16. Marsh

SIXTEEN

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: the man takes his time when he wants to.

Whether it's slowly eating his food while I scarf mine down, not leaving a museum exhibit until he reads every plaque, or not moving from the guest room until the window is repaired, he won't let anyone rush him.

It's been over an hour, and I can't fault him for being diligent. If it were me, I'd stuff a pillow in the opening and call it a day. I keep the door shut to block the draft that's still coming from the room.

Night begins to descend on the mountain. A dark glow shines on the fallen snow, which despite throwing a wrench in this weekend is still very pretty to look at. Nature looks especially peaceful at dusk, as if all the trees and little creatures are waiting to be tucked in and read a bedtime story.

I find a forgotten frozen pizza in the bottom of the freezer. Holding it up to the light, it doesn't look particularly appetizing, but it does look edible. I sigh. It'll do, as most of our other food falls in the snack category. I could cook us a decent meal, but dinner is not a battle worth fighting when I've insulted his line of work and his mother.

I slip the pizza into the oven so it can do its convection magic. Who am I kidding? Even when pizza's kinda gross, it's still delicious.

I glance behind me at the guest room. Still closed. I could go in there and see what's going on, but the door is almost giving me a vibe that it should stay closed. To pass the time, I make a list of the food that's left and what can be eaten in the fridge. My list is not long. Is ketchup considered a vegetable?

"Do I smell pizza?" Data emerges from the guest room, his body relaxed as if he spent the past hour plus reading poolside with a margarita in hand. He rolls his wrist and stretches out his hand. Um … what was he doing in there?

No judgment, of course.

"I found a pizza. Did you fix the window?"

"I made a stopgap. It's still cold in there." He scoots past me, his spicy scent doing its usual thing to me. He washes his hands in the kitchen sink. "To conserve heat, we should keep the door closed."

"I guess that means we're bunking tonight." My heart speeds up a touch, a rebellious tap of the accelerator. I blame his scent and strong hands.

"It does not." He dries his hands on a dish towel, his relaxed vibe fading quicker than the heat in the guest room.

"Where are you going to sleep? There's only one usable bed left." I nudge my chin at the main bedroom. Our bedroom.

"The couch will be fine," he says.

"It's a loveseat. We barely fit sitting and you're going to sleep on it?"

"I've napped on it. I'll make it work."

"You're not a twenty-five-year-old crashing on a couch. You're going to wake up with a bad back. Trust me on this. Sleeping on a couch isn't enjoyable," I tell him.

Data scrunches his eyebrows together in that quizzical way that makes my stomach flip .

"I've been crashing on Preeti's couch since we … since I moved out."

"Marsh." He puts his hand on his heart. "I've been to her apartment. That's not a comfortable couch."

"You don't need to tell me." I shrug.

"And it's a studio," he adds.

"We thumbtacked an old tablecloth to the ceiling for privacy." Sadly, tablecloths aren't soundproof.

"Good Lord, that sounds depressing."

"It's a roof over my head. And it's only temporary," I reply with a confident nod. I want him to know I'm okay.

"Babe." The word slips so easily from his lips. It catches Data off guard, and I don't correct him. "If you need money, I … "

I hold up my hand, refusing to go down that path. I don't deserve his sympathy, and I sure as hell don't deserve his money. I made my uncomfortable couch, and I must lay in it.

"Once we sell this place, I'll be able to get my own apartment."

"Yeah. Right. That's good. I'm gonna … " Data points to scoot past me once more. This time, I create ample space to let him pass. No spicy scent sniffing.

"How is the apartment? What's the scoop on The Bigby?"

"Same old. The steps between the second and third floors are still shaky. Mrs. Krumholtz is continuing her crusade to ban people from using the rooftop for parties. Horton's parrot won't shut up no matter how much Mrs. Lee yells at it from her balcony. Carl thinks being the super simply is a title and doesn't mean he needs to actually fix anything. And Bryce and Anthony are being very Bryce and Anthony."

The updates tug at me unexpectedly. Kooky neighbors are like family. Annoying as shit, but forever holding a place in your heart. I didn't just lose a boyfriend and a place to sleep when I broke up with Data .

"Bryce says hello, by the way."

"No, he doesn't." I know Bryce. The man never met a piece of drama he couldn't find a way to insert himself into. As I was moving out of the apartment, he stopped me in the hall, and whispered "I wish you well" into my ear, exactly as Gwyneth Paltrow did to the man who sued her and lost.

"What's Bryce saying about me?" I ask. "Let me guess: something about the breakup gods enacting revenge."

Data's eyes bulge open, a deer caught in some kind of headlights.

"You okay?"

"I'm going to pack up some more books." He turns to the waiting piles on the floor. I packed up some earlier today, but there's always more.

I was never a book person until we bought this cabin. A cozy stove and lots of chunky blankets make for a perfect reading environment. After a leisurely hike in warmer months, I'd make us fresh lemonade, and we'd sit out back, reading, and sipping our drinks. In colder months, we'd snuggle on the small couch or just stay in bed, alternating between canoodling, reading, and other physical activities. It was the perfect antidote to a stressful week in the NYC grind.

"Why do we have so many books?" Data flips through a used Emily Henry book likely picked up for a quarter from the thrift shop.

"Because you didn't want a TV up here. You thought it would kill the romance."

"Yeah, we managed to do that on our own," Data says with a loaded sigh. If only a breakup could kill the romance between two people. Too bad love is stronger than we think.

The oven dings. I retreat to the kitchen to pull out the pizza. The warm aroma of the cheese makes my stomach growl. Yep, totally edible.

"Another thing," he says, when I bring it to the living room on plates for us. An accounting textbook sits on his lap. "Maybe accounting isn't my passion, but I don't hate it. I like figuring out problems and finding order. There may be no art to it, but I'm proud of the work I do."

"And you're damn good at it. I should've said that before." I wave behind me. Before meaning earlier today, and years ago. "I think I took out some of my job frustration on yours. Anyone who's able to justify my Chipotle lunches as a legitimate business expense is a master at their craft."

Data flashes me a supportive smile, one full of long-wanted appreciation. "Speaking of food, this is the least appetizing pizza I've ever had."

As soon as I take a bite, I have to agree. It's the flat cola of pizza. The ingredients are there, but the taste is not.

"Maybe we can try to go to the General Store for another food run tomorrow," I say. "Maybe Duffy is selling eggs. I could go for a good omelet."

"Marsh." He shoves my shoulder.

"Ow."

"That's it! Duffy!"

"Duffy? What about Duffy?" Aside from the fact that he gets all of his news from the bulletin board in the store, Maddi's husband is a sweet guy. He co-runs the store with her and sells eggs and meat at local farmers markets.

"Remember when we were last here over the summer, and Duffy was talking about getting a plow installed on his truck to make some extra money?"

"You remember that?"

"Yes, because all the way home, you kept making jokes about how much you love plowing and getting plowed. Ha ha, we get it. Plowing. Double entendres. Honestly, I think those jokes were beneath you."

"Fair, but if I recall correctly, later that day, so were you. "

Data's cheeks go red. My pants get tight. Fortunately, I have Emily Henry to shield my erection.

"Anyway, if Duffy has a plow, he can clear our driveway and access road, and we'll be able to get out of here." Data paces with possibility. "Maybe we can even get out on schedule."

"Sweet." I jam half a slice of cardboard pizza into my mouth, a familiar twinge tightening inside me.

"First thing tomorrow, we're going to The General Store." Data is like a kid who can't wait to wake up on Christmas morning.

I give him a salute, even if my heart's not in it.