9. Data/Marshall

NINE

Data/Marshall

Trapped. Staring out the window, I can't help but feel a pang of frustration, knowing that the beautiful snowy mountain now simply means I'm stuck. With Marsh. Who most definitely meant nothing he said during the mind-blowing breakup sex. The sex Bryce assured me would help me move on from the eight years Marsh and I spent together. He said he missed us. Me. "My Data." Why would he say all that? My ass isn't that magical.

When Marsh broke my heart six months ago, he told me he was in a rough place. Between the news about his dad's declining health and the struggles with getting his standup career to ignite, he "needed time and space alone to figure out his life." Weren't we building our lives together?

He insisted we'd be "better as friends," but his evasive behavior told a different story. Marsh may be a hilarious comedian, but he's no actor.

Why would I expect anything different from him now? It probably isn't wise to take his words to heart. Especially when he uttered those words with his cock thrusting inside me. He "needed space" from me. And now we're stuck in the seven-hundred-square-foot cabin. How's that for space, Mr. Space Man ?

"Shit." Marsh stands behind me, his stale morning breath reaching my neck.

"I guess the chickens were right," I say, recalling Maddi's warning.

"Fucking chickens." Marsh steps closer to the window. "We're definitely making soup now. We can feast on their relatives."

"You think this is funny?" I point out the window and turn toward him.

"It could be worse. We could be straight."

"Everything's a joke to you."

"It'll be fine. It snows here all the time." Marsh scratches his stomach.

"I've never seen this much snowfall at once." I get a sinking feeling that this won't be a blizzard easily cleared away by the afternoon. Thank goodness we recently replaced the roof.

"On the bright side, this means we can focus on packing for the next few days."

"Few days?" More snow equals more time snowed in with the one person I can't be in close quarters with, Mr. Space Man. "I need to get out of here, I mean, leave by tomorrow at noon."

"Hmmm." Marsh glances out the window again, cringes with the bad news. "I may not be Todd Carson, but I'm predicting a Sunday departure won't be happening."

I used to love the coziness of the cabin, that no matter where I was, I could always feel Marsh's presence cocooning me. The coziness is quickly curdling into suffocation.

"Data." He takes my hand and his palm slowly brushes up my arm, back and forth, his standard method to settle me. For a moment, I allow myself to savor the familiar touch of his fingers on my skin, feeling a sense of calm wash over me under his care. God, I've missed him. But then I remember his words last night. Of course I didn't mean it .

"Marshall." My hand jerks away and I move toward the door. I'm not falling for his shenanigans again. It is my job to keep the loop closed. "You dragged me up here to sell the cabin. Our cabin. And now this." I nod toward the snow covered window.

"You think I caused a surprise snow storm?"

"No, but you're probably giddy at the prospect of being stranded here."

"Data slash Marshall … " Marsh moves toward me, but I evade his attempt to soothe.

"Don't." I shake my head. "Just don't."

The light vacates Marsh's eyes, but he did this. This tension between us is on him.

"The snowblower. I think there's gas in the tank," I say, grabbing my coat. "If I can get to the access road, there's a chance it's cleared."

"The snowblower doesn't work."

"Yes it does," I snap back.

"No, it doesn't. When you yank its chain, it makes some noise, shakes around a little, and then craps out."

"Sounds like you." I flash a victorious smile at my zinger.

"Marshall Kaplan, we both know that's not true." Marsh shoots me a wink overstuffed with the confidence of being right.

Damn him. Damn that sexy wink. Must not think back to bathroom tryst.

"Why don't we call a plow company? That's why God invented money. To pay people to do things for us," says Marsh. Tell me you were raised in a cushy suburb without saying you were raised in a cushy suburb.

"I can get the snowblower to work. We both know I have the magic touch." I say every prayer in my head that it will turn on. At this point, I'm more motivated to prove Marsh wrong than to clear our driveway .

"Okay." He holds up his hands. "I'll come help. Well, first I'll make a pot of coffee. Then I'll assist."

"It's a one-person job."

"Miss Geist, I want to help."

"Your asthma, though. You don't do well in frigid temps for long." Despite my current frustration at his mere presence, I don't want him to die in the snow. His shoulders slump under his T-shirt, my statement on his asthma is the zinger that finally cut through. I soften slightly. "Stay here. You can help clean off the cars once I'm done."

All geared up, I use the shovel by the back door to carve a narrow pathway leading to the small shack behind the house. Although the snow isn't too heavy, the sheer quantity of it requires significant effort. It's up to my thighs, at least two feet—maybe more and still snowing. In a bid for efficiency, I simply push the shovel, occasionally scooping up the fluffy powder out of the way.

Without a garage, the small building serves as storage for the snowblower and various gardening supplies. There's no need to mow up on the mountain, but Marsh has a blast with the weedwhacker. Had—past tense. There'll be no more whacking—weeds or otherwise. The tank on the snowblower shows only a quarter full. I grab the gas can and slosh it around. Thankfully, it sounds at least half full, so I fill the blower and pull it out.

Inserting the key from the zip tie it hangs from, I check the throttle and pull the cord to start the blower. It makes the familiar rattling noise, turning over the moment I release the handle. Typically, it takes three to four tries, and I sigh, resolving to get the bugger going. I glance up and find Marsh watching from inside, coffee in hand.

I will get this snowblower to work. I don't care if I have to give it mouth-to-mouth .

On the second try, I yank harder, channeling my frustration with Marsh into the hunk of metal and rubber.

The fucker is still watching, thinking he's right. His lips curl into an amused smile, not unlike when I flung myself at him in The General Store.

Marsh said he missed me.

Yes, he was fucking me when he said it, but I know him. Despite his usual tendency to make light of things, his tone lacked any trace of playfulness. There was an eagerness. He meant it. Or I think he did.

Another forceful rip of the cord. Nothing.

Marsh's plump lips nipping at my neck. Goosebumps fanning over my skin under his hot breath. Whispering "My Data" in my ear.

I look to the window, glaring at my ex-boyfriend with a determined scowl. He thinks he knows this snowblower better than me? Which one of us has actually used it? Marsh's idea of DIY is lusting after HGTV hosts.

Get ready to be proven wrong, Space Man.

My jaw stiffens, and I pull the cable with all my might. The snow blower kicks hard and vibrates to life. Success! I turn toward the cabin and give him a big, fat thumbs up.

Just as I'm about to do a victory lap, the snowblower's engine makes a weird gurgling sound. The vibrations get stronger and erratic before morphing into full-on shaking. The snowblower has gone from piece of machinery to little girl possessed by the devil. The shaking and noises go full-tilt crazy. I grab the handle to steady it, and it goes haywire, letting out a mechanical shriek. The force of its jolt knocks me to the ground.

Shit. It's going to blow up. I'm going to be killed in a horrible snowblower explosion, and even worse, Marsh will have been right. I crawl away from the ticking bomb, shielding my face from the inevitable blast .

But just when I think the snowblower is about to go kaboom, the shaking slows to a rattle. It lets out what I can only describe as a pathetic burp before plumes of black smoke leak from its sides, its mortal coil being shaken off in the most theatrical way possible.

"Fuck!" I scream, louder than I ever thought possible. Anger and orgasms produce the same response in me, apparently.

Marsh is probably laughing his ass off from the cabin. I grit my teeth and sit up to face his reaction, but he's not inside.

He stands over me and extends a hand. "Mallomar?"

I swipe the treat from his gloved paw and jam it into my mouth before I can let out another expletive.

"RIP snowblower," he says. "Did you want to say Kaddish, or should I?"

"I told you to stay inside." The words mumble as I chew my consolation cookie.

"I heard the … commotion." Marsh removes the key, and one last pitiful puff of smoke escapes the snow blower, headed for the sky. "Are you okay?"

I check myself. No cuts or bleeding. Nothing's injured. Just my pride. I nod that I'm fine.

"Good." Joy radiates on Marsh's red cheeks as he helps me up.

"Our snowblower is dead. We can't clear our driveway. I was almost blown to bits. Why are you smiling?"

"Because I was right." Marsh shrugs his shoulders all the way up to his ears. "That almost never happened when we were together. And I was right about something with machinery . I wish I could bottle this feeling. Would you mind if I did a little dance?" He clocks my fury and dials it down. "Sorry." He breaks out a few quick running man moves. "Okay, I'm done. Wait, can you say ‘Marsh, you were right about the snowblower,' and let me record it?" He reaches in his pocket for his phone.

The daggers I stare at him could tear through metal. And yet, a tiny, pea-sized sliver of delight blooms in me at Marsh being his old, silly self. It makes me want to turn those daggers on myself.

I push past him, grab the shovel from the shack, and head for the access road. "If the access roads are plowed, we can get to the main road and flag someone down. Do you have your inhaler?" Even if I want to wring his neck, I'm concerned about Marsh's well-being. He may be the biggest baby in existence. He may have broken my heart. But I still love him. The way you love a sad puppy on the side of the road you have no intention of rescuing, taking home, and cuddling with. No intention. Ignore the sweet face and bulging eyes.

"Yes?" He pats every pocket in his puffy coat before finding his inhaler in the back pocket of his sweatpants. "Yes! I mean, yes sir."

Marsh salutes me, and nope. He can keep that cuteness to himself.

"If we walk to the first clearing," I point toward the cluster of deciduous trees about a quarter mile away, "we can at least see the access road, which should be plowed."

"I doubt it's plowed. They usually wait until the snow stops."

"Not when it's this much snow," I counter. "Well, maybe we—or I—can shovel it enough to reach the main road."

"That's a lot of shoveling."

"The snow is soft." I begin to hesitate, mostly because I don't want to see him do another victory dance.

"Ready to follow, sir," Marsh barks. He knows his submissive soldier shtick annoys me. He also knows it turns me on.

I screw my face into my best scowl and push the shovel in front of us. I can do this .

Taking the lead, I alternate between pushing and shoveling, determined to carve a path through the snow. For once, Marsh is quiet. Only the sound of the plastic shovel on the ground pierces the soft silence of the falling snow.

When I turn to check on him, for a brief moment, I see, well, just Marsh. He's at his cutest when he's not trying to perform. He's wearing his purple beanie with the enormous ball dangling on the end, bouncing as he lumbers to keep up. In his green jacket that almost hits his knees, he resembles Shrek. A much more fuckable Shrek. Which either makes me Princess Fiona or Donkey.

His eyes flick up and catch me checking on him, and that goofy half-smile spreads across his face. A sharp pain slivers in my chest. How could someone so adorable be so callous? Like many neurotic New York Jews, he was never shy about talking about his current emotional state when we were together. And yet he ended things on such an abrupt, vague note. It takes a lot of energy to stay mad at him, and he's not making it any easier looking so precious and tasty.

"Okay, the road is right over … " The entire world appears to be blanketed in white, the snowfall getting more forceful.

"Where?" Marsh sidles up next to me. "Which way?"

"There?" I point through the few trees without leaves. "Or maybe there?"

Instead of finding a nicely plowed access road, all I see is white. The snow is so high I can't tell where the road should be. Behind us, the driveway I just shoveled is filling with a fresh layer of snow.

"We should head back before we can't find our way home," says Marsh, worry flashing on his face.

"It's got to be here … maybe a little bit farther."

"Data, we need to go back," he says a bit more forcefully.

I keep searching, trudging through thigh-high snow, the cold seeping through my pants, hoping to see the cleared access road in the distance, a way out of here.

Marsh's gloved hand takes mine, pulling me back toward the house and the unfortunate reality.

I think I hear him wheeze and watch his chest, checking for any shortness of breath, but his breathing seems regular. I look down at his hand holding mine, and my free hand resting on his chest, and it's all too intimate.

"You weren't right," I say, taking back my hands. "I was just inaccurate in my assessment."

"Sure."

I motion toward the cleared path back to the cabin. It's best that I hang behind him in case his asthma acts up. "After you."

"You'll make any excuse to stare at my ass," Marsh teases, twerking in his coat, doing his best to grab my attention. Reluctantly, I follow him as he trudges back to the cabin.

My eyes definitely do not glimpse the two perfect globes swaying back and forth in his pants under that thick jacket. Nope. Nothing to see there.