Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-three
Phoebe wraps my hair around a curling wand while she blasts a nostalgia playlist in her hotel room. The dress looks redder beneath the harsh bathroom lighting, my makeup the kind of natural-but-not look that requires at least seven products to achieve, especially after I anxiety-sweated through the first two layers and we had to start again.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” I say as my sister frowns at a strand of hair that won’t cooperate. Maya slipped out to get coffee and give us some privacy. Today doesn’t truly mean anything, not really, aside from Wouter’s family meeting two of my favorite people on this earth and my fierce desire for all of them to like each other.
“Please. Do you remember right before my wedding? I was such a wreck, you had to spoon-feed me cereal because my hands were shaking so badly. Then again…I hadn’t already married her for a Dutch visa.”
“Minor differences.”
In the mirror, Phoebe’s eyes meet mine as she drops her chin to my shoulder. “My little sister’s getting married,” she says, and I’m not expecting the break in her voice. “Kind of. And next week I’ll be home and missing you more than ever.”
Her words hit me like a blast of ice. I’ve loved having her here, but after the baby’s born, and given how expensive flights are…there isn’t going to be an easy time for them to come back. I’ll visit, of course. As much as I can, once I have a steady paycheck—but will that ever feel like enough when I have to go through immigration on both ends? When I need a passport to see my family?
Everything in California will continue to go on without me, and even if that’s always been true, I’ve never been confronted with the reality of it until this moment.
There’s a knock on the hotel room door. “Maya must have forgotten her key,” Phoebe says as she goes to unlock it.
But it’s Wouter, holding a bouquet of tulips and sunflowers and poppies.
My knees turn to melted butter.
A navy suit clings to his broad shoulders, sunlight from the open window catching the auburn undertones in his blond hair. From his cornflower blue shirt to his polished cognac shoes, from his paisley-printed tie to the gleam of his belt buckle, he is an absolute dream in formalwear.
It makes me ache for all the school dances we never went to. Too risky, we decided, opting instead for an innocent night of bowling or arcade games.
“You don’t want to find out if prom is really like a John Hughes movie?” I asked him once, after we toasted with milkshakes and watched the sunset at Venice Beach. “I’d hate for you to miss out on the quintessential American experience.”
We both knew it was corny when he leaned in and said, “ You are my quintessential American experience,” the sky’s reds and purples reflected in his glasses, his eyes lit with the purest admiration. It’s the same way he’s looking at me now, with all the wisdom of an adult and the awe of seventeen.
“Are you trying to kill me with that dress?” he asks, failing to bite back a smile.
An instant calm washes over me as I smooth down one of his lapels. “It’s a good thing we never went to prom together. I don’t think we’d have been able to behave.”
“Do I need to leave the room?” my sister asks.
“We’ll be good,” Wouter says as he guides me into a spin to show off the dress, though the quirk of his brow promises something else entirely.
It’s one of the last perfect moments of the day.
—
Maya returns and we all down our coffees, and then Roos shows up with George, looking dapper in a little bow tie. Wouter rented a car for us all to drive down to Culemborg, and he plays us some Dutch pop music on the radio as Maya balances a hand on her belly and says, “This is more than I’ve ever felt her dance.”
Wouter’s mother wanted us to be the guests of honor, the last people to show up, and the house is ready for us: a few other cars in the driveway, GEFELICITEERD spelled out in a banner above the front door. There’s some noise from the backyard, and I wave to Sanne and Thomas and Evi and Bilal through the fence. Iulia’s there, too, along with what I’m guessing are some family friends.
“Welkom, goeiedag,” Anneke says when she opens the door, looking chic but not too overdressed in a sweater and long skirt. Wouter’s grandmother Maartje is next to her, her white hair a little curlier than last time, as though she’s just returned from the salon. After a flurry of introductions and some treats for George, they wrap their arms around my sister and coo over Maya’s baby bump. “So good to meet you both. We’re honored that you’re here.” Then, to Wouter and me: “Everyone’s out back, but take your time. There’s no rush—I’m still getting snacks out of the oven.”
“Thank you so much. For everything,” I tell her in Dutch.
Anneke squeezes my hand. “Wat mooi, Danika,” she says, and in that moment, I can’t believe I was ever nervous. She’s a proud mother, hugging her son and kissing his cheeks, trying to sneak in a ruffle of his hair. “I didn’t know he had anything this nice in his closet,” she adds with a laugh, and the rest of us join in. “Clearly you’re a good influence.”
The doorbell rings as we’re moving into the living room, and when George barks, Roos gives him a half-hearted shush, as though trying to convey that she is fully in charge of the dog today.
“But you’re still my perfect boy,” she whispers.
“Isn’t this everyone?” Wouter asks, craning his neck to see who’s in the backyard. “Maybe it’s a neighbor concerned about the noise. You told the group chat we were having a party, right?”
His mother checks her watch. “We’re expecting two more.”
And then I think the ground might give way beneath me.
Because on the other side of the door, looking all at once baffled and furious and jet lagged, are my parents.
No fucking way.
I have to blink a few times to make sure it’s really them. That my anxiety hasn’t conjured up some worst-case scenario. But no, Sharon and Bill Dorfman are standing on the Van Leeuwens’ front steps, my father in the LA Dodgers cap he’s had for at least ten years, and my mother similarly casual in jeans and a white blouse.
“What are you—” Panic rises in my throat. Wars with the tightness in my lungs. “How did you—”
My parents are here. In the Netherlands.
At a celebration for a marriage that isn’t real, even if it’s started to feel that way.
I’ve never really liked end-of-the-world movies because I couldn’t ever picture that intermediate step, what happens before our world becomes a wasteland incapable of supporting human life.
In this moment, I understand them completely. Because this, I am certain, is how the apocalypse begins.
Phoebe is just as shocked, reaching out to grab my hand and holding on a bit too tight. “Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit,” she says under her breath. On my other side, Wouter’s been stunned into silence.
My father locks their rental car while Anneke beckons them inside. They look the same as they did when I waved goodbye to them in January, if a little ruffled by the travel. Maybe when he takes off his hat, I can see my father’s hairline has retreated a bit more, and my mother has a new dye job, but they’ve brought with them the scent of my childhood home. Familiar .
And terrifying.
“Sweetheart, we missed you so much,” my mother says as she wraps me in a hug. “You look fantastic.”
“Sharon. Bill,” Wouter says, finding his voice before I do, and I can tell he’s trying his best to stay calm. His palm finds my lower back—a reassuring warmth. “It’s so good to see you again.”
The strained smiles they give him in response make me wistful for our alternate timeline, the one where my family visits him in the Netherlands the way we always planned. The one where we all remain close. They’ve certainly never regarded him with this much trepidation; they only ever welcomed him with open arms.
We’re supposed to treat him like a member of the family.
“Wouter. Did you get even taller?” A classic dad joke, and yet there’s no amount of humor in it.
Anneke shines her brightest grin before launching into the explanation I’ve been waiting for. “We invited them! Roos and me. We thought, this is such an important day, they ought to celebrate with us.” Then she stage-whispers to me: “We told them it was going to be a surprise for you. Isn’t that exciting?”
“I snooped through your phone for your parents’ number,” Roos puts in. “I hope you don’t mind! Also, you should really change your password.”
There’s too much chaos between my ears. All the nerves feel like they might finally burst from my chest in some kind of anxiety confetti, and Wouter’s hand on my back is probably the only thing keeping me upright.
My mother’s knuckles tense on the strap of her purse, one of those RFID-blocking bags with industrial locking zippers that she uses only for travel. “I’m sorry to do this when you’ve clearly put so much effort into this party, but we need to have a word with our daughter.” At first I assume this means she wants a quiet moment, but she turns to me with the same intensity as when she demanded my schools let me waive gym class, or when I slept over at a new friend’s house and she wanted to make sure their parents knew about my fragile lungs. A fierce protector—or so I thought.
“Danika Hope Dorfman,” she says, my middle name the eternal reminder of my first few months in the hospital, “you are not getting married.”
An earsplitting silence rings through the house. Even the people chattering out in the backyard seem to stop, a dozen curious pairs of eyes swiveling toward the scene inside.
As though to protest the quiet, George lets out a low howl, and Roos scoops him into her arms.
My chest tightens, everything taking far too long for me to piece together. Wouter’s mother contacted my parents. Told them about the wedding they had no idea had happened. Invited them to this party.
And now they’re here, though obviously not to celebrate—to drag me back to my senses.
“We didn’t want to do this,” my father continues. “But as soon as we heard from Wouter’s mother, we thought it might be the only way. We had to get on a plane and make sure you heard from us in person.”
With a Pilates-toned arm, my mother grips my shoulder with enough strength to tug me away from Wouter, like we’re some modern-day Jets vs. Sharks. “Was this what you planned all along? Was this why you picked Amsterdam?”
“What— no ,” I say emphatically. “We only bumped into each other back in January. We hadn’t been in touch.”
Her voice turns pleading. “We’re just trying to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life. I know you were going through a rough time at home, and maybe this seems romantic…but for Christ’s sake, you can’t—you can’t just run off to Europe and get married .”
Then, as though she’s understood the whole conversation or at least the most important parts, Maartje declares in her accented English, “They are already married.”
Everything feels suspended in time for a long, painful moment—before the room erupts into noise.
The horror on my parents’ faces matches the confusion on Anneke’s and Roos’s as they hurl shouts and accusations, none of them having the whole truth but all of them eager to conjure their own versions of it. I shrink back against the wall. Count breaths like my life depends on it, because maybe it does . Four. Seven. Eight. Fuck, I need more numbers.
With everyone talking over one another, Wouter bends to rub my back again. “We’re going to figure this out,” he says softly, and the concern on his face is underscored with something else. A steady determination. “We’ll be okay, lief.”
I lean into his touch, wishing it could be as simple as he makes it sound. I find anchors to ground myself: the circular motion of his fingertips. My sister’s familiar clean-linen perfume. “What if we just run away? Right now? We could catch a train to France. We’d be there in, what, three hours?”
“As tempting as that is,” he says, “I think they might notice we’re gone.”
Then my mother reaches for my hand, holding it up to inspect the wedding ring and looking as though she might faint.
“Mom. Dad,” Phoebe is saying, keeping her voice level and trying to play peacemaker. “Maybe we should all just take a moment and calm d—”
“No, I don’t think it’s time to calm down at all!” my father says. His jaw is set, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell us you aren’t married, Dani. Tell us you didn’t rush into this gigantic decision without telling anyone. Please.”
“I…” This wasn’t how they were supposed to find out. They weren’t supposed to find out at all, and that was the beauty of it. “It wasn’t rushed. We spent a lot of time talking about it,” I say feebly, though it’s not exactly true.
“You barely know him! You two were kids when he lived with us,” my mother says, and the word stings. Kids . As though nothing we did back then could be considered serious. “That was almost fifteen years ago. He might as well be a stranger!”
Anneke places a hand on Wouter’s arm. “What’s wrong with my son?”
“Nothing. I’m sure he’s grown into a fine young man,” my father says. “But our daughter doesn’t know what she’s doing. She clearly wasn’t thinking when she decided to marry some guy on the other side of the world.”
“It wasn’t just her,” Wouter says, coming to my defense, because my father makes it sound like I tripped and stumbled into marriage. To some guy , and not the kind and caring Dutchman who used to be our foreign exchange student. “It was both of us. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Your parents didn’t know? But I thought—” Roos’s strawberry hair whips around her face as she shakes her head, unable to process this, and George stretches up to lick her cheek.
“Roos,” I try, my heart aching. “I’m so sorry—”
“This is nonsense.” My mother whips out her phone, as though Google has a simple solution to the problem. “You’re an American citizen. Was it even legal?”
“Yes, it was entirely legal,” Wouter assures her. “I wouldn’t get Danika in any kind of trouble. Not intentionally.”
“Then there has to be a way to undo it,” my father says, and then he’s swiping through his phone too. “Oh—I’m not connected to the Wi-Fi…”
At any other time, this would endear me to my boomer father—the fact that he didn’t account for the nuances of an international phone plan when they decided to storm the castle and save their daughter.
“I was uncertain about it at first, too.” Anneke might be in the worst position of all, needing to defend her family in her own home in front of these complete strangers. The mother-in-law I thought was starting to like me. Except she was never my mother-in-law at all, was she? “They’re young—maybe they’re a little impulsive, but I trust Wouter. They rekindled their relationship, fell back in love, and then got married.”
And if that doesn’t make me feel even worse.
So I do the only thing I can think of. The one thing I’m convinced will calm my parents more than the thought of their daughter getting married without telling them.
I wave my hands frantically to try to get everyone’s attention. “No—we didn’t,” I say, and they all whirl to face me. “I mean, yes, we’re married, but only on paper. That’s all it was ever supposed to be.”
It’s a desperate rescue, poorly planned but entirely necessary.
We’ve kept this up long enough.
The phone slips from my mother’s hands. “Danika. What are you saying?”
I swallow hard, aware of eight pairs of eyes burning into me. “We’re not—we’re not in love.” My gaze flicks to Wouter for just a moment, long enough to clock his reaction: an almost imperceptible recoil before he steels himself once again. As though needing physical proof, I hold out my hand and give the ring a few tugs before it slides off my finger. “It’s a green-card marriage. All of this is fake.”