14. Marsh

FOURTEEN

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: When he has his mind set on something, he doesn't give up. Case in point: he's called seven different snowplow companies so far with no luck, yet he soldiers on.

After we, uh, finished in the basement, we came upstairs, baked another pair of bland TV dinners in the oven, and Data went to work searching for a plow company to clear our driveway and access road. There's a chance we could be stuck here for days.

I go into the bedroom and sit on the bed, my head still spinning from what happened in the basement. That was very undiplomatic behavior. I would definitely get expelled from the UN for that.

Technically, that wasn't break-up sex because there was no penetration, so the loop remains closed. The loop in my mind, replaying that scene, in addition to our sexytimes in the bathroom? That's going nonstop.

I'm not a religious person, but the fact that my phone buzzes with a text from Preeti seems like a sign from God. I call her back immediately.

"If you were about to leave me a voicemail, I was going to stage an intervention."

"Good callback," I say .

A calm instantly comes over me when I hear her voice. It quiets the confused voices in my head for a moment.

"Which file has the new flier graphics for the show? Our shared Google drive is a shitshow. Also, have you been working on material up there?"

A queasy feeling hits my stomach whenever our show comes up. Preeti is a persistent person, and I know she'll keep nudging me to perform.

"The file name is FinalFlyer underscore revision 3 underscore final final," I tell her, proud of myself for remembering the whole name. I don't answer her other question.

"You could've texted that."

"I wanted to hear your voice."

"Bullshit. What's up?" she asks.

"I kinda, maybe need to talk?"

"What happened, sweetie?" she asks, thrown off that I would be so directly earnest. Our love language is sarcasm, not heart-to-hearts. "How's the weekend going?"

"It's interesting."

"Ahem?"

"You were right. I'm on Data's shit list," I answer.

"Oooh. Awkward City."

"Uh kinda."

"Marsh, I'm not a fan of the live vaguebooking. I have a waxing appointment in twenty. Now make like an oil tanker and spill."

"Eh, I don't love the oil tanker analogy. It's a little dated."

"Big corporations fucking up the planet will never be outdated. But fine: now make like Prince Harry's memoir and spill."

I poke my head from the bedroom door to ensure Data is still on the phone, before launching into it with Preeti. I tell her about the break-up sex in the bathroom, Data wanting to close the loop, and then the sex-by-Mallomar. I have to catch my breath at the end of things.

A beat of silence hangs on the line.

"You still there?" I ask.

"With a Mallomar? What kind of Call Me By Your Name bullshit is going on up there?"

"It just happened. There's a lot of tension in this cabin, and unfortunately, there's no Peloton where we can burn it off, so we have to improvise."

"Hmm. Well, I've been to countless improv shows, and I've never seen two people fuck on stage. Also, can two guys really improvise sex? Don't you need lubricant?" she asks.

My desire years ago to tell Preeti how painful the spit-lube sex must've been in Brokeback Mountain is coming back to bite me in the butt.

"I bought a tube of it at the general store."

"You brought lube to a weekend with your ex? That's premeditation."

Damn Preeti's parents convincing her to take the LSATs just in case.

But she's right. The second I plucked that bottle of lube off Maddi's shelf, my mind went to a place it wasn't supposed to. And it's been going there all weekend.

"Two ex-boyfriends can have sex a few times over a weekend. It's like being on a diet and cheating at a friend's wedding," I say.

"And how many diets have you kept?" she shoots back.

Toucheé. And not untrue.

"Marsh," she asks, her tone softer. "Do you want him back?"

I sit on the bed. That's the million-dollar question. The easy answer is yes. Of course I do. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, but my fantasies curdle quickly. Sure, the sex will be great, but does he want to spend his life supporting a struggling comic? What if that stress drives him to develop Alzheimer's in thirty years? Does he want to introduce me at office Christmas parties as his partner who's really funny, he just hasn't gotten his big break yet ? Does he want to look back on his life and think about what could've been if he'd gone with Evan the hunky ENT and Maxwell the Instagram-famous corgi?

The real question isn't if I want Data back. It's does he want me back?

And right now, I get the sense this is all one last hurrah for him. Maybe it's best just to settle for him on his back.

"Hey, Marsh!" Data calls from the living room, a lifeline from this conversation.

"I gotta go, P. Any final remarks?"

"Yeah. Stop having sex!"

I click off the call and join Data. He tosses his phone in his hand, the look on his face a harbinger of bad news.

"None of the plows are able to get out," he says.

"Isn't that their job?"

"They're either booked, or the snow is too deep for their trucks."

Even men with their big, bad, overcompensating trucks can't get us out of this mess.

Data puts his hands by the woodburning stove to heat up. While the draftiness of earlier has subsided, it isn't totally gone. There's a faint chill that seems to cover our cozy cabin.

"The snow is tapering off, so maybe later today I'll try again, see if one of them can come out in the morning," he says. Sunday morning. So he can head out. The ticking clock on this weekend makes my insides crumble a bit.

"I can't believe we packed up the whole basement," Data said, his pride glowing on his face. "I have to hand it to you, Marsh. Your game idea worked."

"All of it?" I ask, leaving the hottest parts unsaid. The tackling? Willing you into chocolatey, marshmallowy, and graham crackery submission?

Data's ears burn red. Instead of giving me an answer, he takes something from his back pocket, wraps his hand around it like he did to my dick not too long ago. "I found this."

"Marshall Not-Mathers, I didn't think you had a nostalgic bone in your body," I joke. "What is it?"

He hands it over. The notebook sits heavy in my palm, comforting and taunting me, the feelings switch back and forth. I don't know how to feel about this blast from the past. It was used by a guy who had a lot more enthusiasm and optimism than the one currently holding it. What would the me who scrawled in this journal think of the me today? What would the Data of back then think of me?

"Cool." I flap it against my other hand and place it on an empty shelf. "Thanks for saving it."

"There's some good jokes in there. A few still make me laugh."

"Well that explains why I kicked your ass at the packing game. You got distracted."

"We tied." Data grabs it off the shelf and flips to a page in the middle. "This joke about Tom Hanks is gold." He clears his throat, about to read said joke. Panic surges through me, putting my body on high alert the same way a car swerving into my lane would.

I snatch the journal from him, adding a laugh to hide my shooting anxiety.

"Maybe later," I say.

"It's a good one. Oh, and there's one about?—"

"We don't have to go through all my old material. There's a reason why it stayed in the notebook." I let out another laugh, hoping to dispel the awkwardness filling the room.

"Oh," he says, deflating slightly. "You know, despite everything, you're still the funniest person I know. "

The compliment lands like arrows through my chest. Letting down people who believe in you is a gut punch like no other.

"Thanks."

"How have your recent shows gone since … ?"

"Since my on stage implosion? They, uh, haven't." I decide to hold my head up high, refusing to be a kicked puppy about this. "I'm quitting. Laughingstock was my final show."

Data blinks at me, taking in the update. His reaction reminds me of when I broke up with him. Another crushing blow.

"I can start the new year fresh, focus on helping my dad, and getting things in order." All the things I said I needed to do when I broke up with him. Maybe I can finally stop fucking up my life. "I gave it a good go, but … "

"But what?" Data's eyes widen, full of the same caring that supported me for all those years. "People think you're hilarious. You are hilarious."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not. As your ex-boyfriend, I'm under no obligation to boost your ego. In fact, I should be doing the opposite."

I crack a smile. "That was good."

"You've worked so hard. And you are funny. You can't just give up. You were making progress. You even said it yourself last year. You said you could feel yourself improving. Getting bigger laughs. Jokes hitting with more frequency. People recognizing you and wanting to come to your shows. Landing more auditions."

"I was the laughingstock of Laughingstock." Just saying the name makes my throat go dry. "Comedians bomb all the time, but that was nuclear."

"Marsh, your dad was just diagnosed with Alzheimer's. You obviously weren't in the right headspace with a lot of things."

The last part breaks through my coat of humorous armor for a second, hanging heavy in the air. "No do overs, unfortunately. Look, people give up on things all the time. You gotta know when to leave the party."

"I don't think it's time yet," he shoots back.

Sometimes, I couldn't tell if Data was my boyfriend or my manager. His hype man act could push into overeager, like I wasn't allowed to do anything but keep moving forward. There's being supportive, and then there's being a stage mom.

There was something about his unwavering support that left a sting in my chest. For a man so dead set on stability, his dedication to my decidedly unstable career didn't track.

I look for an exit from this rocky conversation, and my eyes glance into the bedroom. Little Marsh and Little Data sit on the dresser, staring back at me.

A question pops into my mind, one that had been lingering for a while in our relationship. And since this may be the last time we hang out, I figure it's as good as any to ask it. If this is our grand finale, then better get it all out there.

I run into the bedroom and scoop up the two figurines.

"Why did you stop?" I ask, holding them out. Little Marsh and Little Data stare him down.

"What are you doing with those?" His eyes cut to me, as if he got caught somehow.

"I found them while packing. You used to make stuff like this all the time. You even carved a breakfast-in-bed tray, even though you hate eating breakfast in bed because of crumbs. And you were good at it. Really good. As good as you say I am with comedy. When I worked at Harmony, co-workers would always pick up one of your figures from my desk and admire it, and I got to brag that my boyfriend made them from scratch ."

"I got busy. Working. Paying bills. Adulting. Life—the ultimate obstacle."

That was his answer for everything. I began to wonder whether it was an answer or an excuse. Now that I'm not his boyfriend, I feel a freedom to push back. Why did I let our relationship be so one-sided about my career? I regret being so wrapped up in my own shit and not asking these questions years ago.

"Were you really so busy that you couldn't take any time for yourself to pursue something you obviously love?"

He shrugs, unable to provide an answer.

"You could've done it full time. You could've been a furniture maker with a store, a line of quality goods. You still can."

He shakes his head no and laughs at the suggestion. "And do what? Sell my stuff at flea markets? I can't make a living that way."

"How do you know for sure? You're a really good woodworker. Give me one second. Half a second." I scoot into the kitchen. I dig through the bottom shelf until I pull out the aforementioned breakfast-in-bed tray. I run back to the living room and hold it out to him like I'm presenting evidence to the jury. "Look at the craftsmanship. This makes Pottery Barn look like Ikea."

I keep holding it out until he has no choice but to take the tray and admire what he created. He runs his fingers over the latticed border and the MM insignia, a nod to Marshmallow Mountain, etched in the center, lost in the details for a moment.

"And there's something else I never understood. Why were you so supportive of me quitting my job to pursue comedy, and yet you won't support yourself doing the same, Marshall ?"

It hadn't occurred to me how much of a Do as I say not as I do situation we'd found ourselves in as a couple. Maybe that was the heart of my frustration.

"It's different. There are a myriad of examples of comedians and comedic actors who have been able to make a living. There are several ways to generate income for oneself, between performances, acting gigs, commercials, traveling improv troupes, writing for late night. "

My stomach churns—each example a dig of something I haven't accomplished.

Data puts down the tray on the loveseat, and its weight indents the cushions. "Those are still in the cards for you, Marsh. You're putting in the work, and it will bear fruit."

"Why can't you speak to yourself like this? Who says there aren't avenues for you to make it as an artisan?"

He had put his nickname to use and helped me research the feasibility of a career in comedy. While it was difficult, it was doable. And yet we never did the same for him. He never let us broach the subject.

"Do you know any successful furniture designers? Can you name one?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"Uh … yes. Yes I can." A grin gallops across my face. "Aidan Shaw."

He rolls his eyes. "Carrie's ex-boyfriend on Sex and the City does not count."

"Ex-fiancé, technically."

Data's face shifts to a patronizing smile, as if I'm a child who suggested we move to Mars or something. "It's not a realistic career path for me. It's a hobby."

"A hobby that you never do, even though you love it. Did you ever look into pursuing it more seriously? Instead of staying in a job you hate."

"Here we go again. I don't hate my job."

"Yes you do, Data! I mean, Marshall." I force a smile. "I was your boyfriend for eight years. I saw you every night when you came home from work, and I saw you every morning when you had to get up and do it all over again. So don't sit on my face and tell me it's raining."

"I don't think that's how the line goes." He scratches at his neck, his eyes stealthily looking for the exits. "I appreciate your concern, but it's a moot point."

I can't stand when he gets like this, deflecting any tough question with layers of passive-aggressive politeness that would take a jackhammer to break through, thinking that he wins an argument merely by staying calm. It was always okay to analyze my career path, my relationship with my dad. But Data never turns those powers of perception on himself.

My chest thumps as I retrieve a card I've been hiding up my sleeve for years. It's a card I didn't feel comfortable playing when we were together, but we're not together anymore. So fuck it.

"Maybe it's time to admit the truth: You're almost forty years old, and you're still a scared boy afraid to disappoint his mother."

There will be no explosion of hate sex this time around. Just hate. Data's face hardens into a steely glare, his coat of armor disintegrating.

Without saying a word, he gets up and calmly walks into the guest room.

I knew I crossed a line the moment the words left my lips. Guilt washes over me, but not enough to make me apologize. In our relationship, I was the one who smoothed over arguments, who used humor to pull us back from the brink. But it's time for Data to be called on his bullshit.

I pluck the tray off the couch and am about to retreat into the kitchen when he yells from the guest room.

"Shit!"

I race in and see that our argument is the furthest thing from his mind. My naturally overheated self immediately begins to shiver.

"Shit. Shit," I say.

Our relationship isn't the only thing that's broken. So is the guest room window.