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"Why."

"Because you—" He stops. Starts again. "You gave me that. Today. Your parents, their house, the stamppot." He looks at the window. "I didn't know I wanted it until I had it."

I hold his hand.

The train moves through the Saturday evening and Amsterdam appears ahead — the city, the lights coming on, the particular shape of it against the sky.

Home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JAN

He has not been to his own apartment in nearly two weeks. I know this because I know his roster and his routines. The last time was briefly, to collect something, and he came back the same evening. If I'm being precise about it, and I am always precise, I think it has been longer than eleven days since he actually slept there. Since the end of May, possibly. His apartment on the Czaar Peterstraat has been his in name only for the better part of the summer. I suspect some of his boxes are still unpacked. I have not asked.

His things are here now — the gym bag, the charger, the tea in the third drawer, the jacket on the hook. None of this was discussed. It simply accumulated, the way things do with Patrick, until one day it was simply true.

I couldn't be happier about it.

This is mildly irritating. I spent years cultivating independence into something approaching a personality trait.

I had systems.

Patrick Sutton appears to have dismantled them one by one.

I find I have no objection.

I find I have opinions about this. Not negative ones.

I go to London for three days — a quarterly review with the European finance group, the tax of being senior enough that people want your time. Patrick flies to New York the same week. We overlap at Schiphol on Tuesday morning, briefly, before heading to our respective departures. He is back in Amsterdam by Wednesday evening. I follow on Thursday.

On the Monday before I leave, I order from Calvin Klein.

Not for myself. I have never been particularly drawn to Calvin Klein — I wear Under Armour, sports cut, black, which is a system that works and that I have not found any reason to revise. Calvin Klein is, in my opinion, primarily a brand that understands marketing.

That said.

Patrick appears to exist primarily to undermine this position.

He could be their model. He is, objectively and without editorial comment, built in a way that makes certain items of clothing look considerably better than they have any right to. I have noted this. I have filed it. I have absolutely no intention of ever saying it out loud. I ordered the basics. Underwear. Socks. The things you need if you are somewhere often enough to stop borrowing. I ordered his size because I know it. Standard items. Nothing remarkable. I had them delivered to the apartment with a note.

For the drawer I cleared. Third from the top.

I did not tell him I was doing this.

I thought about telling him and decided not to. Telling him would make it a moment. I did not want it to be a moment. I wanted it to be a fact — the same way the tea in the third drawer is a fact, the same way the jacket on the hook is a fact. Something that simply is, without ceremony.

I left for London on Tuesday morning.

He texts me from the apartment on Wednesday afternoon. He has been back from New York since the morning.

There's a Calvin Klein package here.

I am in a meeting. I read it under the table.

It's addressed to me.

Another message, thirty seconds later: Jan.