Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
Wouter gives me an inscrutable half smile as he lifts my suitcase onto the rack above our heads. If there’s any kind of grunt while he does this, it absolutely does not remind me of what we did in our separate rooms last week.
Then we drop wordlessly into our seats on the train, both of us too awkward to claim the armrest in between.
For a while I considered backing out of this trip, but maybe some time away from home will do us both good. We’ll return with fresh perspectives and clear minds, because quite simply, there is no other option. Now that I know what this version of him sounds like when he comes, the way his moans slowly reach that aching crescendo—there’s no comparison to our history. He had none of that brashness back then.
The thought comes with a quiet kind of heartbreak. We were so close that night, closer than I’d been with anyone in a long time. For those few breathless minutes, we understood each other.
Now we’re only capable of small talk.
“Beautiful scenery,” I say when the silence starts to get to me, pointing out the obvious. I check my phone, stunned to realize we’ve only been on the train for fifteen minutes.
He crosses one leg over the other, glances up from the book he’s reading. “Really beautiful,” he echoes.
Disheveled isn’t a look I’m used to seeing on him, and yet that’s the only way to describe him right now: deep lavender circles beneath his eyes, jaw and cheeks patterned with days-old stubble, and his hair messier than usual, as though he’s been raking his hands through it. His shoulders are stiff, and what’s ironic is that he looks like he could use a massage more than anyone.
I doubt it’s the situation between us that’s been keeping him awake at night—more likely it’s a challenge at work, or some other stress—but for a moment, I let myself imagine I’m the reason he’s this rumpled. That he can’t sleep because he craves my mouth on his neck. That he can’t make eye contact because of what we did in a daydream.
I broke a couple nights ago and called Phoebe, told her only about the drunken kiss and the emotions it had stirred up.
“Oh, Dani,” she said with a sigh, and though there was some concern there, it wasn’t judgmental. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“I don’t know,” I said in a quiet voice, and she sat with me in my confusion for a while.
Because it’s so much more convenient if I don’t.
Wouter tucks a bookmark into his paperback. Scans the train car. Midafternoon on a Saturday, the seats around us are empty enough. “I think we should probably talk.”
“But the not talking was going so well,” I say, hoping this will make him laugh. It only earns me a small puff of breath. Nothing like the reckless way he laughed that night in the kitchen, that dimple only disappearing when he tucked me into bed.
He waits a while before speaking again. “What happened last week—it was a good thing we didn’t go too far.”
Too far . What we did was already so fucking intimate that I can’t even imagine what too far would look like.
“It would complicate things too much,” he continues, a little quickly, like he’s worried if he doesn’t get it all out fast, he might lose his nerve. “If it ended poorly, and we’re still married…” He runs a hand through his hair, and when a strand sticks out, I have to fight the urge to smooth it back into place. “I would hate for you to be uncomfortable living here.”
All the logic is on his side—I know he’s right. I can’t fall into bed with Wouter, blur our boundaries even more, and have it mean nothing when we’re tied together in so many other ways.
“I agree, one hundred percent. It would have been a mistake.” I fold my hands primly in my lap, like I’m conducting a business meeting. A professional discussion of our unprofessional behavior. “We can absolutely just forget about it.”
Relief washes over his face, as though he expected me to challenge him. As soon as my pulse returns to its regular rhythm, maybe I’ll feel that relief too. Then he slips out a laugh. “God, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you feel the same. It’s…been a while for me. Since I was with anyone. I probably got a little carried away, and I apologize for that.”
“How long is a while?”
His teeth bite down on his lower lip. “About a year.”
A year. I had already assumed, but it still takes a moment to sink in. A year since he held someone that close. Sighed into their skin. Unraveled them with his beautiful hands.
It’s almost unbearable, how badly I want to be the one he’s unraveling.
“Well. All droughts end eventually,” I manage.
He waves this off, as though the drought doesn’t bother him, but there’s a cord of tension in his jaw. “I’m glad we could get that all out in the open. Now we can enjoy the trip.”
“I only want to eat chocolate and waffles for the next two days,” I say.
“No arguments from me.”
Wouter returns to his book, marginally less rigid, and I half-heartedly swipe through Duolingo on my phone, still waiting for that relief to hit. The hum of the train tracks is peaceful, though, and soon I’m drifting in and out of sleep, where my subconscious doesn’t seem to agree with our decision to forget Saturday ever happened.
We’re back in the kitchen, only this time, we don’t stop. He teases and teases and teases, lips on my shoulder before he pulls away, unbuttoning my jeans before he inexplicably buttons them back up. All of it turns me wild, makes me plead, and in this dream, Wouter loves to hear me beg. Finally, he tugs me to the edge of the countertop, hands pressed to my thighs as he drops to his knees. The look on his face is all hunger.
“We’re almost in Brussels,” he says.
I wake with a jolt to his hand on my shoulder, telling me it’s time to change trains.
These waffles better be life-changing.
—
“There should be two rooms,” Wouter tells the hotel receptionist. He uses English for my benefit, though Bruges is in the Dutch-speaking northern part of Belgium called Flanders. “One under Van Leeuwen and the other under Dorfman.”
The woman frowns at her computer. “I’m sorry, sir, I only have one here. One of our best suites.” She stage-whispers: “One of your colleagues told us you two were recently married, so we upgraded you!”
I’ve never forced a grin with as much effort in my entire life.
“That’s so kind of you,” I say, fumbling for the right words. “You’re sure there’s nothing else available? My husband snores like you wouldn’t believe!” I try to pass this off as some charming quirk. Just two deeply in love newlyweds who don’t want to sleep in the same room!
“Unfortunately not. We’re all booked.”
Wouter accepts the two keys. Forces a smile to match mine. “Thank you so much.”
We’re quiet on the rickety elevator up to the top floor of the quaint historic hotel, white-knuckling our suitcase handles. Both of us try to avoid our reflections in the full-length mirror, but I can’t help stealing glances. There he is, so much taller than me, his hands fidgeting in that trademark Wouter way. I wonder if we look like a happily married couple. If we look like we belong together, or if people wonder what we see in each other.
“Well,” I say when he unlocks the door. “I guess we’re on our honeymoon.”
Because not only is there a bed scattered with the reddest rose petals forming the shape of a heart and two towels meticulously folded into kissing swans, there’s also a bottle of champagne and a pair of flutes, a container of bubble bath, and a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. A large window looks out onto the city’s medieval main square, lit up at night.
“I could sleep on the floor.” Wouter drops his backpack. His cheeks are already flushed nearly the color of the rose petals. “Or in the chair?”
“This is your work trip. Your physiotherapy work trip. What would the other therapists say?” I give this suggestion a firm shake of my head. “We’re adults. We can sleep in the same bed without it being weird.”
But it’s not just the fact of there being a single bed that’s unusual for us. It’s that we have never shared a bed.
When we were together, I always dreamed of it; nothing seemed more romantic to me back then. As an adult, the romance of it faded and I realized I needed my space, and on those rare occasions I spent the night with someone, I’d complain I was too hot when a guy tried to spoon me afterward. In reality, I hated the feeling of being caged in. The lights would go out and an arm would go around me, and suddenly I wouldn’t be able to breathe.
“I’m sorry about that. The upgrade.” He picks up the bottle of champagne. “Extremely nice, though.”
I pop a chocolate-covered strawberry into my mouth. “We might as well enjoy it, right?”
I open up my bag, finding my toiletry case and bringing it over to the bathroom. Even though we share a bathroom at home, this one feels far more intimate. Maybe it’s the curse of the honeymoon suite, or that this is a much smaller space. Or that we’re about to be sleeping in the same bed. Either way, it turns my hands shaky as I remove my little bottles of shampoo and conditioner and prop them on the countertop.
As I’m doing this, my bottle of antidepressants falls out of my case and rolls its way out of the bathroom, into the suite.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, bending to snatch it up before it lands at Wouter’s feet, my face burning. “Just—vitamins.”
I hate myself the moment I say it. Because I’m not ashamed of the fact that I take medication, but the history there often feels too complicated to unspool. I’ve always been anxious about telling people, worried they’ll wonder what made my problems so important I needed that kind of care.
Maybe I have some shame there after all.
My phone rings as Wouter starts unpacking. “Phoebe,” I say, reaching for it. “Do you mind if I—”
“Go ahead. I’ll take a shower, give you two some privacy.” He knows I’ve told her about the marriage, that I fully trust her, but still I wait to pick up until he’s carried a toiletry kit and change of clothes into the bathroom.
Phoebe’s voice is almost too loud for the small room. “We’re coming to see you!” she shouts, and Maya lets out a whoop in the background.
“What?” I ask, plugging my other ear so I can hear her better. The shower turns on in the bathroom. “You’re coming…here?”
“Next month! For your wedding celebration thing. The dates matched up perfectly, and we figured, better to do it now, before the baby comes, and so…we’re doing it! We’re coming to Amsterdam!”
The grin spreads across my face like I’ve been waiting weeks for good news. “Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t wait. I have so many places to take you, and only half of them are dessert-related. You’re really coming?”
Phoebe lets out another squeal. “We really are. Free upgrade to economy comfort, so we’re going to be living that extra-legroom life.”
“You’re way too fancy for me.”
We talk more about logistics as my mind spins. “Before I go,” Phoebe says after I’ve told her to bring her most comfortable walking shoes, a rain jacket, and a few more boxes of Annie’s mac and cheese, “Mom and Dad texted wondering why you’re in Belgium?”
“They… oh .” I let out a groan as I run a hand down my face. “Shit, I don’t think I ever turned off my location sharing.” Something I only turned on for safety reasons because dating in LA was questionable at best. The water in the bathroom is still running. “I’m in Bruges for a physiotherapy conference. With Wouter.”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
“It’s a really good thing you’re coming, Pheebs,” I say with a defeated little laugh.
“We’ll figure everything out,” she promises, and we exchange I love you s before hanging up.
When Wouter emerges from the shower in shorts and an Ajax T-shirt, still drying off his hair with a towel, my heart twists. It’s not the same T-shirt he wore when he lived with us, but the memory’s still there.
“My sister’s coming,” I say, but I can only give him a wobbly smile. “At the end of April.”
He lights up at this, tells me how fantastic it is, how excited he is to see her. “But—it seems like there’s maybe something else?” he asks, mouth slanted in a frown.
“Just my parents. They’re freaking out that I went to Belgium without telling them, because they don’t realize how easy it is to just hop on a train. They still can’t accept that I’m a wholly independent person, I guess.”
He nods, gives his hair a final scrunch before hanging up the towel. “I remember. They’ve always been a bit overprotective. I hoped it would change as you got older, but…it sounds like it hasn’t?”
The words rub me too harshly—I’m not expecting such a strong reaction. But goddamn it, he seems to remember everything , but he only lets on when it’s convenient for him. We can’t talk casually about my parents without acknowledging the gigantic thing we still haven’t discussed. Our history is too tangled to pick and choose, and if I’ve been looking for another reason to guard my body and my heart, here it is.
He doesn’t want to make things complicated? That’s just fine with me.
“It’s not a big deal. I should get ready for bed.”
With that, I grab my pajamas and shut myself in the bathroom, urging my breaths to stabilize. Four. Seven. Eight , and a loud exhale through my mouth. Fucking stupid is what I am, thinking that this trip could be normal after everything we shared.
How could it be, when he’s never offered a real explanation for the breakup?
I haven’t thought about it in weeks, and yet there it is again, pounding away at my skull. I thought we were letting each other in, beginning a new kind of closeness. Maybe I was fooling myself about that, too.
Once again I use all my skincare products, delaying the inevitable that is getting in bed next to Wouter. Apparently the secret to glowing skin is inner turmoil, because mine has never looked better.
He’s in bed when I exit the bathroom, sitting up with a book about the impact of stress on the body open in his lap, the sheets pooled around his hips. With his glasses and the soft light of a bedside lamp, he paints a painfully inviting picture. His hair is mostly dry now, and I wish I didn’t remember how it felt between my fingertips.
“Everything okay?” he asks when I slide in next to him, trying to ignore the extra heat from his body even with a foot of space between us. His citrus-and-peppermint scent.
“Yep. Great.”
Finally, he puts down the book and gazes at me over the top of his glasses. “Danika,” he starts, but I don’t want to hear where that sentence ends. I have a feeling we’ve been there before.
“I’m pretty tired from the trip. And you have a busy day tomorrow. We should probably just go to sleep.”
He pauses, caught off guard by my sudden chilliness. “Sure. Okay. If that’s what you want,” he says, and takes off his glasses, folding them on top of his book before switching off the light next to his bed. “Good night.”
“Fijne avond,” I say, wishing I weren’t such a fucking coward.
My chest tightens as I roll over to face the wall. In an alternate universe, we’d cross the invisible line in the middle of the bed and make up for so much lost time.
That’s not the only way I want him, though, and that might be the scariest part.
Waffles , I remind myself with a fierce resolve. In the morning there will be waffles, and maybe I won’t be thinking about all the ways this could be different.
Maybe I won’t be missing something I never really had.