pain away.”

Wouter’s grandmother says something in Dutch, and the rest of them laugh.

“She said your hair is very beautiful,” Wouter translates for me, “and that she hopes our children inherit it from your side of the family.” He clutches the thinning patch of hair at the back of his head. “Low blow, Oma.”

Anneke takes this opportunity to switch to Dutch for Wouter, too rapid for me to catch anything but a preposition here and there. That furrow appears between Wouter’s brows as he answers her before switching languages again.

“Can we keep it in English?” he asks, and his mother’s mouth forms a harsh line.

“It’s just so romantic that you two found each other again after all those years,” Roos says, and then turns to her mother. “You remember how he used to talk about her.”

Anneke nods, and if she’s doing it begrudgingly, I can’t tell. “His face would just light up. You know, I can’t recall if he’s ever reacted that strongly to anyone else.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I put in, a little overwhelmed by all the attention. There’s that tightening in my chest again, and I lift an arm to cough into my elbow. If I can just calm myself down, I can avoid the worst-case scenario. Hopefully.

But Roos won’t let it go. “He said no one made him laugh the way you did. That you just got him. It always seemed cruel that there was too much distance for you to give it a real shot.”

He told them it was the distance that split us apart? Even if that’s likely what would have happened if we’d continued the relationship, something isn’t matching up, but his mother and sister have no reason to lie to me about this.

They’re painting a picture of someone lovesick, while I was on the other side of the world certain he’d forgotten about me.

I raise my eyebrows at Wouter. “Really,” I say as he busies himself with his stamppot. “What—what else did he say about me?” It’s a struggle to get the words out through a rush of breathlessness, and when I try to take in more air, I can’t fill my lungs.

“That you were completely shameless,” Wouter says. “Not a hint of modesty.”

I try to laugh, but the pressure in my chest is getting harder to ignore. Heat rushes to my cheeks in a violent coughing fit, everyone turning to face me.

“Are you all right, Dani?” Anneke asks, and in that moment, it becomes apparent that no, I am not all right.

I am having an asthma attack. In the middle of lunch. At my fake in-laws’ house.

I turn to Wouter, hoping the panic in my eyes is enough to communicate what my words might not be able to. “I—I can’t breathe,” I rasp out. I’m desperate for air, but it’s as though I’m breathing through the thinnest straw, unable to suck in enough of it.

He drops his fork with a clatter. “Where’s your inhaler?”

All I can do is helplessly point to the foyer of the house, where I left my bag. He shoves out his chair and makes a mad dash for it.

“Do you need some privacy? Take her into the guest room,” Anneke says when Wouter returns, and he guides me down the hall and into the first room on the left with superhuman urgency, an arm around my shoulders.

Gently, he helps me onto the bed as I wheeze. Gives the inhaler a shake and passes it to me. I grip it with trembling hands, pressing down and trying to breathe as slowly and deeply as I can.

Wouter sits next to me while still giving me enough space, projecting a sense of calm. His breaths are steady, the slow, thoughtful inhales and the deepest exhales.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says softly. The same way he did in the bathroom when we were seventeen. “I’m right here breathing with you.”

Thirteen years, and he still knows exactly what to do.

As I take another puff, he runs a hand down my hair. A quick motion, something he’s probably barely thinking about, and yet it’s more soothing than it has any right to be. Slowly, slowly, I feel my muscles relax and I can gulp in more air.

“That’s it. You’re doing amazing.”

“At breathing?” I say when I can finally speak, and this makes his mouth quirk in the smallest smile.

Then he shudders out a long breath of his own, his shoulders leaping with the effort of it, almost as though he kept his anxiety at bay for my sake. I see it so clearly now, the kind of caregiver he must have been for his father.

I let out a groan as I bury my face in my hands. “I can’t believe they had to see me like that,” I say, peeking out from behind my fingers. “Terrible timing.”

“Why would they judge you for having an asthma attack? You can’t help it.”

“I know, it’s just—not the first impression I wanted to make.” Another deep breath. Air is wonderful. Air is everything.

“We can go home, if you want. They’ll understand.” God , the concern is still written all over his face, from the crease between his brows to the slight downward turn of his mouth.

“No, no. I want to stay.”

He nods as he stretches out his legs on the white duvet, and I let myself do the same. Husband and wife sprawled on a tiny bed and explicitly not touching.

“You scared me,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I thought I’d stay calm if it happened here, but…for a moment there, it was really fucking terrifying.”

“You were calm. You were perfect.” This close, I can feel the heat buzzing at the surface of his skin. “You were so fast, too—thank you. And I’m fine! That’s the first attack I’ve had in months.”

Still, he’s looking at me with genuine relief, and something about a six-foot man being frightened for me…it lands in a strange place in my heart. Aside from my parents, I’ve never experienced anything like this. Anyone this protective.

It almost makes me wish he’d stroke my hair again.

“What did your mom say to you in Dutch?” I ask.

“We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Oh god. I can handle it,” I say, bracing myself for the worst.

“It’s not bad. She’s not unsupportive,” he starts, “but she wants to understand. She said that if we did this just for us, without a ceremony or party, and if that was truly what we wanted, then she supports it. I told her we wanted something small, without any of the fanfare. We didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“Right.”

“So she’s just a little sad none of the family could be there. That they couldn’t celebrate with us.”

I can understand that—I imagine occasions like this took on a different meaning after his father passed away.

“I’m sorry,” I say around the guilt. “I hope I didn’t make anything uncomfortable between all of you?”

He shakes his head, not quite meeting my eyes. “They just—they want to make sure you really care about me?” He says this with a laugh, even phrases it as a question, as though this part has never been important to him.

And then I can’t stop myself—I lay a hand on his arm. Graze his elbow with my thumb. His skin goes taut beneath my touch, and I’m quick to move my hand away. Right. No one’s watching us. We don’t have to perform when we’re alone.

“I do,” I say gently.

That, at least, isn’t a lie.

—

Once Wouter’s certain my lungs aren’t going to tense right back up, Anneke and Maartje ask if they can talk to him alone in the backyard while Roos joins me in the guest room.

She tells me about her job: she works in marketing for an Amsterdam attractions site. “So I basically get to pretend to be a tourist every day. If there’s ever something you want to do, I can probably get you in for free.” Then she wants to know all about growing up in LA. “Is it just like The O.C. ?”

“Yes,” I joke, “only everyone’s even hotter in real life.”

“I knew it. I knew they were only putting the uggos on TV.”

“My parents weren’t in entertainment, but plenty of my friends’ parents were. The food is great, the beaches are great, but I don’t miss sitting in traffic. And the air didn’t agree with my lungs, so I tried to stay inside as much as possible during wildfire season.” I gesture around the room. “You didn’t mind it when they moved to Culemborg?”

“I love it, actually,” she says. “I can relive my childhood at my brother’s apartment, even if he’s made some very boring decor choices, and when I want to relax, I come down here.”

We hear the screen door open and shut.

“Should we go outside and see if they’re gossiping about us?” Roos asks, and I fight a laugh because they’re almost certainly gossiping about me.

On our way there, Roos swings by the kitchen for a bottle of champagne and a pair of glasses. Her mother is right behind her with three more.

“A toast!” Roos declares once we’re all outside, popping open the bottle and pouring some for each of us. “To Wouter and Dani. Op het bruidspaar!”

Wouter turns to me, sheepish, and the expectation dawns on me a split-second later than it should.

They’re waiting for us to kiss.

I am a colossal idiot for not anticipating this. For not preparing, though I’m not sure any length of time could prepare me for the tentative way Wouter bites down on his lower lip. We were able to avoid it at city hall because there were so many other people waiting to sign their own marriage certificates. After we exchanged rings, we fell into an awkward hug, and that was that. No one banged silverware against a champagne flute and demanded anything more.

Now he once again asks for my permission with a lift of his brows, even after we established we were fine with anything short of mauling . Which of course, of fucking course, would include kissing.

Still, it means something that he checks in with me. That he doesn’t just go for it. I answer him by stepping forward just as he dips his head, my heart hammering against my rib cage.

Wouter van Leeuwen is about to kiss me for the first time in thirteen years.

With an audience.

He floods my senses—the soap I see in the bathroom every day, the peppermint shampoo—and because he is so close in this moment, my mind goes completely blank. There is only him, an overwhelming dizziness and his hand poised on my cheek as he tips my face upward.

His lips brush against mine so briefly that by the time I close my eyes, it’s over.

All of them clap, and Roos holds two fingers to her mouth and lets out a whistle. I pull back, slightly dazed, my lips warm with the memory of him. It was only a peck, wasn’t it? Barely a kiss. And yet it’s enough for them to believe it, all of us clinking glasses and sipping champagne.

Maybe it’s because, more than anything, they want to believe it. This family has already had so much tragedy, and all I want is to give them something good.

Even if it has to be wrapped in a lie.

“Maybe—maybe we could still celebrate,” I say as an idea forms, remembering what Wouter said in the guest room. “Nothing big, just the immediate family and friends. A little party?”

Anneke’s features soften, a new calm on her face. “That sounds wonderful,” she says, and so much of the tension I’ve been holding on to since we left Amsterdam eases from my body. Wouter smiles too, that dimple showing up for at least the twentieth time today—and if his cheeks are flushed, it must be from the champagne.

If mine are, I’m sure his family will think it’s just that newlywed glow.

Roos turns to me. “Dani and I could go dress shopping!” she says, and I wish I didn’t love the sound of that so much.

“Is there any chance your parents would be able to join us?” Anneke asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “It’s not easy for them to take time off work. You know how Americans are with their vacation days.”

“We’ll take a million pictures,” Roos promises, with a kindness that tugs at my heart. “It’ll be very gezellig.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

Wouter’s arm is around my back again, and it’s too easy to lean into the solid heat of his chest. I tend to be a very touchy person , he said that first night in the apartment. Because this is just who he is. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

“There’s no direct translation,” he says. “It’s the relaxed time you spend with friends and family in a cozy, comfortable place. A feeling of togetherness.”

Roos continues, “So a party can be gezellig, or an intimate gathering, or a night out at a bar with friends.”

“Gezellig,” I repeat, and she shakes her head.

“The Dutch G is not an easy one,” she says, and then demonstrates. “It’s more guttural, and it comes from the back of your throat.”

Wouter gestures to his mouth, and I definitely did not need a reason to look at his lips again. “You have to blow out the air as you’re saying it. Gezellig .”

“They picked the least cozy word to mean the coziest thing,” Roos adds.

I say it a few more times, my tongue tripping over the G until both of them beam at me.

“Perfect,” Wouter says, fingertips skimming up my spine. “Now you’re really becoming Dutch.”