17. Data/Marshall

SEVENTEEN

Data/Marshall

For such a small cabin, you'd think we'd be able to pack everything up quickly. You'd be completely wrong. That's the thing they don't tell you about relationships: you accumulate a lot of crap. Every time we wanted something that wouldn't fit in our tiny city apartment, we rationalized buying it by hauling it up to our tiny mountain cabin. Over the years, as our city dwelling remained organized and tidy, the cabin became cluttered. And now we have to wrap it all up in Darren Criss' beautiful face and shove it into a box.

Standing in the kitchen, I'm overwhelmed by just how much we have left to do. After our pizza dinner, I suggested we squeeze in a touch more packing. The more we do today, the less we'll have to do tomorrow, the more likely we'll stay on schedule. I hope that my Duffy plan works. Bryce's breakup sex part two idea lingers in my head. It'd be a bad idea to act on it no matter what he says.

We pull out every unturned stone in the common area, emptying every last drawer and every last closet. The mess of our relationship piled before us.

"Do you want this?" Marsh holds up a beige and powder blue metal tin. I think it came with shortbread cookies wrapped in delicate paper we ravished like dogs after fucking in the woods like rabbits .

I shake my head, hoping he doesn't remember the carnal memories attached to it. He glances at the tin, rubs his fingers over the lid, and tosses it in the trash pile. A hollowness burrows in my chest as I survey the chaos scattered across our once cozy living room. The finality of throwing everything away hits me like a Mack truck.

"Hey, I have an idea," Marsh says.

"That's never good for me." I mean it as a joke, but in our current situation, it falls completely flat.

"For everything we pack, we have to share a memory about it."

Our eyes lock onto the abandoned cookie tin.

"PG stories," I say.

"Or at least PG-13." Marsh kicks the tin, and a broken umbrella from the pile falls, thankfully, finally concealing it.

"I'll go first," he says, grabbing a brightly colored pitcher. "We bought this at a flea market in Massachusetts on the drive up." Marsh runs his fingers over the smooth surface. "You loved the colors. And thought it would be lovely for parties."

"Which we never have here."

"Because there's barely room for us, let alone a party." He pulls his lips in, surveying the back of the pitcher.

"We don't know anyone but Maddi and Duffy."

"And the chickens," Marsh adds.

"Fucking chickens."

Marsh holds the pitcher up. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to say something else about it, or simply decide its fate.

"Keep it," I say. "It's too pretty to toss."

"Agreed," he answers, grabbing some newspaper and wrapping it carefully. "Okay, your turn."

I glance around the room. We've accumulated an excessive amount of possessions. Why we thought the cabin would expand with all our junk is beyond me. The usual messiness has escalated to packing level messiness and I try to find something safe to talk about and store away.

"Ah, here." I pick up the pen set my mother bought me when I landed the job at Baker & Gray.

"Your mom bought you that." Marsh takes a step closer. "She was so proud of you."

"She was. After working at a small firm for years, her son finally was hired by one of the Big Four. She knew I'd be okay." My eyes flick up and meet Marsh's. "At least financially."

"Data. Marshall. I'm … " He bites at his lower lip.

"What?" I ask. Slowly but surely, he has been revealing the cards he holds close to his chest throughout the weekend, and I'm eager to uncover the next one.

"I'm sorry."

He's sorry? For what? For breaking my heart? For hauling me up to the cabin to pack and sell the last vestige of our relationship? For telling me he missed me while fucking me silly in The General Store bathroom? My eyebrows lift, and as usual, Marsh fills the dead air.

"For what I said … about you … and your mom."

Oh, that.

"I was out of line."

Marsh's apology warms my insides.

"And I'm sorry."

"Thank you." I bite at my lower lip, my whiskers prickling my tongue as I stare at the pen set. My mom thought I'd use the pens for work. Of course, it's all done on computers, but I wasn't telling her that. I should've brought it to my office, but I let my embarrassment stop me. I didn't want to be teased about a gift from my ‘mommy' and, like so many lost precious items, the pen set found its way up to Marshmallow Mountain.

"Thing is … " I swallow past the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. "You're not wrong."

He falls silent and I steal a glance to make sure he's still breathing. I cock my head, waiting for his reply, but he remains quiet.

"What?" I ask.

"While usually I'd celebrate the fact that you said I was right, I don't know … I know your relationship with your mom is complicated."

Marsh never got to have a complicated relationship with his mom, just as I never had one with my dad. There's a part of our hearts that the other can never know.

"Well, it's true." I run my fingers over the engraving in the center of the plaque holding the two pens—‘Marshall Kaplan, CPA.'

"This had to cost mom two weeks' salary. She can't afford that. I'm going to sell it and give her the money back." I place the set in the pawn pile.

"Data, she wanted to spend the money on her son. She's proud of you."

"I know, but it's silly. On pens? That I literally never use."

Marsh sits next to me, holding a sheet of newspaper.

"Here, let's wrap it carefully." He unfolds the paper on the floor and I place the set on it.

"But you were right. I don't want to disappoint her." I fold the paper over the top, wrapping it tightly. "It's not like your family. I know you lost your mom when you were little, but you have a brother, and family nearby. I'm all my mother has. She's finally letting me help her a little, but we've always struggled with money."

Growing up, Mom always worked two jobs. Sometimes three. People think working as a check processor for a large bank would pay well, but living in the tri-state area, everything was expensive. Mom would clean rooms at a local hotel on weekends and when I was old enough, I immediately got a job scooping ice cream at The Dairy King—definitely no relation to the famous franchise. Unlike my friends who used their money for movies, gas, and clothes, my wages went directly to Mom.

Marsh picks the pen set up, inspects to ensure it's properly wrapped, and places it in a box. "I know, Data."

He gives me a reassuring soft smile and fuck, my heart aches for this. Him. Us. Tears nip the corners of my eyes and I'm not sure if it's thinking about my mom and the damn pen set or missing my partner and the life I thought we were creating together. Mom has always wanted me to be financially secure, but surely she also wants me to have a full life with a loving partner. Right?

In a moment of weakness, I lean my head on his shoulder, and the way my heart thumps at his warmth can't be bought. It can't be replicated with a secure job and flush bank account. Being so close, this isn't like the bathroom at the store. This isn't the jizz-covered Mallomar. This is what I've missed most. Marsh rests his head on mine, his warm breath blowing my hair as he sighs—he has the ability to reset my barometer. Maybe the harsh realities of life caused Mom to stop believing in love, to only focus on what she could control. I wish things could've been different for her.

Being cocooned in Marsh's arms, I realize that I need more. I need the freedom of being vulnerable with someone. I need the security that can only come with a tight hug that crashes my face into the other person's chest. I need someone I can fall apart around and know that he'll catch me every time.

With Marsh's fingers caressing my chin, I tilt my face towards him, our lips close enough to touch.

"Anyway," Marsh says, and he's up, scratching at his neck and grabbing an old ceramic emerald green vase. "You just had to have this. It's kind of ugly, but you insisted we needed something for the wildflowers we picked while hiking."

My throat closes up like a vice grip. With a heavy sigh, I stand and head for the couch. I can't handle another memory tonight.

"I'm gonna go to bed."

Marsh nods, his jaw tight. "There are extra blankets?—"

"Top shelf. Hall closet. I know."

"Right." He turns back to me, as if he's about to hug me but stops himself. "Good night, Marshall."

"Good night, Marshall," I reply. I've never hated the way my name sounds as much as I do now.