15. Data/Marshall

FIFTEEN

Data/Marshall

Impromptu weekend with the ex who shattered my heart six months ago? Check. Surprise snowstorm only Maddi's chickens knew about? Check. Trapped in a cabin with the ex packing up memories of the life we built together and he threw out like day old news? Check. Said ex reminding me my entire life is a farce because I repeatedly take the safe route in life and am a boring pencil pusher? Check. Broken window in the guest room that really is more of a closet than a room even though I'd never admit that to Bryce? Check. While I do love a list with items to check off, this isn't doing it for me. With every breath I take, I'm feeling more like the ultimate schlemiel.

"What happened?" Marsh asks. He tends to ask questions when I clearly don't know the answers.

"The window broke."

"Yeah, I see that, but how?" Marsh stands behind me. Peering over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps the window fairy will magically appear and fix the damn thing—me, I'm the window fairy. There's a small crack in the window, maybe an inch, but with the storm raging, cold air blows in, and a small pile of snow resembling powdered sugar has accumulated on the sill.

"I have no clue. Probably from the storm. The windows are old. We should've replaced them years ago. Nobody's been here all winter. Maybe the glass gave out? How do I know? Do I look like Bob Vila?"

"You wish. Bob was a total daddy. A daddy with a tool belt."

I sigh. Even when I'm frustrated with his inopportune jokes, Marsh still finds a way to lighten the mood. But right now, we have bigger problems than his Bob Vila kink.

"We'll need to fix it before we can sell," I say, searching for the piece of broken glass on the floor. "And we need to at least do some sort of impromptu repair in the meantime."

"Thank god you're here. You can fix anything."

Except us. Not like that's been the goal of this weekend.

"Hey." Marsh nudges me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry about what I said out there. Things got heated and?—"

"It's okay. It sounds like you've wanted to get that off your chest for a while. And you did." I don't have the energy for another argument. I'd rather focus on what I can fix: a broken window. "Can you bring me an empty box and a roll of tape?"

"Yes, sir!" Marsh salutes and darts off. I need to tell him to stop the adorable gesture. Later.

The shard of glass is missing, which means it probably fell outside. I could gear up and go search for it, but finding a transparent piece of glass in feet of snow probably isn't prudent. I eyeball the hole and figure tape and cardboard can keep it secure enough to last the weekend.

Growing up with a financially struggling single parent, I became resourceful at a young age. I had to. My dad walked out on us when I was six. Mom told me he remarried and started a new family in Georgia, which stung. I never attempted to reconnect—abandoning us was his loss.

Mom was busy working two jobs to make ends meet, so there was nobody to show me how to fix things when they broke—and they broke often. I had to figure it out on my own. At the public library, I discovered these enormous, comprehensive home improvement books that I would borrow and read for enjoyment. Turns out nobody ever checked them out but me. They became my go-to resource whenever something needed fixing in our frequently troubled old apartment, at least until YouTube came on the scene.

Over time, I needed the books less and less—but more importantly, I realized working with my hands could bring a sense of joy and fulfillment I didn't know I missed. And I became quite the handyman. Mom bragged to the neighbors about my skills and soon everyone in the building was calling on me to fix broken doors, clogged garbage disposals, and broken bathroom tiles.

When I saw Shop as an elective freshman year, I immediately signed up. I was the stand out student, the pride of my teacher Mr. Foley. Yet with each project I came home with, Mom's enthusiasm waned just a touch, a hint of hesitation in her voice as she saw me get more active in woodworking projects. She complimented my work, but caveated that electives were meant for fun, not for earning a living.

"Your supplies, sir!" Marsh stands back stiffly, holding out the box and tape.

"Please stop calling me sir."

His face falls, and then he shakes his head. "Sorry, just trying to be … "

"Adorable," I say. "You can stop it right now." I take the items from him. "Please."

Marsh leaves me alone with my indignation. Am I being too hard on him? Knowing that he got that bad news about dad just before his big show makes everything that came after make sense. Or at least a little more sense. Humor was a lifeline for Marsh, but it couldn't work on an Alzheimer's diagnosis and he bombed on stage a day later. But still, did that completely explain why he needed space from us?

I'd like nothing more than to grab him and squeeze his scrumptious stomach. Wrap my arms around him and kiss every inch of his handsome face before throwing him down and having my way with him. But he made it clear he needs space. He's quitting the thing he's passionate about and good at. I tried to go in the opposite direction of Mom, encouraging him to follow comedy. And yet still, it backfired. Maybe she was right all this time.

Well, Mr. Space Man can launch himself into the stratosphere and stop confusing me. I turn my attention to the broken window. It will be a quick fix, unlike the lingering fracture Marsh left in my heart.

With the window securely patched, my stomach roils at the thought of facing Marsh again. I need to be anchored. Resolute. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone, hoping for a signal. With only a single bar of service, I quickly dial Bryce's number before the cell gods revoke my rights.

"Marshall? Are you alive? Did a bear eat you?"

"I wish."

"I said eat you. Not eat you out ."

My ass tweaks remembering Marsh buried chin-deep in my hole at the General Store. Lapping me up. Tongue fucking me. Getting me ready for his thick, long …

"Marshall? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"I'm here. Service is spotty. We're snowed in." I use a small towel to wipe the water on the windowsill where the snow has melted.

"But I thought the storm wasn't coming until next week."

"It wasn't … but the fucking chickens."

"Chickens? The reception is awful. You're breaking up. Chickens are fucking?"

"It's a Maine thing, apparently. "

"That tracks," Bryce says. "Well, if you're stuck, you can finally have that breakup sex you need to move on." I move to the bed. A piece of wood I saved in my pocket from outside falls onto the comforter, like a small gift.

"About that … " I pick the timber up. When I was chopping, small shards splintered off with each cut, but this one was larger than the others. When it landed in the snow, it looked … lonely. I carefully slipped it into the safety of my pocket while Marsh was inside.

"Already? It's been a day, you sly skank." Bryce makes a kissing noise. "I've never been more proud of you."

"It just … happened. He fucked me like a madman in The General Store bathroom." My fingers glide down the smooth side of the hickory, avoiding the rough spots sure to cause a nasty splinter. The wood is hard, strong, and it would take a firm hand to carve it. I turn the wedge over in my hand, imagining the cuts I'd make. A little here. A longer push cut. Flip it, a paring cut.

Look at this craftsmanship. This makes Pottery Barn look like Ikea. Marsh's words echo in my head, taunting me with unrealistic possibilities. You could've been a furniture maker with a store, a line of quality goods. You still can.

Was this how Marsh felt whenever I encouraged him? Like a soothing hug curdled into suffocation? Warm support mixed with a jolt of ice cold fear?

"Good. You got some. I'm too much of a germaphobe to do it in a public toilet, but you do you, boo," Bryce says. "Now you can pack up and sell the shack."

"That's the plan. But it's been, I don't know, awkward since."

"Define awkward," he replies.

"Awkward. When something is hard or difficult to deal with. It's awkward how Bryce's dog loves me more than his owner. "

"I know what the word means, smartass." There's some shuffling, and I picture Bryce repositioning himself on his sofa. "What's been awkward between you two? Do you think maybe you want him back?"

"It doesn't matter if I want him back, he … "

"Invited you up to your love nest for a weekend of snowed in slap and tickle."

"Not exactly. To pack. To sell. To move on. But he's been … " I put the wood down and watch the snowflakes outside the repaired window, momentarily hypnotized by the white blur.

"What?" Bryce asks, snapping me back to attention.

"Flirty? Charming? Adorable?" Marsh's face appears in my head, his sheepish grin and sexy smile once again distracting me.

"You've always thought so," Bryce says. "You love the whole hilarious himbo vibe. We all have our kinks."

"It's over though. It's just hard seeing him again. Spending time together. So close." My palm massages my stomach, and butterflies flutter as I remember it brushing up against Marsh's when he was on top of me in the basement. "I thought it would close the loop, but it hasn't."

"Ah, that's the problem. The break-up sex at the store was a start, but you need to fuck him to seal the deal. The loop is not closed. You vers boys have to fuck and be fucked to appease the breakup sex gods."

"That's not a real thing."

"Isn't it though?"

The hickory takes shape in my mind. An image revealing itself in its full beauty, and it's up to me to bring it to life. Yes. Of course, that's what it wants to be. My hands itch for my tools.

"I should go. We have packing to finish. Say a prayer I'm able to escape tomorrow." I look out the broken window. As I survey the woods, the snow seems to pick up. Awesome .

"You got it. Prayer to the breakup sex gods coming your way."

Even though he can't see me, I roll my eyes. Hard. "Bye, Bryce."

The thought of more sex with Marsh, me on top, thrusting into him, his eyes rolling back as his body falls under my spell, sends an unwanted bolt of heat from my toes to my head. Or heads. Sex has already made this weekend even more uncomfortable, despite how exhilarating it was. The breakup sex gods will have to appease themselves.

Marsh is just on the other side of that door, more awkwardness and adorableness waiting to confuse me. My whole body is jumpy, twitchy. I need to calm down before I have another sexual slipup with my ex.

Laying on the floor, I extend my arm under the bed. My fingers grasp for the case holding my carving tools hidden in the darkness. The moment I touch the supple leather, a wave of relaxation washes over me, muscle memory doing the rest.