5. Data/Marshall

FIVE

Data/Marshall

One roll of tape. No newspapers or packing supplies. He thinks we can pack the entire cabin with an old Entertainment Weekly . And it's the one with Darren Criss on the cover. As if we're going to rip that punim to shreds to pack our crap. I should've asked about supplies. No, I should've assumed Marsh wouldn't be prepared and stopped myself on my way up. This is what I get for not making a list. When we were together, I would've shared the list with him. Given directions. Notes. Assigned tasks. Made a checklist with boxes for him to check off. But now? Now, I'm grateful he put clothes on.

Marsh. In those damn boxers. His almost hairless body, with that round tummy, barely falling over the waistband, like the foam on a latte hugging the brim of a mug. He said he wasn't expecting me until later, but he was most definitely shaking his junk at me. Marsh knows how his package flops in those loose boxers and wanted to put on a show. Taunting me. Tempting me.

Headed to The General Store (North Central Maine, you couldn't come up with a better name for your store?) in my Prius, I'm reminded that despite its gas efficiency as a hybrid, the internal cabin space is sparse for two men who don't resemble a new up-and-coming pop star twink. Much like our personalities, Marsh and I never quite fit in either of our vehicles. He wanted to sell them both and buy something bigger, more hefty, more butch. A truck of some sort. Despite ditching traditional horse for pony power, I still have a deep affection for my Prius.

"Ah, the ole General Store. We had some good times there." Marsh has his legs splayed open as wide as possible because, much like his mouth, he's incapable of keeping them closed. As the car jostles over the bumpy road, his knee brushes against my hand clasping the gearshift.

"Shopping? Yes, a laugh riot."

"We did. Remember when I found that jar of red pepper flakes that had expired in 1987? Or when you accidentally knocked over that stacked display of soup cans?" Marsh breaks into an actual laugh riot next to me. I can't help cracking up at the image of cans splaying out across the floor in the most dramatic fashion thanks to my poor grocery cart steering. My stint as a pasty white Steve Urkel wasn't my finest hour.

But I'm not the only one in this car with an embarrassing story to tell.

"Don't forget the time you made apples tumble off their display, and you tried catching them in your shirt."

He breaks into another laugh. The hearty baritone of it gives me a warm, yearning feeling, which I try really hard not to enjoy. I shouldn't be sentimental this weekend.

"Why did you insist on taking an apple from the bottom of the pile? Everyone knows you're supposed to take from the top," I say.

"My public school education didn't teach me proper apple retrieval etiquette." A slight wheeze and cough caps off his laughter.

"Did you bring your inhaler?" Half of my job as Marsh's boyfriend was reminding him to bring his inhaler.

He pats his coat pocket, and his mouth draws into a straight line as he bites at his lower lip. "Shit. I'm sure it's back at the cabin."

"Do you need a refill?"

"Nah. It's at the cabin. All good. You don't need to … care."

The downside of not hating him like I should is that I still find myself concerned for his health.

"Of course I care. I don't want you passing out in the middle of packing because then I'll have to pick up the slack."

"Good one." A half-smile perks up his face, and I force myself to focus on the road rather than the way his smirk melts my insides.

The General Store looks like it was carved into the wilderness. Massive mountains serve as a dramatic backdrop for the small building. The G in the neon sign still flickers, forever on its last legs. It's weird to see the parking lot without a bank of plowed snow taking over half the spaces.

"You know, since we're reminiscing … there was also that one time here … in the bathroom. After the cabin closing. You couldn't keep your hands off me." A different kind of grin takes over Marsh's face.

Oh, that. A lifetime ago. That Data–no, Marshall –was a different person. I was under Marsh's spell. His damn charms. His jokes. His beautiful cock. If you conducted a study of the most perfect dick in existence, Marsh's would be right there at the top of the list. Fat. Just long enough. The head a beautiful rosy pink when he's excited. "I must have blocked it from my memory."

"Well, I'm happy to remind you. You were insatiable." His eyebrows lift as he jogs his own memory. "The tight quarters, while challenging, only made things hotter. For me. I'm not trying to project."

Marsh's knee rubs on my fingers. There's no reason for me to keep my hand on the shift. The car's an automatic. It has a computer. And cameras. If you veer even slightly out of the lane, it beeps obnoxiously. There's no need for my palm to grip the stick, yet I'm unable to remove it.

I jam the gearshift into park, my hand brushing across his knee. I'm hit with a flash of his panting breath on my neck as he bent me over the sink and drove into my ass. Insatiable, just as he said.

Put the ex in sex. Bryce's dumb advice bounces around in my head. Sex complicates things. It provides zero clarity, and definitely not closure.

"Anyway, besides tape and newspaper, what do we need?" I ask, the feel of my tongue heavy and dry in my mouth.

"I don't know. Food?"

"That's glaringly specific. Yes, food. But what?"

"Snacks. Lots of snacks. Packing is a serious snacking activity."

Remembering my surprise, I say, "I brought you cardamom buns." I motion to the backseat, where the box sits on the floor.

"Oh fuck," Marsh gasps, in the same blissed-out tone as when he would … do other things. "Data."

"Marshall."

"Sorry. Marshall, you didn't."

"I did." A smile pokes through—my peace offering a success. He truly adores the deliciously piney, minty flavor combo.

"Literally my favorite buns in existence." Marsh reaches back, grabs the box, and shoves one in his mouth. "Present company excluded."

Marsh's green eyes glisten, that magic sparkle surfacing as he chews half the bun in his mouth.

"Mmmm. Heaven," he moans with a full mouth.

Please don't moan, I want to tell him.

"Coming up here always reminds me of cardamom buns, so I thought … " I'm not exactly sure why I brought them. It wa s more of a subconscious reflex. The sugar from the cardamom bun shimmers on his lips like copper glitter. "And the General Store's stock is … "

"Cardamom bunless," Marsh finishes for me. He pulls the uneaten half of the pastry from his mouth and puts it in mine. It happens so quickly, clearly a subconscious reflex, and I go with it.

He's gentle, and I take a bite, the explosion of carb-filled peppery flavor making my taste buds come alive. After swallowing the first mouthful, I take the bun from him. We're not boyfriends. It's not prudent to be feeding each other. We chew silently, but a few more moans escape Marsh's upturned lips as he savors the flavor.

"Let's go." And I'm out of the car so fast, the cool air providing much-needed relief. I beeline to the store and grab a basket.

I roll my eyes, hoping Marsh catches it. Our fingers touch when he takes the basket from me, the familiar sensation of his skin on mine creating a tiny spark, and I pull away quickly.

"You grab the boring stuff like tape and boxes. I'll handle the important stuff: food." Marsh scratches at his little seedlings of stubble, which for him, could easily be two days' growth. "I have some recipes floating around in my head."

"No recipes. No cooking. We're packing up our kitchen. Keep it simple." The last thing I need is to get seduced by his home-cooked feasts.

"And snacks."

"Yes. And snacks," I say.

"Great. I'll grab the essentials. Cookies. Popcorn. Twizzlers."

"Chips."

"Chips!" Marsh smacks his forehead. I begrudgingly smile. "Of course! You can't spell snacks without chips. Doritos?"

"Too much orange stuff. It'll wind up everywhere. "

"Cheetos?"

"Even messier."

"Fritos?"

"Just right." My stomach growls in agreement. "And of course … "

Marsh's face absolutely lights up. "Mallomars."

Gaahhh, exes are not supposed to banter. I am showing as much resolve against Marsh's charms as I am with my New Year's resolutions. And I haven't had a salad since January.

"Go get food." I point my finger away, into the aisles.

Marsh straightens his back, juts his chest out, and salutes.

I head off for my items, which are fortunately at the opposite end of the store.

"Data? Is that you?"

Maddi, the sweet clerk, comes out from behind the deli counter, lifting her glasses to her weathered face—her use of my nickname a reminder even this place belonged to ‘us' at one point.

"I haven't seen you in a spell. Where ya been?" Maddi's thick Maine inflection, with its dropped "r's," could easily be mistaken for a Boston accent, but there's a distinct ruggedness to it.

"Oh, we haven't been up in months." I poke through the sparse box inventory.

"Where's Marsh?"

"He's here. Getting?—"

"Mallomars! I remember what you boys enjoy. I just saw ‘em on the shelf. With that storm coming, you should stock up."

"Storm? What storm? I checked the weather before I left the city and it was smooth sailing through early next week."

"Well, my chickens say otherwise. Squawking and pecking for nothing this morning. That's Nor'Easter behavior. You listen to your fancy city weatherman. I'm listening to my birds."

Maddi's insistence on the impending mystery storm makes my stomach twirl. But Todd Carson, WRMV's weatherman, wouldn't steer me wrong—not with that chiseled jaw and movie star smile.

I grab a three-pack of tape off the shelf. Maddi watches this and clocks the boxes in my hand. Her face falls. "Are you boys moving?"

"Uh, yeah." I feel like parents having to break the news of divorce to their small children. "We're selling the place. We're not together anymore. We actually broke up a few months ago. So … yeah."

The statements cause my stomach to dip. They seem to shatter Maddi.

"Oh," she says quietly. "I'm sorry to hear."

"It's okay. It was amicable," I lie. "We're still friends." And there goes another. A pained expression overtakes her face. She's taking the breakup worse than I expected.

Her spirits lift just enough to give my hand a squeeze. "You know where I am if you boys—you and Marsh—need anything."

She leaves me to shop in peace.

Spotting Marsh near the back corner of the store, I head over to check on his progress. His forehead wrinkles like a pug as he scrunches to read the bulletin board outside the single-user bathroom—the scene of the hot crime from long ago. Why does he make that face when he's concentrating? It's ridiculous. And endearing. But mostly annoying. He always found inspiration for his material in the community listings.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Did you know Hank Foster will ‘clean your pipes out' for only fifty bucks?" Marsh points to a handmade sign on the board. "Sounds like a good time. I'm jotting his number down."

Steadying myself with a deep breath, I do my best to remain calm.

"Did you get everything?" I ask.

"Yup." He holds his overflowing basket near my face, and I take a step back.

"What's this?" Under the bags of cookies, chips, pretzels, and popcorn, I spy two large containers of broth, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and eggs.

"I found an old box of matzoh ball mix at the cabin when I was wiping out the pantry. I thought it might be comforting if I made soup."

"Comforting? We don't need to be comforted." My jaw tightens as I ponder warm soup … in front of a warm fire … warm bodies cuddling …

Put the ex in sex , Bryce chants in my head.

"We need to pack. And quick. There's a storm coming."

"Storm? No, the weather looks fine for the next few days." Marsh takes his phone out and starts tapping.

"Maddi and her chickens disagree."

"Maybe I should invite them over for soup."

"That's not funny."

"I mean, not for the chickens."

"Can you stop joking for one second?" I unzip my coat, the blasting heat in the store getting to me. "We have to pack. A lot. All of it. And I'm not getting stuck up here … with you. Which means we have tonight. And tomorrow. I've got to head back on Sunday. We don't have time for soup."

"There's always time for soup. Soup is cool."

"Soup is not cool. It's hot," I spit back. Marsh's face twists into that half-cocked smirk he gives when he knows I'm annoyed. The man gets off on riling me up, and my irritation literally makes him hard. He's insufferable. My face burns hot .

This is what Marsh does. Makes light of everything. The packing. Selling the cabin. Soothsaying cocks. Fuck, I mean chickens.

"You're hot," Marsh says.

"It's the store. It's like a damn sauna in here." I tug my hat off and shove it in my coat pocket.

"I feel fine."

"Of course you do." I narrow my eyes at him.

"I'm usually the one who gets overheated." Marsh's eyes twinkle and I avert my gaze.

"I'm not overheated." My hands pull at the neck of my sweater, desperate for relief.

"Are we bantering?"

"Fuck you."

And I'm on him.