3. Data/Marshall

THREE

Data/Marshall

"What is it?" Bryce's forehead creases and Bobo sits, waiting like a good boy.

"Marsh wants to sell." Saying it out loud somehow makes it more real, and a sudden wetness prickles the corners of my eyes.

"Sell what? His collection of horrible nineties T-shirts?" Bryce glances towards the heavens. "Praise, Jesus."

"No." A heaviness falls on my shoulders. "The cabin."

"That hovel in Maine?"

"It's not a hovel. It's rustic."

"Rustic is a euphemism for dusty." Bryce arches an eyebrow.

"Oh, I love Maine," Anthony says. "Excellent maple syrup."

While it's true that movie star looks can make a strong first impression, they only carry you so far. Bryce turns to me and makes a stealth measuring gesture with his hands totaling a significant number of inches.

Men are simple creatures, aren't we?

"Wait," Bryce says. "You still own the cabin?"

"Yes, we still own the cabin," I say, returning my gaze to him.

"Why? Honey, you're broken up. Divide the assets. "

"We did. I got the apartment, after all." Marsh didn't put up a fight to keep it. I wish he'd put up more of a fight … for anything. Maybe I should have too. "Since we broke up in the spring, we forgot about the cabin. It's a lot of work to sell a place."

I shift uncomfortably. Bryce has a superb bullshit detector, but I'm hoping it's defective at the moment.

"You should not be sharing anything with Marsh, least of all a homeowner's insurance policy. You mean to tell me you've been paying to keep up your ‘rustic' cabin that you share with your ex and you don't use?" He crinkles his brow. "Huh. You're usually good with money."

Bryce is right. Mom and I were barely middle class. Money was tight, and I learned not to throw it away. But money is also extremely emotional, and my emotions won out here.

Keeping the place on Marshmallow Mountain meant holding on to the bittersweet memories of warm campfires, breathtaking views, and all the laughter and love we shared there. Getting rid of it would feel like cutting off a limb. A shallow sigh escapes my lips. I thought neither one of us was ready to let that go, but like so much about Marsh, I guess I was wrong.

Bobo leads us toward home. The gray, overcast skies suggest an approaching storm, but the drops of rain have yet to make their appearance.

"It's a lovely cabin. You've been. You had fun."

"One of those statements is true."

"You've been?" Anthony asks, tilting his head.

"Only once, sweetie. You were on set that weekend. And Bobo loves nature." Bryce pats the dog's enormous head. "I prefer the creature comforts of civilization."

"We have plumbing. And heat."

"Setting the bar high." Bryce rolls his eyes.

"Cabins in the area have gone up in value since we bought it. The land alone is worth a pretty penny," I say, kicking myself for repeating anything from Marsh's voicemail.

"Then you should sell. Get back your investment. Treat your broke-but-hot dancer friend to a spa weekend." Bryce hooks my arm as we head down the street, leaving Anthony in our wake. "Maybe holding onto this cabin is why you haven't been able to move on."

I push back from Bryce, heat flaming up my cheeks. "I have moved on!"

"I live above you. I have heard no creaking mattress sounds of late. And while Anthony and I love Sunday brunches with you, it's always a table for three, never four."

I can't argue with brunch economics. Although after putting in eight years with Marsh only for it to end so weirdly, I'm not in a rush to get back out there. I have my job. I can get a dog, perhaps a succulent. I'll be fine.

"The cabin is your last connection to him. Cut the cord."

"But an entire weekend with him?"

"It's the perfect opportunity for you to move on once and for all." Bryce takes Bobo's leash, turns around, and hands him off to Anthony as we approach The Bigby. "I'll be up in a minute."

Anthony waves goodbye. I kneel and kiss Bobo on the top of his giant furry head. Before I pull away, he jerks his head up and licks my face with his wide tongue.

"He never kisses me like that," Anthony says.

"I'm your boyfriend," Bryce says, patting Anthony's arm, "And Bobo is Marshall's."

A smile scatters on my face because even though I know Bryce is teasing, Bobo and I have a special affinity for each other. Anthony takes my would-be husband hound up the stairs, leaving my best friend and me alone on the stoop.

We sit, breathing in the crisp late autumn air. The tree in front of our building is bursting with fiery orange leaves. There really is nothing like late fall in New York.

"There's something else you need to do to close the loop with Marsh." His hand lands on my shoulder. "You need to have break-up sex."

My mouth drops open. The mere thought of Marsh and me and sex is enough to send a rush of unwanted heat up my neck. "Excuse me?"

He dips his chin and glares. "Marshall Kaplan. This is Relationship 101. In order to move on, you need to have break-up sex. Think of it as your fucking funeral." Bryce pats his hands together, attempting to wash away the life Marsh and I built together.

"Well, that is not happening."

"Why not?" Bryce asks.

"Because Marsh broke my heart."

"And now you can break his back."

I still can't believe he ended things with such a generic breakup. He needed "space and time." For what, exactly? In our relationship, we helped each other when the chips were down. But Marsh didn't want my help. He didn't want my love or support, either. He simply left. Not only was I heartbroken, but too confused to protest.

"He didn't just break my heart. He ripped it out of my chest, threw it on the floor, and stomped it out like the time you forgot a hamburger on the stove and it caught fire."

"Don't attempt to distract me with charred meat," Bryce says. "Just do it. Him. Marsh. One and done. Put the ex in sex. Then we can gossip about it on our spa weekend you're treating me to."

I shoot him a "get real" look.

"I'm a dancer! My body is perpetually sore!"

My head shakes profusely, having a mind of its own. "We are not having breakup sex. No way. Not happening. "

"See how you feel when you're up in the mountains alone with him. Surrounded by nature."

Me. Marsh. Alone. Together. Another flush of unwanted heat hammers my neck.

"Nope. Nope. Nope."

"Fine. Suit yourself." Bryce raises an eyebrow, not unlike my mother's passive-aggressive stance whenever I dared leave the house without a jacket as a kid.

It's only one weekend. Two nights. Not even two full days. Go up Friday afternoon, leave on Sunday. Done. Technically, that's not even an entire weekend. I'll bring the cardamom buns from the French bakery as a distraction. He loves those more than off brand La Croix. I'll grab a dozen. We'll clean out the house. Quickly. I'll keep my distance. Avoid Marsh's adorable face and charm. Pack up and go. And who knows, given the time that has passed, maybe we can tie a prettier bow on the end of our relationship.

"Just stay open." Bryce slaps my ass and runs up the stairs. Before he enters the front door, he turns and shouts, "Love you!"

I pull my phone from my pocket and find a reply from Marsh.

Marsh: Cool.

Our whole relationship boiled down to one word.

I can do this—one last weekend on Marshmallow Mountain.

Fall is still in full force in New England, making for a beautiful drive up to Maine. At least one part of this weekend will be enjoyable. As I get closer to the cabin, more snow appears on the ground. It's a light dusting, flecks of flakes sitting precariously on fall leaves.

I pass the local store and pair of cute restaurants on the main road before pulling off onto the access road. It's almost two miles on the winding dirt path to the cabin. The GPS doesn't work on this old logger trail, and the first time we came up, we got lost for almost two hours in the unmarked turns. Now, even after being away for months, I navigate to the cabin easily, avoiding the many offshoots to abandoned wood piles, craggy cliffs, and the actual dilapidated, abandoned hovel.

And then it slowly comes into view—our cabin. The last item belonging to ‘us' as I turn off the road onto our long dirt driveway. Cocooned by a thick blanket of pine trees and smooth boulders, the cabin reminds me of the miniature versions I made with Lincoln Logs as a kid. A half-rotten step leads to a slightly warped door frame—all items on my list to fix next spring. The wildflowers and tall grasses that typically line the access road to the cabin in warmer months are missing, and there's barely any snow on the ground—unusual for this time of year at this elevation.

The sight of our small woodsy oasis and all it means … meant … sends butterflies swarming in my stomach. In the back of my mind, I've clung to the idea that even if we never returned, if we didn't sell, there remained a sliver of something meaningful between us. Then, the sight of Marsh's ‘classic' Toyota Corolla, with its plethora of bumper stickers and a side-view mirror held on by what appears to be fresh duct tape, greets me. He's here.

"Marsh?" I creak the unlocked door open.

The realtor informed us, "It's Maine. Nobody locks their doors." A loud whirring fills the space as I set my duffel down, and then I see him.

Marsh is vacuuming by the fireplace. In only his boxers. The ones with my face all over them. The ones I bought as a gag Valentine's gift years ago. His dirty blond hair has grown out a little, and the sight of his meaty thighs sends my heart racing. Old school headphone cans cover his ears, the thumping bass of another Eminem jam, "Without Me," pouring into the room. And my face, all over his plump ass, smiles back at me as he shakes to the music.

Lord, give me strength.