1. Marshall

ONE

Marshall

Some people hear the rousing guitar strums of "Lose Yourself" and get pumped. Some people get inspired. I get nauseous.

Queasiness overtakes my stomach as the familiar opening chords of Marshall Mathers's legendary anthem blare from my phone, which means it can only be one very specific person.

Bryce slowly turns toward me as he hears it.

"Are. You. Fucking. Serious." Bryce narrates my surprise with narrowed eyes. Even Bobo, Bryce's adorable Bernese mountain dog, looks up with his giant brown eyes and cocks his head, equally confused.

We stand on the stoop of The Bigby, our pre-war six story walk up, Eminem's Oscar-winning song blasting from my front pocket for all passersby on West 89th to hear. Eh, it's New York City. People aren't fazed by the Naked Cowboy or pizza rats. An early 2000s jam coming from my crotch is par for the course.

"Are you going to answer it?" Bryce raises his thick eyebrows, waiting for a response.

Am I?

The phone clangs around in my pocket, mimicking my heart in my chest.

Anthony bobs his perfectly coiffed head to the music, oblivious to my imperiled emotional state. He's like a piece of art in a hotel lobby: generically pretty, but easily blends into the background. Sometimes, I wonder how he and Bryce make their relationship work. But then I hear them in the apartment above me at night, attempting to crash their bed through my ceiling, and it all makes sense.

"I love this song. I jam to it when I do squats," he says. What the man lacks in brainpower, he makes up for with glute strength and (apparent) sexual stamina. "Who is it?"

"It's the ex," Bryce says with clenched teeth.

"Why is Marsh calling?" I can't move. The booming hook has me paralyzed.

"There's only one way to find out." Bryce gestures at my jeans.

"Yo, was it weird having the same name as your boyfriend?" Anthony scrolls through pictures of himself on his phone. "You guys are a Wheel of Fortune category."

"Were," Bryce corrects.

"We made it work," I say. A thickness coats my throat as I swallow. "We had nicknames for each other. He called me … "

Data. The name bounces off the inside of my skull like a pinball, searching for a target. "My Data," he would say, sometimes repeating it like a prayer, whispering it into my ear, sending goosebumps tiptoeing over my skin.

My heart tumbles in my chest.

"Data," Bryce tells Anthony. "Because Marshall's an accountant. For a comic, he's not very original," says Bryce, playing the best friend role and coming to my defense. "Time's ticking. Are you going to pick up?"

"Yeah, tell him you're glad you dumped his ass, then hang up." Anthony lets out a smarmy chuckle.

"He was the dumpee, not the dumper." Bryce rolls his eyes both at his boyfriend and the breakup dynamics.

"I shouldn't answer it, right? We haven't spoken in … six mo nths." Has it really been that long? "Or maybe I should. There has to be a good reason why he's calling after all this time."

"Enough with the indecision, you Homosexual Hamlet." Bryce wrestles my hand away and shovels his fingers down my pants pocket. Wanting to join in what he perceives as playtime, Bobo emits a single, booming bark, startling us both.

I swat at Bryce's wrist, but he's taller and stronger. The man is a professional dancer. If he really wanted to, he could gracefully toss me in the air. His buzz cut allows his blue eyes to shine and right now they're framed by a furrowed brow.

"Excuse me, you haven't even bought me dinner," I say.

"I'll buy you brunch."

"But Marshall usually pays," Anthony replies.

"Sweetie, we're not going to brunch, it's banter," Bryce huffs and pulls my phone out, trying to answer the call.

"Bryce, stop. Give it to me." He raises his eyebrows. "My phone," I clarify.

The ringtone relents, and Bryce finally relinquishes my cell. "Well, your dramatics paid off. You missed his call."

" My dramatics?"

As the phone stops ringing, my chest deflates a little, my heartbeat finally returning to normal.

"Why is he calling you?" Bryce asks as Bobo guides us toward Central Park for our Sunday stroll. "You know how I feel about Carly Rae Jepsen, but ‘Call Me Maybe?' No."

"I have no clue." As a statistically minded person, scenarios formulate in my mind. Naturally, I begin with possible catastrophes. "What if it's something serious? Maybe his asthma. Or what if he's been in an accident?" My head becomes dizzy. "What if he's in the hospital?" Knowing Marsh, he probably still has me listed as his emergency contact.

"If he was in the hospital, then the hospital would call," says Bryce. Bobo stops to sniff a tree. "You're only smelling your piss from yesterday, buddy."

"Right. You're right." I sigh deeply, the tension momentarily leaving my body, knowing he's okay.

"Don't breathe a sigh of relief for that fucker. He doesn't get that from you anymore." Bryce shouts, projecting all the way to the East Side. He's spent his career on some sort of stage, and yet I'm the dramatic one?

"He must want something," Anthony says. "Maybe he forgot his Netflix password."

"You better have changed all your passwords the second he moved out," Bryce says.

"Or maybe he left something at your place. I used to forget my box of condoms at guys' places all the time." Anthony smacks his forehead and laughs.

"You carried a box of condoms around with you?" Bryce asks.

"Yeah. Costco sells a pack of forty," Anthony shrugs. "I like safe sex. And a good deal."

Bryce and I became fast friends when he moved into Anthony's apartment above me. I'd never really spoken much with Anthony, but when Bryce found me sobbing at the mailboxes, he insisted I come up for Rocky Road ice cream. Because the New York performing arts world is as incestuous as the gay community, Bryce was already familiar with Marsh from a stint as a backup dancer in Marsh's improv troupe's musical revue I Left My Shart in San Francisco .

I hope these two have better luck than Marsh and me, although each time Anthony opens his mouth, I become more doubtful.

Anthony pulls Bryce to him and kisses the top of his head. "You're the only one I want to have safe sex with, babe."

Bryce blushes despite himself. Maybe these two have a shot.

"What if … " Bryce bites his lip. "He wants you back? "

And there it is. The potential answer hanging over us. A dark storm cloud just waiting to explode with rain.

"I don't … think so." I take a deep breath. It's been six months, and I'm still processing what happened.

"Why'd you guys break up again?" Anthony asks, even though I'm sure Bryce has regaled him with my sob story numerous times. If it's not on his social media feed, Anthony doesn't pay much attention.

My stomach churns with the memory of that night.

"Marsh said he needed time and space," Bryce says.

Anthony scrunches his brow. "Is he a physicist?"

"That would make more sense. You don't tell your boyfriend of almost a decade that you need space." Bryce gives my hand a squeeze, a silent hit of support.

I still remember the night that changed everything between us. After years of hustling in dingy clubs, Marsh got accepted into the Laughingstock Comedy Festival, one of the biggest events for comics in the world. It was the big break he'd been working toward for years.

And then he bombed. Hard .

Thank goodness the festival had a no phones policy during shows.

It's a truly terrible feeling watching someone crash on stage, even more so when that person is your boyfriend of eight years.

Marsh became a different person when we got back to our apartment. Whenever I encouraged him to keep going or asked about his day, he would withdraw. His usual joyfulness was replaced with sullenness.

Marsh said that the worst part about bombing was when you knew you'd lost the audience and you still had to finish your set. That was how I felt during the final month of our relationship. Yet when he sat me down in our living room one night and gave me the break-up speech, I still found myself shocked. Eight years together, and this was how things ended? We'd been there for each other through highs and lows. Why couldn't we get through this?

There's a reason math is the universal language—numbers make sense. And when they don't, there's always a reason for it.

The numbers of our breakup didn't add up. They still don't.

"Don't worry, Marshall." Anthony puts a consoling hand on my shoulder, and remarkably, the pressure provides a bit of relief. "It's not you. He probably just wants to fuck other people." Anthony cocks his head, and sometimes I wonder if Bryce has the patience for both a boyfriend and a dog. At least Bobo doesn't speak.

"I'll text him about those Costco condoms," I snark.

"Sweetie," Bryce says to his boyfriend, and I know what he's thinking. At least you're hung.

Bryce gasps when my phone vibrates. "He left a voicemail." He smiles, amused. "How 1998 of him."

"He left a voicemail?" I repeat. Between texting, voice-to-text, voice messages in texts, and social media DMs, there is no reason for people to leave voicemails. Voicemails are for parents.

"Maybe this is serious," wonders Anthony. Perhaps he has a point. My stomach resumes its ride on the What If rollercoaster.

What if Marsh is in the hospital, and it's a family member ringing to tell me the bad news? What if he's trapped somewhere and needs help, and I am the person he's calling? What if he's driven off a bridge and the car is sinking and he's holding his phone up in a tiny pocket of air trying to call me?

"Should we listen to it?" Bryce's finger hovers over the play button.

I take back my phone. "I don't know."

"That's a yes."

"I'm going to listen to it. By myself." Nerves flicker up my spine and my shoulders shudder. Sure, I'm plenty upset about how he ended things, but I don't hate Marsh. I spent over one-fifth of my life with him. Loving him. He's infused into my bloodstream like oxygen. I could never hate him. And I definitely don't want anything bad to happen to him—like being eaten by sharks while holding his phone in a pocket of air desperately trying to call me.

"People only leave voicemails in serious situations, right?" I check with Bryce.

"Typically. You can read the text translation too."

If given the choice between mistranslated text and hearing his voice, I'd rather go with the latter, as much as it may hurt.

The voicemail stares back at me, daring me to press play. It would be the first time I've heard Marsh's voice since the breakup. The thought of hearing his boisterous baritone that's forever dialed up to the highest volume makes my head dizzy.

"Isn't that the place that sells vintage toys?" I nod toward the mint green sign on the next block.

Bryce's eyes light up like he's just witnessed the choreo to Britney's "Toxic" for the first time. Vintage Transformers are his kryptonite—the man spends an ungodly amount of energy scouring the internet and swap meets for originals. It's the reason I've been to more flea markets and back alley toy stores in the last few months than I'd ever admit to under oath. The man is smitten with his robot/vehicle boyfriends. He even convinced Anthony to replace his oven with a custom-made display case.

"I'll catch up with you," I say.

"Good luck." Anthony gives me a salute.

Bryce is more subtle, offering a reassuring elbow nudge. "C'mon, Bobo!"

At the sound of his name, Bobo tugs at the lead, and they're off toward overpriced plastic toys laced with childhood memories .

I glance in the window of a store selling crafts and trinkets, one of the many storefronts on this overcrowded island that somehow stay in business. A display table of wooden artwork, carved and lacquered into things of beauty, takes center stage in the window. My hands twitch at the thought of what I could whittle. Woodworking, once a passion, gradually transformed into a hobby, and finally faded into a distant memory as the grind of adulthood took over. I remember spending lazy afternoons with Marsh on the couch, him reading a biography of one of the great comedians hoping for inspiration, and me carving tiny treasures. He loved anything I showed him, even when I knew it was crap. My chest swells viewing the pieces on display. I'm flooded with nostalgia for our time together and I take it as a sign.

I take a gulp of air and press play.

" Hey Data. It's Marsh. Uh, been a while. I hope you're good. Listen, I've been doing some thinking, and there's a question I wanted to ask you. " I hit pause and take a cleansing breath, as a flutter of excitement zips through me. This is it. I hit play: " What would you say to selling the cabin? I know we talked about sharing it, but I've been talking to a real estate agent, and she says it's the best time to put it on the market. Strike while the iron is hot. I'm going up this weekend to get it ready in case we decide to sell. I really think we should. It'd probably make sense if you came up too. We can clean out our stuff and discuss next steps. Give me a call, let me know what you think. Bye."

Not a word from him in six months, and now this? A request to clean out the cabin we co-own and discuss next steps ?

Eight years together, and all I get is bye ?

My entire body goes numb.

Why did I think he had any change of heart or regrets over the breakup? Why the hell did I let myself believe he missed me, missed us, missed the life we'd built together? My bruised heart pounds, reminding me what this all means. Marsh is doing just fine. He has one thousand percent moved on .

And you know what? I should too.

I'll drive up to Marshmallow Mountain this weekend—pack, clean, and sell it, and finally get Marshall Goldberg out of my system.

In fact, I cue up "Lose Yourself" for extra motivation, and jog to catch up with Bryce, Anthony, and Bobo.