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Chapter one

2018

Corrie

The hum of the Nespresso machine percolating the coffee is the white noise my mind craves, albeit momentarily. Dark, aromatic drops, then a thin stream, fill the promotional cup from some construction company. I don’t care that it has a hairline crack along its side—not big enough to make it unusable, yet enough for the dark colour of beverages to have seeped in. It’s a reminder that almost doesn’t equal exactly. Much like relationships.

I smile bitterly to myself for finding metaphors in the most banal things, wondering how long it will be before the crack in mine and Johan’s grows large enough for us to call it quits. Or at least for me, since I’m more and more certain those disagreements that stem from trivialities and escalate into drama-drenched fights are his fuel. That he likes pointing out wrongs, magnifying them, so that by belittling—belittling me—he seems bigger, stronger. That every round of such disputes is like a boosting shot. Like this coffee I desperately need, so I can keep my mind focused on something mundane by keeping my hands busy a little longer.

As I rummage through the fridge for my carton of goat milk, hoping its flavour has deterred my colleagues from using it if the sticky note claiming ownership isn’t enough, I start whistling one of my favorite songs. Its naughty playfulness proves perfect for lifting my spirits. For a little while, my mind drifts off to images of someone driving across town; to young individuals flirting and swinging to music in a bar; to a couple impatient to rid each other of their clothes and boots.

So I almost jump out of my skin when I hear the voice singing the lyrics of the melody I’ve been whistling. I turn just as the machine stops and come face-to-face with a tall figure leaning against the doorjamb, smiling at me, hazel eyes crinkling with barely-there wrinkles on that young, twenty-something face.

‘Have we added a new feature to the show?’ His teasing tone is belied by the slight flush on his face, and I search for something to say—something that will sound intelligent and mature, something befitting a thirty-plus woman—but come up short, bedazzled by this fine male specimen.

‘Coffee?’ I offer, holding out the mug meant for me.

‘Sure! Always a good idea.’ He takes a sip, half-closing his eyes, then opens them slowly to add, as an afterthought, ‘Nice whistling.’

I hope he doesn’t notice my flushed face when I reply, ‘Makes up for forgotten words.’

He chuckles. ‘Still nice.’

‘Thank you.’ My words overlap his identical ones as he takes the mug.

He reaches out, and our fingers briefly touch. It takes effort not to pull back, as if hit by a surge of static that feels painfully nostalgic. I can’t help the sadness—about what was, what Johan and I had but is now buried under unease and discomfort, and about what might have been, astonishingly, with a man I have just met and will probably not see again. A man who is now looking into my eyes as if he wants to move in permanently.

‘One day, I’ll write a song you’ll whistle to.’

I love his conviction, and partly because I don’t want to rain on his parade, partly because I want the conversation to continue, I reply, ‘I am very much looking forward to it.’

‘You’re not from here, right?’

I see in his knitted brows that he’s trying to guess where I’m from, much like I am with him. From his Southern American drawl, although not heavily accented, I’m guessing he’s with the country music band playing tonight, but his face doesn’t match any on the poster.

‘Almost right. American mom, Dutch dad.’

‘Really?’ His face lights up, as if he’s made a delightful discovery. ‘American dad of Dutch descent.’ He swallows hard before adding, ‘Dutch mom. I’m Luuk Meiers, by the way.’

It’s my turn to smile at the coincidence. ‘So you’re also half-om-half? Sorry, my boyfriend keeps teasing me about it, so I guess it stuck. Corrie Dekker,’ I add, realizing I’ve left his proffered hand hovering.

‘Corinne?’ he guesses.

‘Coraline,’ I reply.

‘Like the film?’

‘Actually, it was the book. Mom’s a huge fan of Neil Gaiman, which is why she never complained when I watched the film on repeat for months.’ I surprise myself by elaborating, but he seems as eager to listen as I am to share.

‘I’ll have to watch it again,’ he says, as if it’s a duty he’s neglected, wrapping his fingers around my hand.

An almost familiar warmth replaces the relief of his firm handshake. It’s not just about the right amount of strength—not limp, not bone-crushing—but something more when our palms touch. He seems to share the sentiment too, because his smile shifts into something like surprise. The touch lingers, as do our locked gazes, neither of us wanting to break the contact—or the connection—but I decide to play the older-and-wiser card and move to neutral ground.

‘Are you with the band? Always nice to have some good ol’ country at Melkweg.’

His smile widens. ‘We’re just opening for them. Me, my bass player and my fiddle player. Will you be here for the show?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He seems genuinely disappointed, so I feel compelled to explain. ‘It’s my dad’s birthday, so it’ll be next time. Hopefully soon.’