Entangled in Lust

19. Between Us and The Past

There’s a phase after a breakup that nobody talks about. It’s not the crying-in-the-rain phase. It’s the rotting-in-bed phase.

Three days after Dave picked me up from the hotel and dropped me home, I hadn’t left my room. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the world. A tower of delivery boxes—most of their contents untouched—piled up on the corner of my desk. My laptop lay dead on the floor, containing a draft of Chapter 3 of my thesis that I hadn’t touched in two weeks.

The room smelled bad. Dirty laundry. Old food. The diffuser had run out days ago. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, counting the water stains. In my head, Lucas’s toxic words were still looping on loop. "Family like yours... damaged goods... mistress..."

The suffocating feeling came back, squeezing my throat. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was shame. A deep, gnawing shame that maybe he was right. Maybe I was unlovable because my family was broken.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Not a polite tap. A pounding. "Cell, open up."

Dave. I pulled the duvet over my head. "Go away." "I didn't ask." Pause. "I got the spare key from the landlady. I'm counting to three. One... two..." Click.

The door swung open before the count of three. Sunlight from the hallway invaded my cave, stinging my eyes. I groaned, burying my face into a pillow that smelled like old tears and unwashed hair. Dave’s footsteps entered the room. He stopped. My room reeked.

"Oh my God, Marcella," he muttered. "Are you hiding a dead body in here?" I didn't answer.

The sound of curtains being ripped open followed. Swish! Blinding light hit my face. "Get up," Dave ordered.

"No," my voice was muffled by the pillow. "Let me rot."

"Get up, or I’m dumping a gallon of water on you."

I knew he wasn't joking. With a long groan, I sat up. My hair was a bird's nest. My eyes were swollen. My t-shirt had a chili sauce stain from two days ago. Dave stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. Black polo shirt and jeans. He looked clean. Put together. I looked like a disaster.

I couldn't read his expression. "Shower," he said, pointing a finger at the bathroom. "Now." "I don't want to shower. I want to die."

Dave sighed. He walked over, and without warning, he grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. "You're not going to die just because some jerk thinks his last name makes him a god," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "You are Marcella. You have your own name. Now shower. I’m cleaning this hazard zone. If you come out of that bathroom and your hair isn't washed, I’m dragging you back in myself."

I wanted to fight him, but I was too tired to argue. I dragged my feet to the bathroom, dragging my towel with me.

When I walked out twenty minutes later, I felt cleaner but still hollow. My room had changed. The trash mountain was gone. The dirty laundry was in the hamper. The windows were wide open, letting the Jakarta afternoon breeze push out the stale air. On my now-clean desk, there were two bowls of chicken porridge (bubur ayam) and two glasses of warm sweet tea. Dave was sitting in my desk chair, staring at my laptop screen which was now powered on. He was wearing his reading glasses—an old habit I hadn't seen in years.

"Your Chapter 3 is a disaster," he commented without turning around. "Are you writing a theoretical framework or a diary entry? Why are you going in circles like this?"

I sat on the edge of the bed, drying my hair with a towel. "Don't read it," I said weakly. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to fail."

"You are not going to fail," he replied. "That's why we need to fix it." He spun the chair around to face me. "Eat first. The porridge is getting cold."

I stared at the bowl. My stomach turned. "I have no appetite."

"Eat, Cell," his voice softened, but his eyes remained demanding. "Just three spoonfuls. I’m not asking you to finish it."

I obeyed. I picked up the spoon and forced one mouthful. The porridge was from our old favorite spot. Savory, warm, and familiar. Without realizing it, one spoon turned into three, then five, until the bowl was half empty.

Dave watched me eat without saying a word. Once I put the bowl down, he pushed the warm tea toward me. "I emailed your thesis advisor," he said casually.

I choked on my tea. "What? Are you crazy? You can't h****k my email!"

"I can. Your password is still the same as it was in high school. Both our birthdays combined." Dave shrugged. "I told him you’ve had typhoid fever for a week, so you need an extension for the revision."

"Dave! You lied to Professor Bambang?"

"What? Did you want me to tell him the truth? 'Sorry, Professor, but Marcella is busy mourning a guy who called her damaged goods'? No thanks."

I fell silent. My cheeks burned with shame. "Your professor agreed," Dave continued, turning back to the laptop screen. "You have two weeks to fix Chapters 3 and 4. And I’m going to make sure you finish it."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly. "You just got back from Melbourne. You should be having fun. Meeting cool people. Not babysitting your ex-best friend who’s a total mess."

Dave’s fingers stopped typing on the keyboard. He paused for a moment, then looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "Because Lucas was wrong," he said, his voice serious. "You are not damaged goods, Cell. You are brilliant. And I'm not going to let you destroy your future just because one i***t couldn't see your worth."

He was right. "Now come here," Dave patted the empty space on the desk. "Let's dissect this thesis. I want you to graduate c*m Laude just to spite him."

One week passed. Dave showed up every morning at 9 AM. Sometimes he brought nasi uduk, sometimes toast. He’d force me to shower, then drag me to the campus library or a coffee shop. We sat across from each other. Me with my thesis, him with his laptop. He worked on something for his job in Melbourne. He took extended leave, but his boss kept sending emails.

"This is wrong, Cell," Dave pointed at a paragraph on my screen with a pen. "Which classical assumption test are you using? Your data isn't normal if you use this method. Try non-parametric."

I massaged my temples. "My head hurts, Dave. My brain is blocked."

"Your brain isn't blocked. You're just doubting yourself," Dave said, pulling my laptop closer. He started typing something rapidly. "Look at this journal reference. Read the abstract if you're too lazy to read the whole thing."

I watched his side profile as he seriously scanned the journal. The way his brow furrowed when he was thinking. His hands, large but agile, moving across the keyboard. Lucas never cared about my thesis. If I said I was stressed, he’d say, "Why bother? Just hire a ghostwriter. You're going to be my wife anyway." He always made me feel small. Dependent. But Dave made me feel capable. He didn't write my thesis for me. He made me think until I understood it myself.

"See here," Dave pointed at the screen again. "Do you get the difference now?" I nodded, genuinely understanding it this time.

"Yeah. Thanks, Prof."

Dave chuckled. He stretched, glanced at his watch. "It's already 7 PM. No wonder your stomach's protesting."

"I'm not hungry," I lied. Grrrroowl. My stomach betrayed me instantly.

Dave laughed. "Your face can lie, but your stomach can't. Come on, let's get food. I'm craving Taichan in Senayan."

That night, we sat on the sidewalk in Senayan. Thick smoke from grilling satay filled the air. Street musicians played somewhere behind us. Dave ordered 50 skewers for the two of us (he ate 30, I ate 20). He ate heartily, not caring about image, a little bit of sambal smudged on the corner of his lip.

"So..." I finally asked. "Are you back in Jakarta for good? Or are you going back to Melbourne?" I’d been wanting to ask since he showed up. I was afraid to hear the answer.

Dave chewed slowly, then took a sip of his iced orange juice. His eyes gazed out at the gridlocked traffic. "I don't know yet," he answered honestly. "My work visa is still active for another year there. And my boss offered me a promotion to Senior Analyst."

My heart sank a little. "Oh. That's great. The salary must be huge."

"Decent. Enough to buy shares in Lucas’s daddy’s factory," he joked sarcastically. I laughed, a genuine laugh this time. It felt good to laugh at Lucas.

"But..." Dave twirled a used skewer on his plate. "I miss home. I miss the fried rice cart that passes by the house at midnight. I miss Jakarta’s nonsensical traffic." He looked at me. His gaze was soft under the dim yellow streetlights. "And there are things here that... I don't think I'm finished with yet."

Things he isn't finished with. I looked down, pretending to be busy with my skewer.

"Ashley said you dated a blonde girl over there," I said, changing the subject. Stupid. Why was I bringing up his ex? Dave laughed softly.

"Ashley has a big mouth. Yeah, I did. Her name was Chloe. Lasted only six months."

"Why did you break up?"

"Different visions," he answered briefly.

"She wanted me to settle there permanently, become a citizen. I... I couldn't promise her that."

"Why?" Dave looked straight at me.

"Because I left my heart back in Jakarta, Cell. It's hard to live somewhere else when half of you is still here."

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn't dare to hope. I had just failed a three-year relationship. And Dave deserved better than being a rebound.

"Your satay is getting cold," Dave said suddenly, breaking the tension. He grabbed a skewer from my plate and ate it. "Don't waste food." I smiled faintly.

Dave drove me home in his old Honda Jazz. The AC hummed quietly, fighting the humid Jakarta heat. The radio played a slow song, filling the comfortable silence between us. I watched his side profile as he drove. His left hand casual on the steering wheel, right hand shifting gears. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring by. The thought had been gnawing at me all night, and in the safety of this car, I finally let it out.

"You know what hurts the most, Dave?" I whispered, breaking the silence. Dave glanced at me briefly, then back at the road.

"What?"

"It's not that he left," I said, my voice trembling. "It's that he thought I would accept being his mistress. He thinks that since my parents are divorced, I’m just a cheap girl from a 'broken home.' He believes he can hide me away in an apartment while he marries someone else."

The car jerked slightly. Dave's hands gripped the steering wheel tight.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and fierce. He didn't look at me; he was staring intensely at the road. "Lucas is an i***t. A complete moron."

"But maybe he's right..."

"No!" Dave cut me off sharp. "You are Marcella. You have a great name. You have everything. Don't you ever believe his trash talk. You are not 'damaged' just because of your parents. You are worth more than his entire family combined." He turned to look at me then, looking straight at me. "He tried to make you feel small so he could control you. Don't let him win."

I bit my lip, holding back tears. "I feel so stupid, Dave."

Dave reached out and patted the top of my head—something he used to do back in school. A gesture that meant I've got you. "You're not stupid. You just loved the wrong person," he said softly. "Now dry those tears. We have Chapter 4 to conquer tomorrow."

"Thank you, Dave," I whispered. "For everything."

"You're welcome, Princess."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the window. If this is a dream, don't wake me up yet.