19. Data/Marshall

NINETEEN

Data/Marshall

My back hurts from this damn loveseat. My ass hurts from … Oh my god. What did I do? Why does my ass hurt? And then it comes crashing back, like a vivid dream, except, nope, not a dream. It really happened—Breakup Sex Part Two, The Flip Fuck Fantasy. Apparently, my ability to keep my feelings for Marsh bottled up seems to falter whenever I'm within six feet of him. Over the eight years since we met at Pauline's, the magnetic force that drew me to him has grown stronger. Coming here, spending time alone with him. What did I think would happen?

The muscles in my lower back spasm, and I twist to change positions, but there's only one way for me to fit on this loveseat, and I'm unable to stop the discomfort. Marsh knows I can't sleep on this fakakta couch. Was he trying to be sweet inviting me to sleep next to him or was he hoping I'd attack him like a wolf being fed steak after days of searching for a meal? There was no way I was going back to bed after … that. I grabbed the extra comforter from the bed and made the best of it. Almost forty-year-old back be damned.

I should be embarrassed by my behavior. Ashamed at how I pounced. Commanded. Took control. But I'm not. Marsh does something to me I've yet to experience with anyone else. It's electric. And he was willing. Able. Hard. Begging for it. To be fucked. Slamming into him, my cock throbbing inside his hungry hole, and then riding his fat dick until I finished. All over his broad chest. Oy. Awesome, now I'm hard. My cock throbs under the blanket and why didn't I grab my boxers before escaping to the sofa?

It's still dark out and I grab my phone and see it's almost seven. The sun should be out. I quickly check the weather and I see the snow should let up in an hour or two. But there's another winter storm warning in effect tomorrow. Wonderful. Fantastic. Fucking chickens. They belong on a spit roast at Costco, not bungling the forecast. I pull the comforter under my chin, attempting to shield myself from the chilly air. Before returning my phone to the coffee table, I notice the battery is at thirty-five percent and plug it in. Ignoring my raging boner, I wrap the blanket around me like a giant shawl and head to the guest room for clothes and to check the window.

Unlike my life, the temporary repair seems to be intact. There's a slight draft, but nothing that would account for the cold in the living room with the door shut. Hmm. The hickory I began carving yesterday morning sits on the bed. My tools are strewn about like lost toys waiting to be found. I gather them into the carrying pouch, tuck the wood under my arm, and head back to my uncomfortable home on the sofa with thoughts about the piece's next steps.

Carving the hickory yesterday helped clear my head. Maybe I'll have the same luck again.

"Morning." Marsh stands by the couch naked from the waist down, doing his best Winnie the Pooh impression. He yawns and stretches, and his shirt rises, exposing his smooth, sexy belly. His semi-hard dick taunts me and, for a moment, I'm tempted to throw him back on the bed, toss his legs over his head, and repeat the beard on taint activities from last night .

"You're naked," I say.

"I'm wearing a shirt. I'm cosplaying as Winnie the Pooh." Marsh scratches his belly and how is he able to crawl inside my brain and know exactly what I'm thinking? "And anyway," he continues, "so are you. Unless wearing blankets as skirts is a new fashion trend I missed."

Marsh nods to my cock. With a mind of its own, especially around him, I'm also hard. Fuck.

In an alternate universe, this is where we'd have amazing morning sex. Marsh would have his way with me, the two of us moaning and wailing with pleasure—not a neighbor for miles to disturb.

"And you seem to be … excited," Marsh says, taking a step toward me.

"No, it's morning wood. It's a natural bodily function."

"So is fornication."

I grab another blanket and throw it over my crotch.

"Well, that solves one problem." Marsh rolls his eyes and sits on the couch. "We have a bigger one, though: the power's out."

"What?" Panic sends my jaw to the ice cold floor. "Shit. That's why my phone didn't charge." I retrieve it and unplug it from the wall.

"And why it's so cold in here," Marsh says, tugging at my blanket skirt. "Sit. Share, please."

The two of us naked, with semi-hard cocks under a throw, probably isn't wise. "Get your own."

"Okay, not in a sharing mood. Noted," Marsh says. "You didn't seem to mind last night. For the record, I kept my promise. I did not make a move. That was all you. You were like the titular alien from Alien lurching at me and suctioning your tentacles to my face and … other regions."

"Do we have to talk about it?" I ask, even though I'm pretty sure ignoring the hot-as-hell porn sex we had isn't an option. At a minimum, he'll want to joke about it.

"I mean, we haven't had porn sex in a long time, so … yeah, we probably should."

"Get out of my head!" I shout. Keeping myself covered, I'm like an actress trying to walk down a red carpet in couture. I march into the bedroom, yank the rumpled comforter from the bed, return to the loveseat, and throw it at Marsh. "There."

Keeping as much distance between us as possible, I sit, cover myself, and tuck my blanket under my legs tightly, doing my best to create a makeshift chastity belt.

"You good?" Marsh asks.

No, I'm not good. I'm stuck in a cabin with my ex who broke my heart six months ago and is now attempting to pick his way inside to do more damage by having amazing sex with me multiple times before we pack up and sell the damn place. I should write a country song.

"I'm fine." I glance out the window. The snow is thicker than the comforter Marsh is currently adjusting himself under. The certainty I had in my plan last night falters in the harsh white light of day. "Marsh, we're snowed in. Our driveway hasn't been plowed. The access road hasn't been plowed. We're not even sure if the main roads have been plowed."

Marsh grins and opens his mouth, but I interrupt him. "I swear, if you make a joke about plowing me, being plowed, or use the word plow in any form, I will scream."

With a firm nod, Marsh closes his mouth.

"Let's have some breakfast," I say. As I stand, I tightly wrap myself in the warm blanket, tucking in the loose end securely before making my way to the kitchen. "Then we'll figure out when or even if we can head to The General Store. We don't even know if they're open."

"Breakfast. Yes. Food first. That's my Data." He bites his lip, a human record scratch .

"‘That's my Data' is actually an ancient Hebrew expression that means ‘breakfast time.'"

With this, I take a deep breath, holding it for a moment, grateful I'm not facing Marsh and he doesn't see the complete frustration on my face.

"Are you feeling magically delicious, or do you prefer a monster for breakfast?" Marsh's eyebrows pop up and he holds both boxes up for me.

"How do two grown men only have cereal options fit for a nine-year-old?" I ask, even though I'm secretly glad we were never a Cheerios or Corn Flakes couple.

"A monster it is," he says, handing me the Franken Berry. "You always steal the strawberry marshmallows from my Charms, anyway."

"You don't have to make a joke out of everything."

"Right. Because it's better to eat breakfast in awkward silence."

I take the box and sit. Of course, Marsh is right. Again. Are we sure he's the one that's usually wrong about stuff? He begins pouring cereal, the smell of sugar making my stomach grumble.

I do prefer the strawberry marshmallows and when forced to eat Lucky Charms will pilfer all of them from his bowl. But he always lets me. He usually helps me gather them up, saying "Strawberries for my peach." My eyes sting for a moment. Marsh. Who literally gives me the strawberry marshmallows from his cereal, the best ones, the gold standard, the epitome of marshmallows, and yet thinks we're better off alone. He sure didn't seem to think so when my beard and tongue were tickling his taint last night.

"So, about last night," Marsh says, already harvesting the strawberry marshmallows out of his bowl for me. " Are we gonna talk about it?"

I take a deep inhale. "Breakup sex. "

"Part two. The Empire Breaks My Back. Part two. 2 Butts 2 Furious."

"Marsh."

"If we do it again, then part three should be called Fuck Hard: With a Vengeance."

I try not to laugh, but I'm too tired, too hungry, and too cold to hold it in.

Marsh picks at his cereal, searching. "You know, if we keep having breakup sex, we'll eventually smash our relationship to bits. I mean, if that's what you want."

"What? No. Wait, yes. I mean smashed to bits. Not more sex." Heat consumes my neck, crawling up to my face. "Stop confusing me."

Marsh and his jokes. He's playing with my head. I'm supposed to be furious with him. He insisted we end things. Insisted on selling the cabin. Asked for help. And now we're going to freeze to death up here. Without pants on.

"We need to pack up and get out of here," I say. Finally finished with his marshmallow excavation, Marsh pours milk for both of us. "So we can sell."

He says nothing—not even a joke.

"That's what you want, right?" I ask.

"Right." He shovels Lucky Charms in his mouth, milk dribbles on his chin and my fingers twitch with the desire to wipe it for him.

"We should try to hike to the store this morning. I guarantee it'll be open. Maddi would never let the snow get the better of her," he says. "Bring backpacks. Charge our phones. Grab more Mallomars."

I swallow back a mammoth-sized lump in my throat. I can still taste the chocolate mixed with his fingers on my tongue.

"I'll go. You can't hike three miles in the snow," I say. His asthma and the bitter cold do not mix well. Even during warmer months, our longer treks made me anxious .

"Oh sure, I'll stay here like a damsel in distress," Marsh covers his head with his napkin, a makeshift wig, "while you go out for provisions." He shakes his head back and forth, swaying the napkin like a valley girl tossing her hair. "You're not going alone. I'll be fine."

I sigh, knowing there's no arguing with his stubbornness.

"Fine, but we're taking it slow."

"Yes, sir!" He salutes, knocking his cotton wig off. "Crap."

I fight back a grin, but I savor this crumb of nostalgia for the good times we had so easily.

"We could stand another bag of Fritos." I spot the open bag on the counter. "I may have eaten more last night after … ."

"Burning tons of calories from the amazing porn sex we're still not talking about?"

I drop my spoon and the pink tinged milk splashes onto the table.

"What exactly do you want to talk about, Marsh?" I jut my head forward. "It was hot, and it happened. We had to get it out of our systems completely. It's over. Just like us. You made that perfectly clear." Unconsciously, I wipe the remnants of cereal from his chin. Like all messes, somebody has to be the one to clean it up.

"Data … " He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. Being comforted by the person who caused the pain makes no sense. Does a tiger console the gazelle it's mauled?

"Finish," I say. "I'm going to brush my teeth and get dressed. We should try to leave within a half hour." I march off to the bathroom, my blanket-skirt falling, exposing my plump ass before I yank it up to my chest.

"It's fucking cold out here," Marsh says.

We're bundled up like two adult versions of the kid from A Christmas Story . With our backpacks strapped on, we clomp through the soft snow, packing a path toward the access road.

"Thanks for the weather report," I reply. He either doesn't hear me or chooses to ignore my sass.

"How far is it?" he asks, leading the way. I do my best to follow his tracks.

"A mile or so to the main road. Then another two to the store."

"We can do that." Marsh raises his hand to block the sun. It's attempting to peek through the clouds, the snow taking a reprieve, perhaps to ease our trek.

"We've hiked further," I say, moving next to him. Snow seems to blanket the entire universe, and the quiet is palpable—the sound of our breathing and soft snow crunching under our feet is the only noise. Marsh and I used to love taking hikes. Not so much in a blizzard, but daily walks around the property—finding new landmarks and quiet places to rest, eat, and make out—were a significant part of our time here.

"We have." Marsh pats my back and my chest warms. Even through long Johns, sweats, coats, and mittens, his touch sparks something deep inside. I'm tempted to pull away, attempt an escape, but, at least for now, we're in this adventure together.

"Ah, the rock." Marsh nods towards a spot off the access road. An enormous boulder near the iced over pond looms. It's covered in snow now, but in warmer months, after a dip in the pond, the giant stone provided a place for our suits to dry. Plastered against the warm rock, we'd lay naked on towels. Snacking on chips, Mallomars, and … each other. The verve of sex on a towel in the woods was something special, nothing between the balmy breeze and our bare skin. We knew there was nobody within earshot, but having that slight chance of being caught while we ravaged each other with only the wildlife to witness the action somehow made it all the hotter. Almost like … last night .

"Yeah, good times," I reply, wiping my brow. Somehow, in the frigid air, I'm shvitzing.

"So, you really are okay at work?"

I trip on something. Perhaps a root. A branch. My ego.

"It's fine." My heart races the moment the words leave my mouth. Marsh knows me better than anyone. "I go in. I do my work. I leave and do my best to not think about it when I'm not there."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Would I like to be doing more for the company? Have more responsibilities? Be on a partner track? Of course. But it takes time. You have to put in the hours. Days. Months."

"Years," Marsh says.

"Exactly. It's no different than all the time and energy you're putting in. I'm also waiting for someone to give me my big break in a way. It will pay off. Someday. For both of us."

The thing you need to know about Data … is that he's a coward. Marsh would never say it that way, but it's the truth. At least in my professional life. My chest tightens under the weight of existing. But this is the bed I've made for myself. Sometimes being an adult means fulfilling responsibilities that aren't particularly enjoyable.

"I just want you to be happy," Marsh says, and the moment the last word leaves his lips, he winces. "I mean at work. And life. Happy, in general." A forced, feeble laugh echoes against the frozen trees.

We walk in silence for awhile, the peace of Marshmallow Mountain blanketing us.

"We made it," I say, my legs wobbling.

"Huh?"

"To the main road." The pavement is within view. It's covered in a few inches of snow. The trucks were here. Maybe not for a while, but at some point. "This is great. If the main road was plowed, all we need to worry about is Duffy plowing our access road and driveway."

Marsh raises his right hand. "Let the record show that I am not responding with a plowing joke, even though you've cruelly set me up for one."

The moment our boots hit the road, our pace picks up. Yes, there's still snow to tramp through, but it's more manageable. We still have almost two miles to go, but it feels closer. Within reach.

"Do you think it's safe to walk on the road?" Marsh asks.

"We've got our backpacks on," I say, turning to show him. "There's a reflective patch. Plus, the roads are shit. Nobody will be out. And if they are, we're hitching."

"Good call."

We walk side by side, in silence, and somehow, even on the main road, out here in the sticks, there's not a car in sight. The snow has slowed, but we're still trekking in a complete whiteout—everything is colorless. People seemed to have gotten the memo. Stay home. There aren't any buildings on the road, so it's hard to tell if the power outage is widespread or confined to our section of the mountain. Tranquility shadows us as we walk. We cover a good clip before Marsh pierces the silence.

"So, again. Just want you to be happy. With your job. Work," Marsh says.

"I know," I say, focusing on the canopy of snow-covered branches sheltering the part of the road we're on. "But also, what you said … about me not loving it … you're not completely wrong."

"Excuse me?" Marsh stops in his tracks. "Did you just admit I'm right?"

"No, I said you're not completely wrong. That doesn't mean completely right, either."

"Oh."

"But this is my life. I need to support myself. I need health insurance. And my mom … she has nobody else. It may not be glamorous or creative or fun, but it's reality. People have to work to live. Not everyone is as talented as you."

"I know that, but also it's not the only thing you're good at." Marsh pokes my hand, tugging at my mitten, and then takes it in his.

"You're fantastic with these."

I know he's talking about my carving. He always loved my pieces. And while this would be the perfect opportunity for him to crack a joke about finger banging—he doesn't. He simply holds my hand in his.

"Thank you," I reply. "But that's never going to happen." I gently drop his hand. "It's just not sensible."

"In a perfect world, you could do both." Marsh huffs, an immense cloud of condensation creating a massive puff on his lips. "We may not be together, but I'll always be your biggest fan."

"I appreciate that," I say, pausing to wait for him. He really does care about me, even if his actions show otherwise. My head swims with the conflicting sides of Marsh Goldberg until a vision in the distance distracts me.

The buzzy neon of The General Store lights up in the distance like the Las Vegas skyline. Leave it to Maddi to have backup generators upon backup generators. The store looks close, only about a quarter mile away.

"Yes! Are you seeing this? They have power. We're almost there." I wait for him to celebrate with me, but there's nothing. "Marsh?"

When I turn around, Marsh, a few feet back, hunches over. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was searching for something in the snow, maybe a lost contact, but Marsh doesn't wear contacts. He has perfect vision. No, I recognize this posture and my breath catches. With a mind of their own, my feet move into action. My heart races as I dart to him and kneel. He's wheezing, his chest expanding and contracting heavily under his coat.

"Marsh, I'm here. Where's your inhaler?"

He points to his backpack and I immediately rip it off him, digging in the small outer pocket. When I find it, I pop the cover off and place it near his lips. Marsh reaches up, takes it from me, and begins pumping and inhaling.

"There you go. Deep breaths." I put my hand on his back, waiting to feel the return to steady breathing.

Marsh pulls the inhaler out of his mouth and stands. His pale skin appears damp and I can't tell if he's warm or if it's the asthma.

"Marsh? Babe? Are you okay?"

His eyes find mine. There's a glimmer. I see him in there. Searching my face. He shakes his head and shoves the inhaler back in his mouth. After a few more puffs, he pulls it away and holds it up, scrutinizing the pink plastic.

His mouth forms the word "Out" but no sound can come out over his gasping for air, his lungs hanging off a cliff digging into the rock for dear life. It fumbles out of his fingers as he attempts to hand it over, sinking into the snow.

I grab it, searching for clues. Fuck. The dose counter is at zero and I wonder how long it's been that way. A tiny surge of anger bubbles, because, of course, Marsh would forget to refill the medicine imperative to his existence. I was the one who picked up the prescription refills when he forgot. His big, fear-drenched eyes search my face and my throat tightens with worry.

"Stay here. I'm going to run to the store and refill it. I'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?" I squeeze his hand to reaffirm that I will be back.

Marsh nods. His breathing appears to be calmer, but he needs more medicine before he can walk.

"I'll be right back. Don't move," I say, and even in his condition, a goofy smile flickers on his lips, warming my heart even in the freezing snow-covered landscape.

Turning toward the store, I break out into a slow jog. Running isn't in my DNA, but in this instance, walking won't cut it. Marsh needs his medicine. Needs me. Now.