27. Data

TWENTY-SEVEN

Data

I never stopped loving you.

Marsh's words reverberate in my head during my very quick shower. My mouth curls into a grin because even though I wanted to throttle Marsh for breaking my heart, I never stopped loving him either.

I'm happy to report that make-up sex lands on a whole new level compared to break-up sex. It's the solo Beyonce to Destiny's Child Beyonce. Both are amazing, but only one wins all the Grammys.

The best part? Waking up with Marsh's hands all over me. The man snuggles better than the ridiculous giggling bear being thrown up in the air hocking fabric softener. We belong together—like peas and carrots, we're perfectly adequate on our own, but make so much more sense combined.

My head would love nothing more than to bask in the glory of his declaration of love (and request for shower sex), but Mother Nature (and probably Maddi's chickens) has other plans. The snow seems determined to trap us on the mountain indefinitely. I wrap a towel around my waist when I exit the shower and scurry to the dresser for an outfit to throw on. I'm not sure whether this button-down shirt is mine or his, but it doesn't matter. It fits. The power of gay relationships.

"Can we just leave my car here?" Marsh mumbles when I get outside, two Mallomars shoved between his sweet lips. His ability to cram so much in his mouth never fails to amuse and titillate me.

"We could, but I'm worried with so much snow it will become completely buried and die a slow death," I say, tossing my bag into my trunk.

"But I hate driving in the snow." Melted chocolate coats his lower lip, taunting me.

"I'll follow you. We can talk on speaker," I say, walking over and resting my hand on his belly. Even through my gloves and his puffy jacket, my skin melts into him. There's something about touching him that instantly puts me at ease, as if my body instinctively knows it's home. "The snow's coming down fast, but it's soft, so our cars shouldn't get stuck. The main roads should already be salted too. We just have to make it down the access road."

We've been apart for almost six months and I'd much rather spend the long drive next to him. Marsh's hand on mine over the gear shift between us. Grabbing his knee to tickle him when he tells a joke. Listening to Into the Woods (the original Broadway cast because nobody tops Bernadette Peters. Not even her lovers.) and arguing about who gets to sing the Baker vs. The Baker's Wife on "It Takes Two." But leaving his car in this mess would be foolish. We can disgrace Sondheim once we're safely out of Mother Nature's wrath.

"Okay, but we need at least one Into the Woods sing-a-long when we're home," he says, and before I can tell him I was just thinking about that, he blurts, "I'm the Baker!"

"Yes, Marsh, you can be the Baker." He leans down and kisses my nose before I tilt my head up and capture his lips. The snow falls in thick flakes, framing our embrace. In another universe where we're not desperate to flee the impending storm, we'd be the perfect shot for a Hallmark movie. A gay one. With actors that (gasp) have chest hair and weigh more than a wet noodle. And sex. Lots of sex.

"Are you sure we can't stay?" Marsh asks. His lips are still close enough to tickle mine when he speaks and if I weren't so damn … well, me, I'd drag him back inside and ravish him again, but the darkening skies aren't going to wait for Make-Up Sex Part Two: Electric Buggeraloo.

"Yep. We'll be home by dinner if we're lucky."

"Can we order pork buns?"

"I'll text Bryce and have them waiting for us," I say.

"Baruch Hashem. And apologies to our ancestors." Marsh glances toward heaven, then dips his head in reverence. "For the pork." Snowflakes gather in his hair and I realize we need to get rolling before he catches a cold.

"Okay, let's go." I kiss him once more for the road. "I'll call you at the bottom of the access road."

We scrape our cars while they warm up. Then I back up as close to the cabin as possible, and Marsh pulls out in front of me. He drives tentatively, navigating the dips and hairpin turns covered in snow, but thankfully, the thick flakes seem to provide some traction at our slow speed. Marsh's Corolla still has snow tires on from last winter. We typically take it up to the mountain and for once, his laziness and/or forgetfulness prove practical. My Prius still has summer tires because I had no intention of driving up here this winter, let alone in Snowmageddon.

The entire car lifts slightly as I follow Marsh onto the access road. Only a thin layer of snow shrouds the pavement, a testament to Duffy's thorough, um, plowing. Even as the snow continues to plummet, we're able to pick up a touch of speed.

"You're doing great," I say when Marsh picks up the phone. We both have Bluetooth, which is the only reason I agreed to the marathon session. "Don't go too fast. The snow is soft but that doesn't mean you can't spin out."

"I forgot how much of a backdoor driver you are. "

"You mean backseat."

"That too." I can hear the smile cross his lips. Well, the joke's on him because when we get back to the city, I'm going to make sure he can't sit down without wincing.

"I'm just looking out for you."

"I got this. I'm the one who remembered their snow tires."

A smile spreads across my face, and I wish Marsh could see me. Kiss me. A sigh escapes my mouth.

"You okay?" he asks.

"That was a good sigh. I'm just happy."

This weird mix of happy and relieved surges through me. He's finally realized we're bashert. The universe—and Maddi's chickens—wants us together, and there's no sense in fighting it. All the other stuff we can figure out … together.

My phone lights up with a text. I know I shouldn't look at my phone while driving, especially in inclement weather, but a split-second glance should be safe. Neither of us have swerved or slipped so far.

"Yes," I say under my breath as I read Bryce's confirmation.

"What is it?" Marsh asks.

"Pork buns will be waiting for us," I say.

"Bryce with the assist. Three points! Coming through in the clutch," Marsh says.

"God, you sounded so heterosexual just now."

"What are you talking about, bro?"

"Gross."

Marsh's car fishtails for a moment. My heart leaps into my throat.

"Shit," he spits out through the crackling connection. "I'm good. I'm good."

I heave out a sigh of relief, but my nerves remain on edge. "Go. Slow. Maybe we shouldn't talk until we hit the main road. "

"Oh, we're fine. Nothing's keeping me from sinking my teeth into those hot buns."

"You mean pork buns," I say.

"Those too." Marsh's laugh takes over my car, completely enveloping me in his hardy baritone. "Marshall, stop bantering with me and focus on the road."

"I'm not the one who fishtailed a moment ago." I haven't had this much fun driving in a snowstorm. I didn't know it was possible to enjoy treacherous driving, but chatting with Marsh is slowly cooling my nerves.

"So, do you think Bryce is going to spit on my pork bun?" Marsh asks.

"No! Bryce likes you."

"He hates me. Understandably so."

I can almost make out Marsh's head driving ahead of me, but the snow blurs my field of vision. I keep squinting, hoping to get a glimpse of his lips moving in his rearview mirror as we chat.

"Actually, Bryce was thrilled we … "

"Fucked? Thrice?" Marsh laughs and I see his shoulders shake slightly.

"I was going to say reconciled, but yes, that too," I say. "I think you two will get along once you get to know each other better. But Bryce has a lot going on right now. Auditioning, training, dealing with his boyfriend."

"Dealing with his boyfriend? What do you mean?" Marsh perks up immediately, a shark sensing blood in the water.

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Don't hold out on me, Data."

"I should keep my opinions to myself," I say.

"No you shouldn't. We're gay men. We subsist on a diet of cum and gossip."

As disgusting as that statement is, the logic is sadly airtight. I've been wanting to get this off my chest to someone, and who better than my new-old boyfriend?

"Anthony is a nice guy, but he's not the sharpest crayon in the box. And his acting skills … they need work." Bryce made me go with him to an Off-off-Broadway play he was in. The man was less convincing than the lead actress's pussycat wig. "Bryce should be with someone sharper, someone who can keep up with him. But again, he's a really nice guy."

Well, maybe not really nice. He borrowed my decanter for a dinner party three months ago and returned it unwashed.

"And between you and me," I lean a little closer to the steering wheel, "it sounds like Anthony only makes the bed squeak for as long as it takes me to microwave popcorn."

"I'm going to tell Bryce you said all that."

"Do not!"

The car fills with his familiar baritone. "I'm kidding." Marsh breaks into a cough from laughing. "I'm fine. I've got my inhaler. Locked and loaded. Thanks to you."

My heart trips thinking about Marsh hunched over in the snow having an asthma attack. Sometimes, the mere thought of losing your most precious treasure makes you realize just how deeply you love it. Him. Marshall Goldberg. Maybe I should've fought harder when he ‘needed space.' But the only thing worse than not having Marsh in my life is arguing with him. The man throws barbs like necklaces at Mardi Gras. He needed to come to this realization on his own. With the help of some Mallomars and fantastic break-up/make-up sex.

"Marsh, you there?" I ask, hearing rustling on his end.

"Yeah, I can't find it … I swore it was in my coat pocket. Or my backpack. Maybe it's in my duffel in the back. Shit!"

His car fishtails again as we descend the final, and steepest, part of the access road.

"Marsh, don't worry about it. Pay attention to the road," I say. I feel like I'm watching a horror movie with all these jump scares. "We can stop at the next rest stop if we need … "

"Whoa!" he shouts.

The back of his car jerks to the side, and I catch a glimpse of his rear tires spinning frantically.

"Marsh! Keep the wheel straight."

He's silent, but his car seems to right itself.

"Fine, all fine." His voice shakes a little, but he sounds okay.

"We're almost to the end. A mile or so to go." I wipe the flop sweat from my brow. As I remove my sock cap, I feel the dampness of my hair and decide to throw the hat in the back seat. When I reach into my pocket for a tissue to wipe my forehead, I feel something hard and plastic. Marsh's inhaler. Well, at least we know where it is.

"Marsh, do you know why you can't find your inhaler?"

Before he can answer, my car hits a patch of ice. My tires spin, accelerated by the downward angle of the road. There's no turning into it or keeping the wheel straight and my heart thumps loudly in my ears.

"Data!" I hear his scream, but my vocal cords, along with my body, aren't able to respond. The world outside becomes a haze of white and gray combined with more screams from the speakers. I can't tell which way is which, the haze becomes a blur. All at once I feel a drop, like a trapdoor opening beneath me, and the world goes dark.