12. Marsh

TWELVE

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he was the cold one in the relationship. Not cold as in unloving, but literally chilly. The one who always needed a blanket, the one who kept turning down the A/C, the one who remarked "It's freezing in here" when we went to the movies. You'd think with all that cozy body hair, he'd be the warmer one.

So when he says that it's really cold in the cabin, at first I think it's just Data being Data. But when I take off my coat, even I notice it's draftier than normal.

He loads the wood-burning stove with logs. It sits in the corner of the living room. Despite its meager size, it has the power to provide ample heat. It's a grower, not a shower.

I can't help but notice the goosebumps starting to form on my arms. Has the temperature dropped in the short time we were outside?

"Is it cold in here?" I ask, giving credence to Data's icebox tendencies. "I need an afghan."

"It was working fine last night. I'm going to check the furnace." He trudges into the basement, the one room I don't want to venture into. It's where we threw everything we didn't need. Can we leave it for the new owners, pretend that we forgot to clean it out?

I warm my hands by the burgeoning fire, the burning and smoky aroma reminding me of all the cuddling we did in this very spot.

"Furnace seems to be in order. I didn't notice any problems," he says when he returns. I take his word for it. "Basement almost seems a little warmer than up here."

He shivers a little as he warms himself by the fire.

"Here." I rub my hands up and down his arms. Unlike Data, I am my own furnace. I hug him to me, passing along my body heat as well as other heat. He smells like snow and wood, but I make sure not to take a deep sniff.

The good news is it's too cold to have sex. Although who am I kidding … men can get hard in any temperature, any climate. The propagation of the species depends on it.

Data heads over to the thermostat. "It's set to seventy, but only at sixty-four."

The furnace was never that efficient. It's why we had the wood stove installed. Once we get it cranking, the stove will spread its cozy heat throughout the entire space, pushing the thermostat to a toasty seventy-three or four. Warm enough for us to lie around naked.

Maybe we should leave it.

"Sixty-four. What a boring number. If we're going to freeze our butts off, at least go up to sixty-nine to make it interesting." I wiggle my eyebrows at him. Despite the obvious corniness of the joke, he smiles.

If an ex still smiles at your corny jokes, then maybe it's a sign that they don't actually hate you.

Data shakes his head, erasing the warm expression on his face. Back to business.

Diplomat, Marsh, diplomat. He's not a mouse in a cat's mouth. He shouldn't be played with.

"We can call a maintenance person when we get back to New York," I offer.

"Or if the roads are better by tomorrow, which they should be, we can get one to come out then," he says. "This is a good thing. It's even more of an impetus to finish packing and leave ASAP. For now, the stove can keep this place well-heated, as long as we supply it with a steady stream of wood."

I snort a laugh.

" Firewood . For the fire." Data makes his cute stern face.

"Good thing this wood is, how did you put it before? Thick and rough and really raw."

"I swear, sometimes you're a twelve-year-old." Despite his efforts, Data smiles again.

"Ahem." I cross my arms. "We should be packing, not bantering, Marshall. I hate to have to be the taskmaster as always but," I tap the nonexistent watch on my wrist. "time's ticking."

"Okay. Then let's get started." He heads down the hall. I tell myself we can be friendly and make the most of the weekend. I don't know if we'll leave Marshmallow Mountain as more than acquaintances, but we can at least have some (clothed) fun while we're stuck here.

I follow Data, keeping my eyes away from his derriere. He walks into the main bedroom and stops at the bed. I stop at the door.

"The bedroom," I say, feeling awkward as hell.

"We should cross it off our list. Packing-wise," he says, awkwardness in his voice too.

The bed stares back at us, with plans of its own. My stomach flips with nerves.

Data spins on his heel. "We can pack this room up on Sunday, right before we leave."

"Good idea."

"Let's do the basement." He scoots past me, making sure our bodies don't touch. Quick as anything, he's walking down the hall.

The basement. The dreaded basement .

"Ugh," I groan, and not the sexy kind. Nobody ever wants to sort through what's been thrown in their basement. It's where you store crap you'll deal with later, like extra folding chairs and dead bodies.

I dart to the kitchen. I'll need backup. And by backup, I mean Mallomars. I grab the shiny yellow box off the counter.

"The only way out is through," Data says before descending the creaky staircase.

I follow again, and this time, I do check out his beautiful ass. I need the pick me up.

Time seems to slow as we survey the dank, musty space. Piles of junk and memories sit on the floor. Some are in boxes … which are soggy and moldy. Some are laying in the open, forming a lean-to of crap. Old skis, old furniture, old receipts, old bedsheets. The flotsam and jetsam of life.

"As I said before, ugh." I stand on the bottom step, not wanting to enter the junk dungeon.

"Do you know how to eat an elephant?" Data asks.

"No. But if you hum a few bars, I can fake it."

He rolls his eyes because he's heard my Elvira bit a million times, but she's really one of the great underrated comedians of our time.

"The answer is, one bite at a time," he says, brushing dust off a box.

Data wades into the mess and picks at random objects, but his heart isn't in it either. Still, it has to get done. I dragged him up here, I might as well make this as enjoyable as possible. (Again, with clothes on.)

I waltz into the center of the basement and breathe in the musty air. Then I clap my hands together, an optimistic can-do attitude lighting me up. "I have an idea."

"If it involves not cleaning up the basement—pass."

"Why don't we make a game of it?" I reveal the box of mallomars from under my arm, holding the box above my head like a trophy.

"Where did those come from?"

"Well, when a graham cracker, a marshmallow, and melted chocolate are in love, and they want to express that love?—"

"Marsh."

"I brought them from upstairs." I flip open the box. "There are eighteen cookies left. Everytime one of us packs up a box, we get a Mallomar. We keep going until this box is empty. Whoever eats more Mallomars wins."

The stakes could not be lower, and yet, I know Data, and his competitive urges. Our relationship might not have lasted, but our adoration of Mallomars is eternal.

"Deal. But each box must be sufficiently packed. No cutting corners," he says.

I give him a little salute. We go upstairs to get the boxes and tape. When we're back in the basement, we split the supply in half and put the two stacks in opposite corners.

"The Mallomars will remain on the steps, a neutral zone." I place the box oh-so-carefully on the steps and give it a tap. We go to our sides.

While my feelings for Data are complicated, my desire to win is not. My adorable, fuzzy, human icebox is going down.

"Ready. Set. Pack!" I pretend to fire off a gun, and we're off.