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I take his hand. Not the phone. His hand.

He looks at our hands. Then at me.

"Okay," he says.

I pull him in… properly, right there in the arrivals hall, arms around him, his face against my neck. He goes still for a second and then his arms come around me and we stand like that in the middle of Schiphol on a Sunday morning and I hold on.

"I'm sorry," I say. Into his hair. "You didn't ask for any of this."

"Neither did you," he says.

"I put it there. My photos. My Instagram."

"Patrick." He pulls back just enough to look at me. "I was there because I was there. I don't regret being there."

I look at him. At the Jan steadiness, someone who has decided something and is not moving from it.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay," he says.

We walk out into the Sunday morning Amsterdam light and I don't let go of his hand.

The drive back is quiet.

We take an Uber. I sit beside Jan with my crew bag between my feet and my phone in my hand and I read.

I read all of it.

this timeline makes no sense

someone said they broke up months ago is that true

Maya liked one of his posts last week btw, she's fine

that doesn't mean she's fine it means she's dignified

I put the phone down.

Jan glances at me. Says nothing. His hand is on his knee. I put mine over it. He turns his palm up and holds mine.

We drive through Amsterdam in the Sunday morning quiet. The canal coming into view as we turn onto his street. The trees, the bikes, the light off the water. The city doing its ordinary thing around us, indifferent and beautiful.

"They think I cheated," I say.

"Some of them," Jan says.

"I didn't. Maya ended it. She was the one who saw it first and said it out loud and had the courage to do what I couldn't." I look at the canal. "She shouldn't have to read this."

"No," Jan says quietly. "She shouldn't."

"Patrick." He squeezes my hand. "I know."

I look at the canal. "They found your name."

"Yes."

"They're writing things about you."