24. Marsh

TWENTY-FOUR

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: the man knows how to set a mean table.

Even though we're packing things up, he finds a pair of plates, cloth napkins, and silverware and arranges them beautifully on our coffee table. Rather than eat at the smushed-in kitchen table, we choose to have our soup in the living room near the crackling fireplace.

I bring the pot of soup and a trivet to the table. Two candles are lit in the center.

He sits on a throw pillow on the floor. "If we use up the candles tonight, that's one less thing we have to pack."

That's my Data. Ever the romantic pragmatist.

I put down the trivet and soup and spoon us out two bowlfuls. There's something homey about the smell of matzoh ball soup that makes me feel like everything will be okay. It's like the warm hugs my mom used to give me when I was little, the ones that made me believe that the worst the world could throw at me was no match for Mom. God, sometimes I wish I could call her.

I take a moment to find my butt balance on the throw pillow. Sitting on the floor is something typically meant for preschoolers and melodramatic twentysomethings. Not grown-ass adults. But I power through the back and leg strain until I find the right position.

"Ah, there," I say.

"I also found this." Data pulls a bottle of champagne from off the loveseat.

"Whoa! We have champagne?"

"The realtor gave it to us when we moved in." He gives a far-off chuckle. "I kept wanting to save it for a special occasion."

"It is a special occasion. Our final night on Marshmallow Mountain." It almost sounds magical.

He pours two tea cups of champagne, hands one to me. "I told you we'd find a use for these."

I hold my tea cup, pinky proudly out. "Cheers."

He wears a bittersweet, lopsided grin as we clink cups.

"Hmm. This is good," I say as the bubbles tickle my nose. "In my unprofessional opinion. And my thumb fits perfectly inside the tea cup handle."

Data laughs, but still has that far-off look on his face. We all like to think we're more inscrutable than we actually are.

"Hey." I try to bring him back to the present. Whatever he's feeling, I'm feeling it too. We've gone from a quick, unsatisfying breakup to one that keeps getting dragged out.

"Marsh, I'd like us to stay friends. I didn't mean what I said when I first arrived."

"Me too." The lump in my throat that's been there all weekend gets a little bit bigger. "To quote God herself, my life would suck without you."

"I have something for you." Data's eyes twinkle as he pokes around in his pocket. Before I can speak, he holds it out. The most perfectly crafted, tiny replica of our cabin sits in his palm. I suck in a quick gulp of air before remembering to breathe. "I made it for you."

My heart freezes. No, it's pounding. All the blood in my body seems to rush to my ears and I open my mouth, but nothing escapes.

"It's not sanded. Or stained. And I kinda messed up the front steps at the end." His fingers brush over the roof. "But, I thought you might like a mini version of Marshmallow Mountain. To help remember … things."

"It's perfect." The words come out like a devotion. "And I could never forget … things."

A grainy highlight reel plays in my mind. The first time we entered the cabin, joking about who got to carry who over the threshold. The first time we plunked down into the loveseat. Adding yet another worn paperback to the shelf. Stealing kisses on his neck in the hall. Frisky Fridays and lazy Saturdays. The A/C that never worked as well as we wanted. The one picture on the wall that refused to hang straight. The laughs. Tears. Meals. Board games. Data screaming my name before he came. Data screaming my name when I broke a dish. The moments of contented silence that never had to be filled.

I squeeze the figurine in my palm so hard the edges dig into my hand, branding itself on my skin and in my soul.

It's going to be hard as fucking hell to stay friends with this man and not have my heart gash open every time I see him. What the fuck am I going to do when he starts dating someone? Am I really going to do bar trivia with Data and Evan the ENT? Am I going to dog sit Maxwell the corgi while they take a romantic long weekend to Provincetown?

Getting to stay in his life, despite the way I ended things, is a gift. I'm not going to shoo it away.

The heavy moment lifts, and we're able to enjoy our meal. The champagne helps loosen us up, as does the fresh stock of Mallomars. I found a loaf of rye bread in the freezer, and I toasted a few slices for us. Eating soup without bread to dip is against human nature.

Data gives me a review of the new Mexican brunch spot Bryce and Anthony have been dragging him to. I update him on what Preeti is cooking up for Out with a Bang , and as I tell him about the show, my body hums with excitement. The rush of performing comes back to me. The flutter in my stomach when I walk out onstage. The way vibing with an audience feels like riding that perfect wave. Not just doing graphics, but up there, putting myself out there. Taking a leap.

We talk about cute contestants on this season of Survivor . I forgot how fun it was talking with Data about the most arbitrary stuff. Finding the right someone to talk about nothing with is what makes life enjoyable.

Eventually, we eat every last matzoh ball, every last Mallomar. The candles are burned down to half masts. We clear off the table and tag team clean up: I wash, he dries. I grab my phone to play some music. We sing along to Billy Joel's "Piano Man," a song ingrained into every Jewish kid who ever attended a youth group event. A cozy twinkle sparkles in Data's eyes as he watches me mumble through the last verse, the hardest one to remember. After, I share the theory that the song is a gay anthem because it's about a piano player who doesn't realize he's playing at a gay bar, and all the men are flirting with him. Data rolls his eyes, but doesn't disagree. He makes me play the song again.

"You sure you want to sleep on the loveseat?" I ask him a little bit later when it's time for bed. He tucks the sheet into the cushions.

"It'll be fine. With the fire and the heat from the kitchen, I'll be warm enough."

No, you won't. You will only be fine if you sleep spooned in my arms. This is gay science. The words stay in my mouth, even though they're dying to break free.

"Will the fire burn through the night?" I ask.

"I can always add a few logs." He continues to make up the loveseat .

"Yeah. Okay." My tongue is thick in my throat. How the fuck am I going to sleep knowing he's so close, yet so far, knowing that after tonight, everything will change forever.

I let Data go because he deserves a man who can give him the fucking world. And yeah, my career is on life support, my family unit is falling apart, I'm sleeping on a rigid sofa in a shitty studio apartment, and The Gap no longer carries my size.

But maybe … what if I could be the guy who gave him the world? Why not me?

"Here's the thing you need to know about Data: the man cannot sleep in an unmade bed. We're talking top sheets, dust ruffles," I say as I watch him tuck the sheet firmly under the cushion.

Data snorts. "I used to be embarrassed when you'd use that in your routines, but I love how it became your calling card."

Dating a comedian means that your relationship is creative terrain. Fortunately, he never objected. I couldn't get enough of his quirks, and neither could inebriated audiences.

"Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he doesn't ‘trust' dishwashers." I use emphatic air quotes. "He thinks they don't clean plates well enough, and he believes they were behind the Tide Pod craze."

His eyes crinkle in a silent laugh as he fluffs his pillow. "Here's the thing you need to know about Marsh: the man doesn't like using towels because he prefers to air dry and because he claims they scratch his precious skin."

"True and true. I'm too cheap for nice towels, so it's air drying all the way." I take a step closer, shove my hands into my pockets. "Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he actively chooses to go to Times Square for some reason."

"That was one time, and I thought it would be fun."

"Times Square is never fun unless you're from Nebraska," I say .

"Here's the thing about Marsh: he made me watch every episode of The Simpsons ."

"Only the first ten seasons!" We're cackling so hard we can barely catch our breath. "Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he gave me the third degree when I merely suggested we get an Alexa."

"It literally spies on you in order to sell you products," he replies.

"It also tells me the time when I'm too lazy to look at my phone." I take a tentative step toward him. "Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he insisted we purchase a snowy cabin on a mountain even though he doesn't like to ski."

"It's for the ambiance." His eyes squeeze shut as the laughter makes him vibrate. When they open, they're watery and clear and staring right at me. "Here's the thing you need to know about Marsh."

But there's no punchline. Only the sound of our breath attempting to fill the dead air. He closes the space between us and gets on his toes to meet my lips. Unlike the hungry, angry kissing of last night, this kiss is soft, tender, infused with significance.

I bury my fingers in his beard, feeling his jaw open and close as we kiss. I rummage up to his ears, gliding along the soft drops of his earlobes, then to the prickly hairs on his neck, savoring each part of him. The sounds of our lips smacking and the crackling embers of the fire fill the room. He purrs into my mouth and I relish the vibrations against my lips.

"My Data," I say, his big, round face in my hands. I trace his bottom lip with my thumb. He gives it a peck.

I pull him close, wrap my arms around his thick frame, smell his musky scent on his sweatshirt. All I want to do is hold him and kiss him and never let him go.

Data slips me some tongue, its warmth filling my mouth. I slide my tongue around his, making him shiver at my touch .

My hands go back to his beard, then up to his hair. I remember how much he loved when I would wash his hair in the shower using hypnotic circles into his scalp. My fingers repeat the motion now and he tilts his head back into my touch.

Slowly, I lower us onto the loveseat. He lays down, and I lay on top of him.

"Wait." I struggle to maneuver my legs in between his. I toss the throw pillows on the floor. "Big guys. Small couch."

I lean over him, but gravity pulls me off the loveseat.

"Shit." I catch myself before I tumble into a full-on pratfall.

"I can make more room," he offers. He scrunches himself deeper into the cushions so I can put my knee on there for balance, but there's only so much he can scrunch. It's kind of like tilting your body as you watch your bowling ball go down the lane hoping that'll change your inevitable gutterball.

"Is that better?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie. My knee can't get onto the loveseat, but I'm not about to derail this hot makeout sesh.

Fuck. Data is under me, all for me, cute as anything. His face is flush with color. His cock digs into my thigh. I want him so bad. I'll see a million chiropractors after this, I don't care. I plant a foot on the ground and a hand on top of the loveseat. I'm free soloing this goddamn piece of furniture.

"You are so beautiful." I tip his chin up for another gentle kiss, pressing my tongue into his mouth, his hot panting breath sending tingles through my body.

"Are you comfortable? Your face is very red," he says.

"I'm great." I slink my hand under his sweatshirt, shutting him up. My fingers graze over the soft hair on his big belly. I travel up and pinch his nipple, eliciting a gasp of lust from my Data. He lifts his hips, a subtle reminder that he's very hard.

I attempt to pull his sweatshirt off, but I can't do it one- handed. And if I lift my other hand, I will tumble off the couch and pop a kneecap.

I thrust my hips, letting him feel how much I want him.

"Oh fuck," I grunt as he undoes my belt. My heart races with the same excitement and greedy anticipation as if this were our first time. He shoves his hand into my boxers and grips my aching, leaking cock.

I respond by tugging at his chest hair, delirious with lust. I push through the pain shooting up my leg and down my arm.

He undoes his pants and suddenly our dicks are mashed together in his sweaty hand. He jerks us together, his heat blazing through my core, our balls rubbing against one another. I rut against his cock, my mouth struggling to keep kissing him while gasping for air. He bites my lower lip, digs the fingernails of his free hand into my back.

My tender cockhead pulses against his touch, jabs against his hairy stomach.

"I miss you, Data," I say, no taking it back. "I miss you."

"Oh, Marsh." He throws his head back, pinches his eyes closed. "Fuck."

"Oh babe."

"No. The arm of the couch is digging into my head." He tries to sit up, and that throws me off balance. My foot and hand lose their grip, and I flop onto him before falling off his body entirely. My fat ass knocks into the coffee table as I hit the floor, making the candles do a precarious shimmy. I save them from toppling over without burning myself.

"Why did we get this tiny ass couch?" I ask.

"Because we wanted to be cozy?"

I stand up, cock still hard and pointing at my man. I hold out my hand. "Let's continue this on the bed."

As I pull him toward me, we kiss again, our cocks sword fighting below, before venturing into the bedroom.