Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
“Is that George?” I ask on the train ride home, pointing to an inky scribble in Wouter’s notebook.
He’s been sorting through his conference notes. “Oh—just a little doodle. One of the speakers was a bit less engaging than the others.” He tilts the page toward me: a ballpoint sketch of George Costanza, the dog, watching TV with George Costanza, the character.
Though he does his best to hide a smile, I can tell he’s proud of it.
When we get back to the apartment early Monday afternoon, we’re met with a surprise: a pipe started leaking in the bathroom while we were gone.
We stare at the puddle of water, Wouter silent for a good ten seconds. I can see his brain trying to work out a solution from behind his eyes. “Shit,” he says quietly, scrubbing a hand along his stubble. “I was going to go into work, but…”
“Hey.” I place a reassuring hand on his arm. “I’ll handle it.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
I’m struck with a flashback of suggesting this same thing only a few weeks ago when that cabinet handle broke off and he immediately told me not to worry about it. Because it’s not that he’s suddenly eager to give me a task.
It’s that he trusts me. This apartment means the world to him, and he trusts me with it.
“Of course. I’m ahead on my Dutch homework, so I have the time.”
“Thank you. I’ll send you the info for the plumber I used last time.” Wouter visibly exhales, then heads to the utility closet to shut off the water supply. When he returns, he’s sorting through the mail he picked up on our way in. “Some good news, though.” He grins as he presents a document to me, all in Dutch. “The title to the building. It’s officially been transferred.”
“Why do I feel like we should frame it?” I say, grabbing the title from him and scanning over it, even though I can only read some of it. “Right there, over the couch? Or maybe we just slap it on the bathroom mirror so we can see it every time we brush our teeth?”
Wouter glances down at my mouth, and a second stretches longer than it should. There are no rules for any of this, how you’re supposed to act after you hooked up with your fake husband–slash–ex-boyfriend and former forbidden love. His smile softens into a look of uncertainty, and my heart drums against my rib cage in anticipation.
“Should we…talk about this?” he asks as he steps forward.
“I think we’ve done a lot of talking lately.” I close the remaining space between us, wrap my arms around his neck. “Maybe we could just have fun, without worrying about the rest of it? Keep it…casual.”
He pauses for a moment, seeming stuck in thought, but then brushes his lips against mine. “I can do that,” he says, and then kisses me harder.
It’s not long before he has me pushed up against the wall, mouth hot on my neck, my hands tugging at his hair. Even after last night, I’m still hungry for him. The way he touched me with tender desperation, unstitched me with those gorgeous filthy words…
With all my willpower, I pat his chest. “I should probably call that plumber.” I’m going to guess there isn’t a single sentence in either English or Dutch more likely to kill the mood.
“I know, but—” He groans and gives me one last kiss, and I pretend to swat him away. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you later tonight. I’ll pick up George from Roos on my way home.”
“And then we can see who he missed the most,” I call after him.
I meant what I said: I don’t want to overanalyze what we are now, especially with my sister’s visit and the impending faux-wedding. We can be casual; after all, I have plenty of experience with it. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it with him, but I’m now certain it’s the only option.
We can’t have anything else—not when this is already going to end in divorce.
The plumber doesn’t answer when I phone, so I leave a message and proceed to search online for someone else. Just as I’m about to make another call, a message from an unknown number pops up on my phone.
Hello Dani. This is Anneke, the mother of Wouter. I have an appointment in Amsterdam today and I would like to stop by the apartment to pick up something in storage, but I don’t have a key. Are you there this afternoon?
I fumble out a text letting her know that yes, I’m home, and that I’m happy to let her in—but that we have a leaky pipe and the apartment is in a slight state of disarray.
There’s no reply, so I subject myself to the frustration of trying to find a plumber available today, because my basic Dutch—asking someone, Do you like to eat bread?— is not exactly useful in this scenario. I manage to talk to a couple people who can take a look at the end of the week, and I’m about to start googling some DIY fixes when the doorbell rings.
“Hoi, Anneke,” I say, realizing I’d forgotten about her during my frantic search. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t know if you’d gotten my text, or…”
“I was driving.” That’s all she says—curt, to the point. “Nice to see you again.”
“You, too.” I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure how to navigate this strangeness. I was not prepared to be alone in the apartment with my mother-in-law today—or ever. “Can I take your jacket, or get you anything to drink?”
It doesn’t escape my notice that she seems a little stiff, a little wary, even though this is where she lived for much of her life. I wonder if she’s looking for signs that I’ve changed anything, some obvious American influence.
“No, thank you,” she says. “You said there was an issue with the pipes?”
I grimace. “Over in the bathroom. I was going to call a plumber, but I’m afraid I haven’t had much luck.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
I’m only slightly embarrassed by the mess of products on the counter. Without giving them a second glance, she kneels on the floor, inspecting the pipes beneath the sink.
“Ah, this shouldn’t be too bad,” she says. “It’ll just take two of us.”
There’s some plumber’s putty in storage, it turns out, because this isn’t the first time this has happened. We dive in with latex gloves, and though we’ll eventually have to get a professional to replace the pipe, this fix will hold for now.
And this time, when I offer her some tea, she says yes.
I’ve watched Wouter do this dozens of times now, but I’m still a little shaky with the tea infuser. Thee , reads the Post-it note stuck to the pot—I rolled my eyes when I saw that one.
Anneke picks one up that reads keukenhanddoek , and I think I catch her smiling as she places it back on the kitchen towel. “You seem to have really made yourself comfortable,” she says after watching me move about the kitchen, setting two mugs down in front of us, a plate of cookies in the center of the table. It’s not an admonition or judgment. Just a fact.
“I have. It’s an easy place to feel at home.”
“I remember Wouter and Roos used to love that window nook over there.” She nods toward it. “One day they were boat captains, and the dogs or birds they saw down below were sea creatures. The next, it was a spaceship, and they were fighting aliens. There was never any arguing. No tears. Sometimes we couldn’t believe they got along that well.”
“They’ve always been close?” I ask, and she nods. “They’re so lucky. I’m the same way with my sister, but—” I break off, unsure how personal I want to get with her.
“It’s hard, being away from your family.” She dips a biscuit into the tea and takes a small bite. “I studied in America when I was in school, too. Michigan—not quite as glamorous as LA.”
“He was disappointed that we weren’t constantly passing celebrities on the street. The one time we did see someone, it was an actor he’d never heard of, and he was so upset with himself. But he was such a sweetheart back then,” I say, trying to think how a parent would like their kid to be described. “So polite, so easy to get along with. I mean—he’s still all those things. We loved having him.”
“I’m sure you did.”
At first I don’t realize it’s a joke because she says it in such a nonchalant way—but then her expression cracks, allowing a smile through. I let myself laugh along with her.
“I adored his art,” I continue, hoping this isn’t a touchy subject. “He could capture people’s expressions so beautifully.”
Anneke goes quiet for a few moments, and I’m worried I’ve said too much. “You probably know we weren’t very supportive about him studying it,” she says. “I knew how much he liked it, but I worried so much. Sometimes I wonder—what if we hadn’t pushed him as hard? Especially when his father got sick, I could tell he struggled to stay on top of his studies.” That vision makes me ache, Wouter the college student up late cramming for a test while his father’s future seemed so delicate. “Then there was all the time he spent taking care of his father, and after he passed…he thought he still needed to take care of the rest of us. Not that we wanted him to ignore us, of course, but Roos is plenty self-sufficient. And as for me”—she motions with her head toward the bathroom—“I picked up some skills from my husband as well.”
“He wants to be needed,” I say, and Anneke gives me a solemn nod.
What she said burrows deep in my heart as a crucial piece of Wouter suddenly becomes clear. He wants so badly to be needed by his family because he’s afraid to want something just for himself.
Anneke’s gaze flicks over to my hand. Without realizing it, I’ve been fiddling with the ring.
“I have to admit, I was a little concerned when he first told us you were getting married. But I was young and in love once, too. I can see how much you care for him, Dani, and I’m very glad you found him again.” She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. “And I hope we can keep getting to know each other, too.”
The words nearly get caught in my throat. “Of course.”
The guilt is an ugly, bitter thing. I give Anneke a tight smile, not unlike when Roos asked for confirmation of my feelings for her brother. Even if it took Anneke a little longer to warm up to me, the conclusion is the same: they both believe I love Wouter.
Wouter’s devotion to his family is something I’ve grown to admire. He was willing to do anything to keep this place that holds his dearest memories—even lie, which I know must be very nearly killing him. All because he wants them to see that he’s happy.
And he is, isn’t he? He certainly was last night.
Maybe this is working better than we ever planned.
“How about your parents?” Anneke asks. “Have you talked to them more about our little celebration?”
“Oh—it’s just so expensive,” I manage, feeling like an idiot not to have anticipated this question. Obviously it would strike them as bizarre that my family wouldn’t want to see me get married, even if on paper, I already am. “They wanted to. Really wanted to. They just…couldn’t figure out a way to make it work. But my sister will be here! She and her wife found some cheap tickets.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. We’ll find plenty of ways to make it special, yes?”
I blow out a shaky breath. It occurs to me that despite all the stress of the pipe and Anneke’s surprise visit, I haven’t felt the need to count my breaths today. The anxiety isn’t overwhelming. “Just the fact that all of you will be there—that’s all we really want.”
Then she gives me her most genuine grin yet. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
—
I turn in front of the mirror, trying to see the back of the gown.
“I love that cut on you,” Roos says from a plush couch in front of the dressing room.
Next to her, Iulia nods. “Kind of a vintage vibe.”
“And we’re all just ignoring the giant bow on my ass?”
Roos laughs. “I think it’s cute!”
“Like your ass is a present,” Iulia puts in.
I let out a groan, twisting to catch the zipper. “This is a no.”
I tried to put off shopping for my not–wedding dress as long as I could, but I was no match for Roos’s enthusiasm. If I were in LA, I’d probably have come here with a gaggle of bridesmaids, pressured to return the favor for the women whose weddings I’d been in. Even if it’s been a while since I could call them friends.
So I take photos to send to Phoebe, because I’m not sure I can get fake-married in a dress my sister doesn’t love.
Roos leaps up to help me with the zipper while Iulia waits nearby with the hanger.
“It’s a bit anticlimactic, isn’t it?” I say as I step out of a mess of chiffon and satin. “Since we’re already married?”
“Maybe a teeny bit.” Roos holds up her thumb and forefinger. “But how many times in your life do you get to shop for a wedding dress?”
I have to speak through partially gritted teeth. “Hopefully just once.”
One thing I didn’t realize is that this friendship with Roos, just like my marriage, has an expiration date. I have a feeling most people don’t remain close with their exes’ siblings, even if the marriage was fake. However close we get—that all ends the moment we sign the divorce papers.
It doesn’t even end with Roos. Iulia, too—my guilt over the number of people we’re fooling continues to climb.
As I sort through the rack of dresses, I catch Roos and Iulia laughing as they try on increasingly ridiculous veils. Iulia bats her lashes at Roos, dramatically attempting to cast off a long veil before her hair gets tangled and Roos reaches forward to help. I take longer than I should to put on the next dress, not wanting to interrupt them.
“That color completely washes you out,” Roos says when I reappear in a ghostly white. “I like that silhouette, though. I think I saw it in a couple other colors—let me go grab them.”
While Roos heads to the front of the store, I turn to Iulia. This is the first time she and I have been semi-alone since the boat tour.
“Iulia,” I start. “I feel like I might need to explain some things—”
But she holds up a hand, gives me a swift shake of her head. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t know? Because…I really like Roos. And you, obviously. I don’t want to have to lie to her.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “And I don’t want to put you in that position. I swear.”
She must be able to tell how awkward this makes me feel, because she jumps to her feet and wraps me in a quick hug. “Hey. It’s okay. No judgment from me, I promise.”
“God, you’re almost being too nice to me.”
I mean it as a joke, but Iulia takes it seriously. “I know expat life isn’t always easy,” she says in her matter-of-fact way. “There were a few people who helped me out when I first got here, so I just…wanted to pass that along.”
That only makes me hug her tighter.
A saleswoman sees us embracing and swoops in with a box of tissues. “I know it can be a very emotional time,” she says, and Iulia and I fight a laugh as we each accept one.
Roos returns with her arms full of tulle, and Iulia tells us about one of her colleagues who just got fired for breaking into the Dam Fine office after hours and taking one of the boats for a joyride. Her manager found it crashed into the dock the next day, littered with liquor bottles. “So if you know anyone with boating experience or even someone who’s a quick learner, let me know.”
“I’m almost impressed,” Roos says. “It’s so hard to get fired here.”
“I got fired. Before I left the US.”
Both of them whirl to look at me. “Unexpected and intriguing,” Roos says, tapping her nails on her chin.
There’s a moment when I debate sharing it with them. It’s never an easy thing, unpacking your trauma for new people, but I like this feeling of closeness. I want to cling to it as long as I can.
After I’ve told the whole sordid story, Iulia shouts, “Fuck him!” a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a few other women browsing the shop. A wince as she lowers her voice to a whisper: “Sorry. Fuck him.”
This was what I wanted when I told my friends, I realize. How is it that people this far from home can understand me better than people who knew me for years? Is it just that I’ve already become someone different here, that thing I was aching to be?
“I can’t believe you got fired for that. Everyone wants dirty details about their coworkers,” Roos says, and when Iulia lifts her eyebrows, she amends: “Fine, most people.”
“It wasn’t my finest hour, but you know what? I don’t regret it.” When the words leave my mouth, I’m surprised to find that they’re true. “Maybe it was childish, but I don’t regret it.”
“Because all of it brought you back to your one true love!” Roos says.
Iulia plucks another dress from the rack, a red so dark it verges on merlot. When I lift my eyebrows at her, she holds up a hand. “Don’t judge yet! I know it’s a bit nontraditional, but this one is speaking to me.”
I decide to humor her. The dress is a light gauzy material overlaid with lace, a dramatic V neckline that’s mirrored in the back, and though it’ll need to be hemmed quite a bit, it instantly feels like the most elegant thing that’s ever touched my skin.
Maybe in reality it’s a shade or two off, but from a distance, it’s the same color as my birthmark. It doesn’t try to mask it or pretend it’s not there. It emphasizes it. I bring a hand to my cheek, this part of me that I always wanted to hide.
All of us gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I imagine Wouter seeing me in this dress. The way it dips down low and emphasizes the curve of my hips, but most of all, how happy I look in it.
“That’s it,” Roos says on an exhale. “That’s the one.”