What Happens in Amsterdam

Chapter Twenty-Two

Twenty-two

My new favorite way to wake up: Wouter, softly nudging me after spending the night tangled in my bedsheets. His nose in the crook of my neck, mouth on my shoulder. I’m already mostly lucid; now that we’re closer to daylight savings, the mornings are much brighter. A dramatic difference from when I got here in the dead of winter. George is cuddled on my other side, having jumped on the bed sometime in the middle of the night.

“I have a surprise for you later,” Wouter says into my ear. “Think of it as a pre-wedding gift.”

“I thought we told your family no gifts,” I mumble.

He kisses my temple. “But this is from me.”

Dam Fine Boat Tours wound up interviewing me on the spot yesterday. It was just the first step of the process, but I left feeling giddy, like I’d said everything I wanted to. I admitted I’d never captained a boat before but I was eager to learn, and that I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend my waking hours than showing people the most beautiful parts of Amsterdam.

The more pressing issue on my mind, though: the wedding is tomorrow.

I’m jittery about it all day as I pick up my port-wine dress, freshly altered. Phoebe and Maya took a day trip to a windmill village called Zaanse Schans, and I want to let them enjoy their vacation. Plus, my parents have been quieter than usual. They skipped our usual Sunday call, told me they were busy and that we’d talk next week.

Still, I could use a distraction.

So in the early evening, I meet Wouter at a pottery studio on the first floor of an old house in the Jordaan. Ceramic tiles are displayed in the front window, some of them in the traditional Dutch style, swirls of blue on white backgrounds. Others are more abstract, more modern.

“I thought we could paint our own tiles.” He suddenly looks sheepish, a hand on the back of his neck, as though unsure this was a good idea after all. “It’s time to redo the backsplash in the kitchen, and this way…the apartment could be a piece of both of us.”

“That—sounds great,” I say, swallowing back the emotion.

And in theory, it does. It’s only about 15 x 15 centimeters, a small square of shiny clay. But this new backsplash, this imprint I make on the apartment…it’s only temporary.

I was an idiot, thinking I could do casual without it amplifying my affection for him. It’s too easy to close my eyes and let myself fall, no matter how high the cliff is.

The painting itself is soothing, but I’m still too stuck in my thoughts. I don’t want the tile to represent me in any way, don’t want him to be forced to think about me long after I’m gone. I decide on a teapot, since he loved tea long before he liked me, and that feels safe. Next to me, Wouter mixes blues and greens for water, darker hues for shadows. The view from the window in his apartment.

In the end, both our tiles are lovely but imperfect. The instructor collects our pieces to put them in the kiln and tells us we’ll be able to pick them up next week.

After we leave the class, we wander the narrow alleyways, the unseasonably warm evening doing its best to soothe my residual nerves.

“It’s going to be okay, right?” I ask, and I have to clarify because of course, Wouter does not live inside my brain. “The wedding. I know it’s basically just a party, but…”

“They already like you,” he says. Reassuring. Solid. “You don’t have to prove anything. And you’re feeling good about this job opportunity?”

“Better than I have in months.” The honest truth. “Of course, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me that worries I won’t be good at it, but I’ll cross that bridge if I get to it, et cetera. Literally,” I say, gesturing to our feet.

“I have zero doubts that whatever you decide to do—because it’s not just something that happens to you; you get to be in charge—you’re going to be incredible at it.”

“I don’t know,” I say, because my first urge is always to avoid accepting a compliment, even if it’s something I desperately want. “Remember, I’m the girl who flooded her apartment and escaped a failing company within the same week.”

But he remains steadfast. “You moved here and immediately wanted to take everything in. You’re learning a hard language. You don’t hold yourself back from enjoying something new. You think you don’t have ambition? Because I think you have more than most people I know. You’ve always been looking for a passion that felt like you , and you weren’t going to stop until you found it. What you were saying about this being your weakness, the way you’ve jumped from thing to thing? It’s my favorite thing about you, the way you approach it all with an honesty and open-mindedness, this pure sense of joy .”

Not aimlessness. Not wasted potential.

I’ve never heard myself described this way.

My voice is shaky when I say, “Like when I said yes to marrying you?”

“You can joke, but…” He waves an arm at the scene in front of us, the quaint bridge and tilted houses. There isn’t a single street corner that isn’t photo-worthy. “I love seeing this place through your eyes. Watching you fall in love with it makes me feel so fucking lucky to have a front-row seat.”

I want to tell him it’s so much more than that. Somehow he’s seen me so plainly when I never meant to show that much of myself.

He moves closer, places a hand on mine. “I know you said you were a late bloomer,” he continues, clearly determined to undo me with his words, “and obviously I am not an objective source, but…I think you’re blooming at exactly the right time.”

“Maybe both of us are.” I go quiet for a moment, and then: “You know, for someone who proposed that spontaneously, you’re a very good husband.”

I’m not expecting this to affect him, but it makes him pull back, brows creased with concern. The moonlight illuminates the yearning on his face. “Is that all you want me to be?”

“No.” I say it without hesitation, because it’s been the truth for weeks, hasn’t it? “I’ve been trying to rationalize it a hundred different ways, but…”

He gives me a soft smile. “I think I left rational behind a few months ago.”

I close the space between us as he bends down, the two of us exhaling into each other. My nose bumping his. Lips brushing for a stretch of an instant.

Maybe it can truly be as simple as that.

“I have all the admiration in the world for you,” I say. “And maybe that doesn’t sound romantic, but I need you to know that it is. Watching you with your family and friends, with George, seeing what you do for work, the way you care for the apartment, even the way you make your tea—you just turned out to be a really wonderful person. It doesn’t hurt that I’m a little obsessed with your hands, too. And your arms. And your mouth.” I touch his lips as I say this, feeling them curve into a grin. “I’m just—I’ve been very good at denial,” I say, which makes him laugh a little. “But it’s been a while since it felt like pretending. Unless you’re an even better actor than I thought.”

“A terrible actor,” he says. “This whole time. Absolutely terrible.”

I let my eyes fall shut, trying to imagine it. The two of us, giving this a fair shot. I want to believe that we could be good at it, and even if I’ve never done serious, it has to mean something that I want him like this.

With him, I would try my fucking hardest.

He wraps me in his arms, holding me close. This time when he kisses me, it’s not for anyone else. Not for show.

“Wouter,” I say into his chest, “take me home.”

—

“I lied earlier,” he says after we’ve walked George, a long one during which he tried to play with an aloof golden retriever and an overly friendly bulldog. “The tile painting—that was a backup panic surprise in case I lost my nerve with the real surprise.”

I’m unsure what to make of that. “Then that was a really great panic surprise.”

He beckons me to follow him into his room. Now he’s a little more anxious, hands twitching. I wait while he rummages for something in a dresser drawer—a sketchbook.

We sit together on the bed while he passes it to me, keeping a hand on the cover for an extra moment. “I may have been a bit rusty. Try not to judge too harshly.” He lets out a long breath. “But…it felt good, getting back to it. First it was just in between patients, and then when you were in class, or I was up late and couldn’t sleep. And…well, you’ll see.”

When I open it up, I’m speechless.

There are sketches of Amsterdam, our little house and the Prinsengracht. The Van Gogh Museum. A field of tulips. George curled up in his spot on the couch, a pile of socks next to him.

Then there are the sketches of a woman—of me . Some are basic line drawings, and it’s taken him a handful of tries to nail my expression, but as I flip the pages, the paper girl slowly becomes more and more familiar.

Before the pages of the book turn blank, there’s a series of portraits that emphasize my birthmark. With paint and colored pencil and ink, he’s turned it into an ocean. A map. A galaxy of glittering stars.

“You inspired me,” he says as I gaze down at it, leaning in close to press his mouth to my neck. “I know they don’t come close to the real thing, but—”

All I can do is kiss him, this man who’s determined to wreck me.

A hand comes to my right cheek, and even though we’ve been far more intimate, he meets my eyes and softly asks, “May I?”

I nod. So, so gently, he runs the tip of his index finger along my birthmark. Beginning above my eyebrow, he follows the shape of it along the side of my nose. Over to my cheek, thumb coming up to graze my cheekbone. I might be holding my breath as he does it.

“You never touched me there. When we were teenagers,” I say.

“I think I was nervous. I didn’t know how you felt about it. If you were insecure.”

“I’m not now—for the most part. I was for a long time, and I used to beg my parents to let me get it lasered, but there was a good chance it would have only lightened it a little.” I cover his hand with mine, my heart in my throat. “I’d love it if people stared a little less, but I really am okay with it.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “Because I’ve always thought it was beautiful. All of you. Gorgeous Danika Dorfman.”

“You know, they call it a port-wine stain because it looks like someone spilled wine over my skin. It’s the same in Dutch, isn’t it?”

“Wijnvlek. Yes,” he says, but then he shakes his head, turning thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s what it looks like at all. More like…your face is a canvas, and someone was mixing all these colors of paint together to find the perfect shade.” Another brush of his fingertips along my cheek. “And this is what they came up with.”

He pulls me into his lap as his hands travel up my back and into my hair. I kiss him hard, my husband turned so much more, until I spot something bright yellow out of the corner of my eye.

The stack of Post-it notes on his nightstand.

I lift myself up to grab them and the nearby pen, scribbling a quick phrase.

Dank je wel , I write, and I stick it on his arm.

He glances down at it before reaching for the stack. I’m still in his lap, so I can see exactly what he writes: mooi , and then places it on my cheek. Beautiful.

I take back the pen and tap it on my chin, racking my Dutch vocabulary. Ge?nspireerd goes on his hand. Inspired .

Proberen hun best , he gives my lungs. Trying their best .

Bekwaam , I put on his mouth with a sly lift of my eyebrows. Competent .

Meer dan bekwaam , he puts on mine. More than competent.

Gevaarlijk — dangerous —has me lifting up his shirt to stick on the trail of hair beneath his navel, and he has to bite back a smile.

Oneerlijk — unfair —goes to my cleavage.

We must already look ridiculous, the Post-its flapping every time we laugh or shift positions.

I borrow his word for me, lief , and I don’t even hesitate before placing it on his heart.

Mijn , he writes, and puts it on my upper thigh.

We kiss in a burst of yellow, scraps of paper fluttering around us as I tug him down on top of me. Somehow it just feels right every time our bodies come together, like we started something years ago and trusted our future selves to finish it.

“I can’t believe how much time we wasted not doing this,” he says, lips trailing down my neck, a hand braced on either side of me.

“Thirteen years?”

“Well, I was thinking ever since you moved in here, but sure. Yes.”

“Last time, you asked me what I like. And then there was the panic surprise, and the surprise surprise…so I need to know. What do you like?” I run my hands down his chest, lingering on his belt buckle. “And don’t just say ‘everything.’?”

A twist of his mouth as he considers this, rolling to one side, propping himself up on his elbow. “There’s a full-length mirror on the back of my door. I’ve wondered…what it might be like to watch ourselves.”

I remember how he took his time undressing me in the bathroom mirror. The hitch of his breath. I can’t tell him yes fast enough.

He unhooks the mirror, and there’s a bit of maneuvering as we position it, ultimately propping it up against a chair so both of us can see our reflections.

“Sit here?” he asks, nudging me in front of him on the bed once we’re both undressed. He slots himself behind me so that the mirror gives him a full view of my body. One of his hands comes around to palm my breast, the other rubbing circles on my hip. Tracing the petals of my tattoo. “I want to see what you look like when you’re touching yourself.”

My throat goes dry at his words, but there’s no hesitation as I spread my legs wide. I want him to see everything he wants, at every angle. “Only if you tell me what to do,” I say, and he hardens against my lower back.

His reflection grins. Wicked. “I can do that.” As I settle myself against him, he turns thoughtful, as though choosing his instructions carefully. “Lick your fingers,” he says in a low voice. “And start teasing yourself. Slower—I know you can get greedy.”

I can’t resist a little whine at that, but I make myself pull back. With my middle finger, I stroke gently along my lips, that slight back and forth already drawing out a shudder. “Like this?”

In the mirror, he gives me a nod. Presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Fuck, this view. Look how pretty your pussy is.”

His legs are bracketing mine, and not unlike when I was in his lap at the bar—but so much better—I can feel every vibration of his body. Every breath. It’s incredible to be this open with him. There’s no part of myself I’m trying to hide, and maybe his fantasy is mine too, because there’s something intensely erotic about being ready to watch ourselves like this.

He nudges my head to one side to expose my neck, mouth landing in the soft skin there. “God, you’re perfect. Put your finger inside. Tell me how wet you are.”

“So wet.” I gasp at the slippery sound between my thighs. “Dripping. Just for you.”

He groans, sucking at my neck while he watches me in the mirror, pink and swollen and glistening. I lift my hand away for just an instant, panting and already missing the heat, but it’s worth it for the way his eyes flutter shut when I bring a finger to his mouth.

“Can you handle two fingers?” he asks, a new confidence in his voice. “Can you fuck yourself with two fingers for me?”

For me . Those two words somehow do more than any of the others. There’s something undeniably tender about having him this way and knowing it doesn’t have to be an either-or. Dirty and sweet. Wholesome and depraved. Everything in between.

It occurs to me in this moment that he could ask me for anything and I’d do it. I’d get absolutely filthy for him and love every second.

I slide two fingers inside, nearly arching off the bed with the pleasure of it. I’m gripping his arm gripping my thigh, a deep flush spreading across my face, down to my neck, between my breasts.

“So goddamn sexy. I could watch you like this all day.” He sinks his teeth into my shoulder, and I cry out at the sensation. “Rub your clit. You’re dying for it, aren’t you?”

“ Yes ,” I manage, feathering my touch exactly where I need it.

With his cock shoved against my tailbone and his teeth in my skin, I’m not sure how much longer I can last—or how much longer I can wait to undo him. My legs are shaking, fingers quick, head thrown back.

“I—I’m going to come.”

“Yeah? Let me hear you.”

Everything tightens, my vision shrinking to the size of a pinprick before I fall apart with a delirious gasp, a burst of incandescence as he crests the wave with me, kissing my neck and my shoulder and the back of my head. He murmurs words like “beautiful” and “perfect” and “Dani. Dani. ”

But we’re not done.

I push forward just as he grabs hold of my hips, helping me down onto all fours. His knees press hard into the mattress. In an instant, he’s filling me, burying himself between my thighs, and here’s another first: this position.

“Good?” he asks, slowly moving himself backward before plunging in again.

“ Very .”

He watches my breasts bounce in the mirror while he fucks me from behind, an awed but fiercely determined expression on his face. Stunning . I flex my back to take him deeper. Slant my hips backward. There’s a hard line of tension from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, and I’m still so dazed from my orgasm that every thrust feels explosive. It’s almost too much, in the best possible way. I close my eyes before realizing I don’t want to miss a moment of it—not when he sucks on a finger before teasing it along the seam of my ass. Not when he reaches around to stroke my clit with his other hand, yellow squares of paper in complete disarray all around us.

Just like that, I’m close again. And he knows it.

“Come with me, lief,” he says, and our eyes meet in the mirror as he takes us through the final motions, our reflections crazed and sweaty and vulnerable , maybe most of all.

It’s never been like this.

Once we’ve recovered, our bodies sprawled out on the bed, he gently runs his hand through my hair and plucks out a sticky note. Gevaarlijk. Then he continues down my back, landing on my left hip. “Ah. We have to talk about this.”

“I’m surprised you held out this long,” I say, biting back a smile as I turn to face him. “I was drunk and stupid. End of story.”

He can hear the truth in what I’m not saying: that he made such an impact on me that I couldn’t help but immortalize him on my skin.

“Nah, I’m not buying it.” He examines the orange and yellow flowers, slightly faded with age. “You have a Dutch tattoo.”

“As you know, Van Gogh’s art really transcends cultur—”

He cuts me off with his mouth. “You have a Dutch tattoo,” he repeats, and then moves down to kiss it, his lips tracing the ink.

“Then we have to talk about yours, too.”

“This date—my parents’ wedding.” He gestures to the roman numerals on his calf. “I wanted to get something when my dad passed, and I liked the idea of picturing them at their happiest.”

“That’s really lovely.” I give his hand a squeeze before skimming my thumb along the petals on his shoulder. “And this one?”

He swallows hard, eyes not leaving mine. “The California poppy. A few years after I got back. For…what I imagine are obvious reasons.” He covers my hand with his. “Even if I wasn’t ever going to see you again, even if I thought I’d ruined things forever…I wanted a way to remember it all.”

“Did we really each get a flower that symbolized the other person?” My voice nearly breaks.

“In all seriousness,” he says, “you probably should have gotten a tulip.”

It evolves from there, the two of us telling stories of the scars and marks on our bodies, some from the past ten years, some from long before that. There’s this joy in relearning each other as adults, giggling like the teenagers we used to be, those versions of ourselves locked in time and yet still so plainly present. I’d put a concrete wall between myself and joy for so many months that it’s a relief to break it down and let myself fall.

George jumps up into bed, planting himself right between us, licking our arms and our faces like he overheard us laughing and didn’t want to be left out. I love that, too, this little dog who’s whittled my sock collection down to a precious few. “I warned you,” Wouter said a few days ago when I was getting dressed and couldn’t find a matching pair.

When I pull Wouter in for another kiss, my hand lands in the thinning patch on the back of his head.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’m going bald, and I’m no longer in denial about it.”

Without missing a beat, I stroke him there, letting him know it doesn’t bother me. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d look terrible bald.” I pretend to examine him, squinting one eye and framing my fingers like I’m taking a photo. “You have the right head shape. I think you can pull it off.”

He laughs. “Thank you,” he says, dropping his forehead to my bare shoulder and kissing along the pink marks he left earlier. “I’ve gone through my whole life assuming my head shape was completely normal, nothing to brag about. But now that I know it’s special, this changes everything.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You bring it out in me.”

“Are you trying to tell me you never sit around with your friends discussing the shape of each other’s heads? Because that goes against everything I know about Dutch culture so far.”

“Danika,” he says, his tone serious, indicating he’s no longer joking. “I mean it. I love being ridiculous with you. I love being anything with you. I think…I think I’m the brightest version of myself when I’m with you.”

In that moment, the words I’ve been running from for thirteen years cross my mind without hesitation.

I could love you again, I think. Maybe I already do .

—

Later, once we’re on our third cups of tea, after we’ve showered and dressed in our coziest pajamas, we settle in on the couch with a couple flickering candles on the table next to us, just about as gezellig as I can imagine. Even when he accidentally sips from my mug and nearly spits it out.

“This is how much sugar you’ve been putting in your tea?” he says, incredulous but amused, and I give him my most innocent smile.

When he reaches for the remote, I’m shocked by how comfortable it feels, watching TV with my boyfriend—if that’s what he is. We haven’t put words to it, but maybe since we’re already legally bound, there’s no need.

“What do you think?” he asks, lingering on Seinfeld . “For nostalgia’s sake?”

“I haven’t watched any of this…since you lived with us.”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “I’ve watched a bit over the years.”

“Because you missed me,” I say in a teasing lilt.

“Because it was funny,” he insists. “And because I missed you.” He scrolls through the seasons, the titles blurring together in a mix of laugh tracks and iconic lines. “Which episode?”

I point at the screen when he gets to season five. “That one. ‘The Marine Biologist.’ One of George’s best.”

As though summoned by his namesake, George Costanza leaps onto the couch.

And then the three of us watch this very American sitcom in this very Dutch apartment.