23. Data/Marshall

TWENTY-THREE

Data/Marshall

I may be stubborn as a mule, but there's something about Marsh's balls that completely flood my basement. His matzoh balls. Much like his actual balls, they're simply perfect. Delectable. And he knows it. About both. But stuck here in the snowy tundra that's enveloped our mountain, with only a little time left on the ticking clock that's become a slow crawl to the finish line of our relationship, I'll happily lose myself in Marsh's Magnificent (Matzoh) Balls—his name for them, not mine.

"See, now aren't you glad I bought the ingredients?" He piles carrots, celery, and onions on top of the maple cutting board I made him for our first anniversary. His love for cooking combined with his passion for my hand-crafted pieces made it an easy and special gift. I rescue his favorite knife from an open box on the kitchen floor and hand it to him, handle first.

"I'm certainly not mad about it. I mean, it would be a crime to let that box of matzoh ball mix go to waste," I say.

"Criminal," Marsh says, cracking eggs into a small metal bowl. "We wouldn't want to break any laws. Someone might need to be handcuffed. Taken away. Punished for being a bad boy." Marsh smirks and my face flashes hot, remembering the previous time we were here months ago. Our last time here together … when he slapped my ass so hard he left a red mark and I begged for more. Who's been a bad boy?

"No, we wouldn't want that." I turn away, attempting to hide my rosy cheeks and prevent more teasing from Marsh.

"Do you know what box the oil is in?" he asks, washing his hands after cracking the eggs.

"Oil, hmm, yes," I poke through the open boxes, appreciative for the distraction. "Dry goods, it should be … " I poke over a few boxes of angel hair, and a bag of rice, and the small bottle appears. "Olive oil, at your service."

"Am I Popeye or Bluto?" Marsh cocks an eyebrow as he takes the bottle from me. His thumb brushes mine. After the Thumb Pinky Summit while packing books earlier, my stomach should be calm, but nope, the butterflies are swarming from a simple thumb touch from Marsh. I offer him a soft smile, sigh, and pull my hand back.

"We don't have any spinach," I say, doing my best to play along with his joke. "So Bluto."

Marsh pops his sweater over his head, pulls the sleeves of his T-shirt up, and flexes his meaty biceps. "Well, blow me down!"

"That's Popeye."

"They're both hot." Marsh's arms taunt me and I do my best not to stare. "They should've canned Olive Oyl and just hooked up."

"I'd watch that movie." My mind fills with images of the two beefy cartoon men in compromising positions.

"I am what I am, and that's all that I am," Marsh scowls, attempting his best Popeye face. "I mean, come on, that's totally the predecessor to ‘I'm here. I'm queer. Get used to it.'"

Even when his humor misses, even when the joke doesn't quite land, I still want to smash our faces together. Somehow, the ones that don't really work, while maybe frustrating as hell to him, make him even more charming—which isn't helpful when he's gone and broken my heart.

"Do you want me to chop the onions?" I ask, knowing his disdain for tears in the kitchen.

"You don't mind?" Marsh takes two onions and attempts to juggle them. His tongue juts out in concentration and once again, without trying, he's too fucking cute for words.

"Nope. Bring on the forced emotions," I say. Peeling the first onion, the vapors quickly take over and I welcome the excuse to cry while being his sous chef one last time.

"That's my … " Marsh's eyes meet my already damp ones, and he waits. Pursing my lips, I give him a gentle nod and he says, "Data."

I'm his. His Data. Nobody else will ever call me that. Nobody will ever have my heart like Marsh. A tear falls from my right eye. Damn onions. I'm stuck here for at least another day, making my favorite soup with my ex-boyfriend, who I'm still madly in love with, even if he made it crystal clear he needed to be alone. Mr. Space Man hurling through the cosmos. I do my best to dice the onion into small pieces the way he likes. My heart mimics the knife, with rapid fire thumps against my chest.

"It's fitting this will be our last meal here," he says, peeling a carrot over the Wildlife Bin. It says ‘compost' but we simply toss it out in the woods and the animals devour it.

"Yeah, we're lucky Duffy could clear us out," I say. "If we can finish packing by tomorrow, we can beat the next storm."

"We got this, Data." He flips the carrot, catches it, and places it on the cutting board. "We're a good team. Like celery and carrots."

"I think it's peas and carrots that go together," I say.

"Yeah, but peas in matzoh ball soup? That's like casting a shiksa as Fanny Brice. Blasphemous. "

Carefully, I set aside the carrot and celery, making room to continue chopping the onions.

"We wouldn't want blasphemous soup," I say.

"Absolutely not. Soup is comfort food. And … " He returns to peeling, his soft green eyes seem to search for the right words. "You love my balls."

I sniff and chuckle, the onion finally overpowering my senses, barely allowing the laugh in through the tears.

"Some people's are too big. Some are tiny." I blink hard, trying to eradicate the onion. "Yours are … "

"Delicious."

"I was going to say just right, but yes, delicious works, too." With the last onion chopped and in the pot, I scrub my hands, working the soap in between my fingers, doing my best to wash away the snivel-inducing juices and aroma.

"Let's get them in the fridge," Marsh says. He sets the carrot aside and mixes the packet of matzoh meal into the egg and oil mixture. "The longer they sit, the easier they'll be to form."

I take a seat at the small table smashed against the wall. The cabin doesn't have an eat-in kitchen or dining room, so this was our solution. "We'll make it work," Marsh said when we found the tiny table antiquing. "Maybe you'll make us a new one someday." I run my hand over the knot in the wood, imagining what I could have made for us.

This is my spot while he cooks. We chat, he tells me stories and jokes, and I bask in the Marshness of Marsh. He's performing. For me. Just me. Like I'm the only guy in the world.

He places the bowl in the fridge and returns to the cutting board. Knife in hand, he's about to make the first slice, the innocent carrot waiting for its fate when it happens. My mouth, apparently hell-bent on causing trouble, overrides my brain and I blurt, "Why did you dump me? "

Marsh's eyes go wide. The knife wobbles in his hand slightly.

"And don't give me the bullshit space and time excuse. I know that you were upset about the showcase. I now know that you received that horrible news about your dad right before. But why was your response to shut me out?" Bottled up for months, the words pour out of me. "I was your boyfriend, your partner. I wanted to be there for you, and you wouldn't let me. I don't get it. So please, I want to know the real reason." I straighten my back against the stiff chair. "After eight years, if nothing else, I think I deserve the truth."

Marsh puts the knife down, and I take it as a good omen as he moves to the other chair, which, given the size of the table, puts him about two feet away from me.

"You're right," Marsh says. His lack of a smart-ass comeback catches me off guard.

"Why Marsh?" Tears prick at my eyes. Maybe it's the lingering onion fumes in the air, or maybe it's my heart cracking open.

He sighs. His entire torso puffs up and then deflates like a horrible hot air balloon disaster imploding in our tiny cabin. "You really want to know?"

That's the kind of question an ex asks you that instantly sends your stomach into a tumultuous earthquake. Violent shaking. Rocking back and forth. What horrible thing have I done? How can someone possibly throw another hurtful log on the devastating fire already blazing inside me? But I want to know. Need to know. All the breakup sex and matzoh ball soup in the world won't help me move on without knowing the truth.

"Yes."

Marsh's gaze lands on the table. My insides burn and churn, waiting for the final nail to be hammered into my heart.

"You deserve someone better. "

His voice is quiet. Soft. Almost a whisper. This isn't how Marsh speaks. I'm not positive I've heard him correctly.

"What did you say?"

"You deserve someone better." This time his eyes find mine and his voice approaches his typical vim and vigor volume. "Better than me. Someone who isn't closing in on forty and still figuring out how to be a functioning adult. Someone who can support you the way you supported me—emotionally, financially, all of it."

Tears well up and this time, I'm fairly certain the onions aren't to blame.

"Oh." A sigh of relief escapes my lips as my heart pounds like a bass drum. "I thought maybe it was … me."

"You?" he asks, complete confusion overtaking his face.

"I wasn't sure what you were going to say, but a lifetime of feeling responsible for anything wrong happening around me made me think maybe it was something about … me." My hand covers my face. "I don't know. Maybe I became too annoying. Too controlling. Too … everything."

Marsh reaches out and removes my hand from my face. His fingers rub mine, and he gently massages my palm with his thumb. Even a gesture as small as this settles me in a way only he's capable of doing.

"Oh, my Data. No. This was all about me. Not being enough. Wanting more for you. You deserve the sun and the moon and I'm barely a meteorite."

It finally hits me. Marsh dumped me for … me. Or at least that's what he thinks.

"But you don't get to decide that." My voice trembles. I'm careful not to raise it.

"You'd never … " Marsh says, but then stops.

"No, I wouldn't. Because you don't get to make that decision for me. Without my input. Because now, I'm … I'm … " My eyes clench closed, and my shoulders tremble .

"What? You're what?"

"Ruined. You ruined me, Marsh," I say.

My words slap a sting of pain across Marsh's face. "Ruined you?"

"For anyone else. I'm trying to move on, but all I want is … you."

His fingers stop massaging mine, but he doesn't let go of my hand.

"Why didn't you tell me this six months ago instead of insisting we break up?" I ask.

"Because I know my stubborn little mule wouldn't have listened."

A half chuckle escapes my mouth. "You're right, I wouldn't have." Sometimes I wonder if Marsh knows me too well. Wait, did he just call me his stubborn little mule? "Because that's not what people who love each other do. Give up when they're scared and insecure. They lean on each other."

Marsh scoots his chair closer to mine, the wood scraping on the ancient linoleum. He shimmies down, and leans his gigantic head on my shoulder. The big lug.

"Like this?"

His voice vibrates against my body, and goosebumps scatter across my skin.

"Yes. Like this." I cup his chubby cheek, and his warmth transfers to my palm. It's been a long time since I've felt this close to him, and the absence of any sexual tension somehow makes it even more intimate.

"My balls," Marsh says. He pops upright. "Let's make them."

He retrieves the bowl from the fridge, and I sit and watch him create the most delicious, comforting salve for us. We may be over. We may be selling our love nest. But at least we have Marsh's Magnificent (Matzoh) Balls.