Chapter 1: Sun, Water and Sin
The sun on the Jakarta rooftop was a physical weight, a heavy gold pressing my shoulders into the lounger. I adjusted the strap of my one-piece, the navy fabric suddenly feeling as thin as tissue paper under Ben’s gaze. It tracked me, that gaze, a slow, warm sweep from the damp tendrils of hair at my neck, down over the curve of my waist, to where the suit cut high on my thighs. I knew what he saw. A good Muslim girl from Bekasi, and the sinful swell of hip I’d prayed to be rid of as a teenager.
My towel, a thick white rectangle of hotel cotton, slipped from my lap again for the third time. It pooled on the hot tiles between our chairs.
“Oops,” I said, the word a feathery, useless thing. I leaned over, slow, letting the position strain the fabric across my back.
“I got it.” His voice was closer than I expected. He was already there, kneeling, his shadow falling over my legs. He didn’t hand it to me. He draped it over the arm of my chair, his fingers lingering, brushing the skin just above the suit’s low back. A spark shot straight down my spine, a fuse lit.
“Thank you,” I murmured, not looking at him. The city hummed thirty floors below, a distant, righteous echo. Up here, there was only the glitter of the pool, the laugh of a European woman at the bar, and the cool, clean scent of him—sunscreen and something cedar-like.
“It’s brutal today,” Ben said, settling back into his chair. He took a sip of his Bintang, condensation wetting his fingers. “You’re from here, though. You’re used to it.”
“Used to the heat,” I said. “Not always used to this.” I gestured vaguely at the oasis around us, the infinity edge bleeding into smoggy sky.
“The luxury?” He smiled. It was a good smile, easy, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes that suggested he used it often. “Or the swimming with strange Americans?”
“Both.” I finally turned my head to look at him. The sun lit the fine gold hairs on his forearm. “It feels… separate. From my real life.”
“What’s your real life like, Cynthia?”
The question was genuine. That was the disarming thing about Ben. On Tinder, his messages were straightforward, curious. Tell me about Jakarta beyond the guidebooks. What’s your favourite street food? Not just hey beautiful. It made the shame curdle more sweetly in my stomach.
“Early mornings. Prayers. The commute to the office. Taking care of my mother.” I listed the pillars of my existence, watching his face for the inevitable boredom. It didn’t come. He listened, his head tilted.
“And this?” he asked softly.
“This is a day off.” The lie was smooth, practiced. This wasn’t a day off. This was a carved-out hollow in my life, an airlock between atmospheres. “A treat.”
“I’m glad I’m part of the treat,” he said, and there was no sleaze in it, just a simple, disarming acknowledgement of the transaction we were both conducting. It was refreshing. Terrifying.
The silence stretched, comfortable, charged. I stood up. “I’m going to cool off.”
The water was a shock, a blessing. I sank beneath the surface, the roar of the world muting to a bubbled hush. Astaghfirullah, I thought, the plea for forgiveness a reflex. But I don’t want to stop. I broke the surface, slicking my hair back.
He was at the pool’s edge, watching. Not leering. Just… observing. As if I were a fascinating local custom.
“How is it?” he called.
“Perfect. You should come in.”
He slid in with a clean efficiency, the water barely rippling. He wasn’t showy. He paddled over to me, and we trod water, close enough that our legs might brush beneath the turquoise surface.
“Tell me something true,” he said. Water beaded on his eyelashes.
“What?”
“Something true about you. That you wouldn’t put on your Tinder profile.”
The audacity of it stole my breath. The directness. It bypassed all the games, the accidental touches, the dropped towels. I felt exposed, more than if I were naked.
I looked past him, at the monolithic glass and steel towers framing our tiny, liquid paradise. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. “Sometimes,” I said, the words escaping like a confession, “I feel like I’m two people. One who wants to be good. Pious. Simple. And one who… wants this.” I met his eyes. “Who wants to feel the sun without a barrier. Who wants to talk to a man like this. Just because I can.”
He didn’t smile. He listened, his expression serious, absorbing me. “That doesn’t sound like two people,” he said after a moment. His voice was low, just for us. “That sounds like one complicated, interesting person.”
His hand found my waist under the water. Not groping. Anchoring. The heat of his palm burned through the thin nylon. I gasped, a tiny intake of air.
“Is this okay?” he asked. He was always asking. It was a polite cruelty, making me complicit in every step.
I nodded, unable to speak. My own hands found his shoulders, the muscle solid and real under my fingers. This was real. The chlorine, the sun, the rough texture of his skin. This was not a thought, not a sin in abstraction. It was a thing I was choosing.
We were close enough that I could see the flecks of green in his grey eyes. The world narrowed to this point: his eyes, his hand on my hip, the water lapping at our throats.
“I want to kiss you,” he said. A statement, not a question.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry. “Yes.”
It was a soft kiss, at first. Testing. Then his other hand came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek, and it deepened. His tongue tasted of beer and lime. A tourist’s taste. I kissed him back, a surge of defiant hunger rising in me, drowning out the whisper of guilt. Here, in this stolen, shimmering place, I was not the dutiful daughter. I was desired. I was powerful.
When we parted, we were both breathing hard. His eyes were dark. The careful, curious tourist was gone, replaced by something more focused, more primal. It thrilled me. I had done that.
“You want to rinse off in my room?” he asked, the words a rough scrape against my ear.
The momentum of the afternoon crystallized into a single, inevitable point. The narrative of the day—the flirting smiles, the dropped towel, the charged conversation—had always been leading here. It was a script I had written for myself, and now I had to perform the climax.
I let my hand trail down his chest, below the waterline. I felt him tense, then shudder under my touch. A flush of pure, electric power washed through me, hotter than the sun.
“Sure,” I said. “It better have a view.”
He helped me out of the pool. His hands, big and steady, gripped my waist and lifted me onto the warm tiles as if I weighed nothing. Water sluiced off me, puddling at my feet. He followed, dripping. He didn’t reach for a towel. He just looked at me, his gaze a physical heat tracing the paths of the droplets running down my neck, between my breasts, over the tight cling of my suit.
He picked up my towel and wrapped it around my shoulders. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, a contrast to the hunger in his eyes. It undid me a little.
“25th Floor. You lead the way,” he said, his voice thick.
I turned, my sandals slapping softly on the wet tile. I didn’t look back. I could feel him following, a pace behind, a palpable presence at my back. We walked past the bar, past the sunbathers, toward the heavy glass door that led back into the chilled, perfumed air of the hotel.
The elevator doors closed with a hushed sigh, sealing us in a mirrored cube. Our reflections stared back, a silent, water-beaded tableau. He leaned against the wall, watching me.
“You’re stunning, you know that?” he said, no pickup line, just a quiet fact.
I looked at our reflection. The girl with the big, guilty eyes and the curvy body in the conservative swimsuit. The American with the easy smile, now tight with anticipation. The space between us in the reflection crackled.
“Right now,” I whispered, more to myself than to him, “I feel it.”
The elevator chimed. 25th floor. The doors slid open to a silent, carpeted hallway. I stepped out. He followed.
The walk to his room door was the longest and shortest distance of my life. Every step was a decision I couldn’t take back. My fingers, slightly trembling, fumbled with the key card. The little light blinked red, then green. A soft click.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside the cool, dim room. I didn’t turn on the light. The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains, painting everything in tones of pale gold and long shadow.
I heard the door shut behind him. The definitive sound of the world locking out.
I finally turned to face him, my back to the spectacular, sprawling view of the city I called home. He was just a silhouette against the wooden door, already moving toward me.
The chapter of the afternoon was over. The next one was about to begin, and I was its only author.