4. Marsh

FOUR

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: on top of hating surprises, he looks like a pond at sunrise when he's surprised—completely still. Not even his eyebrows move. The only tell that shock has registered in his system is in his bearded cheeks, which blush red at the top and puff out.

Like they are now.

"Hi," he says.

Those red, puffy cheeks make him look like a woodchuck. An adorable, mushy, fresh-baked muffin of a woodchuck.

"Hey." I pull off my headphones. I'm not sure what my surprise tell is, but I have to be wearing it right now.

I knew Data was coming. I asked him to. But still, the sight of him, his thick curves, his well-kept beard, his deep, watchful eyes that analyze life as one continuous Excel spreadsheet … it's a lot to process. My head feels light and I move toward the sofa to sit. Is it possible he's gotten even cuter since our breakup?

"You're naked." He shuts the door. Even with the cold air coming in, warmth washes over me.

"I thought you weren't coming until tonight."

"I left work early."

"You? Leaving work? Early? Is the earth still spinning?" I handle this awkward situation with the best tool in my arsenal: my robust sense of humor.

"I wanted to get this over and done with."

Ouch, but not totally unexpected. Preeti was right: My ass is totally on his shit list. No need to check it twice.

"I mean, we have a lot of stuff here. There's a lot to go through," he says, softening his stance a touch. That's the thing about Data. If you saw him on the street, you'd think burly, no-nonsense bear. The man has heft. But underneath the grizzled bear is a sweet, little cub that few get to see.

"How've you been?" I ask.

"Good. Great. Really, really great. Busy, but good."

"Great. And the spreadsheets are … spread?"

"Yep. Work's great. Really great, but … "

"Busy."

"Busy. Exactly." Data's nose was permanently affixed to the grindstone of the big accounting firm that has him under their thumb. When we were together, I tried to be the supportive boyfriend asking him about work, but when he started talking about flux analysis and journal entries, my eyes glazed over despite all my efforts to stay engaged. "And you? How's the comedy world?"

"A barrel of laughs," I deadpan. "Y'know, the hustle never stops. We're only one show away from our big break. Got a lot of irons in the fire."

Note to self: come up with a cliché of the day calendar, because apparently, I can pump them out like it's nobody's business.

"That's good. I'm glad you're getting back out there."

"Yeah, we'll see."

"What does that mean?" he asks. It breaks my heart a little that he's still interested, that a touch of hope lines his voice when it comes to my comedy career.

"Nothing." I wave it off. Now is not the time to get into this. Or ever. Because as an ex, he's under no responsibility to listen to my woes.

Data's eyes drift south to my boxers before he pulls his head up and dear God please let my dick be soft. "Um, could you put on some clothes?"

"You don't like them?" I snap the waistband of the boxers taking a quick peek. Flawless and flaccid. "You got them for me."

Our first Valentine's. He damn near tore them apart getting them off me later that night.

"That was a long time ago. You shouldn't be naked."

"I'm not naked." I run my hand over Data's faces on my ass. "And why not?"

"Because we're not dating. We're exes, and not the type exes who turn into great friends—we're not lesbians. We are back to being acquaintances, essentially. And you wouldn't prance around in nothing but boxers around an acquaintance."

"Depends." I flash him a smile, finding a perverse turn-on in his discomfort.

I can see the tension on his face about how long he can check me out without it being weird. And honestly … same.

"Sorry," I concede. The sudden rush of blood to my groin signals it's time to stop teasing. "I didn't mean to make it weird. I'll put pants on."

"And a shirt."

"Jesus, is this a restaurant?" I ask in a kidding tone. I hold up my hand to block another rebuttal. I pull my sweatpants and T-shirt off the loveseat. "I was getting overheated," I explain.

When I throw my clothes back on, I give him a pose with jazz hands, as if I'm waiting for him to give me a gold star.

"Thank you." He cracks a hairline smile. "That's my T-shirt."

I look down, Fire Island scrawled across my chest in blazing orange letters .

"No, it's mine. I got it when we went that one summer."

"You bought the blue Fire Island shirt. I bought this one at that bodega?—"

"Because you forgot to bring an extra T-shirt for the beach." I smack my head with the realization. Data always brings a fresh shirt to the beach in case the one he wears gets sand in it. No wonder it was a little tight. "Should I give it back?" I start to take it off again, and his eyes flare up before he shakes his head no.

"Keep it."

And then the most awkward thing of all descends upon the room: silence. There's only so much surface level chitchat two exes—now acquaintances—can exchange. This is going to be a long weekend.

I take another look at Data and my pulse races. His full face. His Pooh Bear belly. I'm about to tell him he looks good, really good, but I hold back. Breaking up with someone and then showering them with compliments is no bueno.

Data takes his duffel bag and walks behind the couch, avoiding any physical contact with me. The living room, like all rooms in this cabin, was built for smaller people and smaller furniture. Two enormous, floor-to-ceiling bookcases bought from a library renovation sale, an oversized coffee table, and a wood stove in the corner take up most of the space. Ironically, the only piece of furniture right-sized for the room is the loveseat, which barely fits both of us.

I watch him open the guest room door and place his bag on the bed, another sober reminder of our status. In better days, Data would run to our bedroom and collapse backward on the bed as if falling into a pool. And then I would collapse on top of him, smothering him with kisses and touches, which would escalate to more physical, naked activities, the bed squeaking to keep up with us. It's an unspoken rule that no trip to Marshmallow Mountain could officially commence until we rolled around in the hay—or in this case, our West Elm bed.

Well, it was.

The guest bed lets out a pitiful squeak at his duffel hitting the mattress, a stark reminder of the present that sends a pang of regret banging against my ribs.

"You can have the main bed if you want," I say.

"It's okay. Guest bed is fine." He returns to the living room. Whatever feelings that were dancing on his face are gone. Data is all business. "So what's the plan?"

"The plan?"

"The plan. For packing up all our stuff and clearing out the cabin."

Data loves plans. He would get fingercuffed by plans if they had dicks.

"I mean … we pack up our things, load our cars, and go?"

"Uh, it's slightly more complicated than that. Have you taken inventory of everything in here?"

"Inventory? This isn't a store. We know what we have."

"We haven't been here in months. Or at least, I haven't," he says, his eyes darting around the room. When we broke up, we didn't talk about who got custody of Marshmallow Mountain. I think we both assumed that we could share it, each take weekends here and there. But I never had the desire to come up by myself or with anyone else. Somehow, it seemed disrespectful to Data, like blabbing a secret.

"I haven't either," I say defensively.

"Where are the boxes and tape for packing?"

"Over there." I point to a pile of flat boxes splayed out on the floor with a roll of tape lolling beside it. "See, I think ahead, Data."

"You have one roll of tape. One roll? For all those boxes? For this entire cabin?"

"It's really strong tape. I splurged and got a name brand. "

He stomps in front of the bookcases, overflowing with books we haven't read but look pretty. Why did we keep buying new ones when there's so many unread? "There's a lot of stuff here. Knick knacks and tchotchkes. Did you bring paper to wrap them in?"

"I think there's an old Entertainment Weekly on top of the can."

Data returns to pacing. He rubs his forehead, his mental spreadsheet scrolling out of control. "What about all the furniture? We don't have a moving van with us."

"The real estate agent I talked to said we could keep the furniture here for staging. She can come up early next week to take pictures and put together the listing."

"Oh. She moves fast." His jaw tightens.

"Well, she smells money." I crack a smile.

"Yeah. Okay. Wow," he stammers out. "Well, you shouldn't be making financial decisions without me. Both of our names are on the deed." Data's voice cracks.

"I know that."

"I didn't realize you were in such a hurry to get rid of the cabin." His eyes find mine.

"Just trying to be efficient," I say, hoping that the answer pleases him and that he doesn't dig further into my current cash situation. "The agent says this place will go quickly once we get the listing up."

Data opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He shakes off whatever cat has got his tongue and goes back to panic mode.

"Well, if it's going to sell quickly, then there's even more of an imperative to get packed up. We can't just wing it this weekend. We need a system for determining who keeps what, what to throw away, and what to donate. And how to attack room by room so that we're not scrambling on Sunday. And there's the attic. And the basement. Lord knows how much stuff is still socked away. Did you consider any of this before you texted me out of the blue saying you wanted to sell this place and that I had to come this weekend to clean it out with you?"

I don't know the proper protocol for calming an ex who's not a friend but merely an acquaintance. So I go with my instincts and rub my hands down his arms, same as I did to pull him from the brink when we were boyfriends. He lets me hold him for a beat, and my soul settles as our skin makes contact. It's as if the past six months didn't happen, as if I didn't make the heartbreaking-but-necessary decision to let him go.

"It'll be okay, Data. We'll get done."

I love that I'm a couple of inches taller than him and can experience those big eyes peering up at me.

"And that's another thing. Stop calling me Data."

"But it's your nickname."

" Was my nickname." He steps back. Apparently, using nicknames belongs with walking around half-naked in the category of Things We Don't Do Anymore . "This weekend better not be some long con to get us back together, because you're just wasting your time. You made it unequivocally clear that you don't want to be together anymore. And I've realized that the feeling is unequivocally mutual." Data's chin trembles, which either means he's angry or hurt and right now I'm not sure which serves me better.

His statement is a javelin through the heart, and one I should've been better prepared for. Holding onto the cabin for so long after our breakup is only sending mixed signals. I just need to get through this weekend. We'll sell the cabin, I'll pocket some badly-needed cash, and we'll sever the final link that's connecting us. I made my bed six months ago and now I have to lay in it. Without Data.

He digs his hands into his pockets. "You should get your coat and shoes on. We need to get to The General Store for tape and newspapers before they close. "

I'm about to say something, but whatever cat was pestering Data now has my tongue.

"What?" he asks.

I struggle to fill the silence. "You look good, Marshall."

Oof. On stage, my timing was rock solid. Here, it could not be worse. I study Data's face, not sure what reaction I'm hoping for, yet it remains a block of stone.

I didn't give him the nickname Data because of his affinity for numbers and spreadsheets. That's just the story we told our friends. Data is actually short for ‘dat ass,' because his is spectacular. Big and round and puffed out like the perfect loaf of Sourdough bread. He's self-conscious about its size. I think it should be carved on Mount Rushmore.

And after six months, his ass still looks fine, even as I'm watching it march away from me, likely for one of the last times ever.