Page 23 of Comforting the Grump

Cancer? Where the hell had that come from? Worry wrapped around my heart. “Are you… Are you sick?”

“I dunno,” he slurred slightly, the alcohol still holding its grip, “I’ve got these…these damn tests coming up.”

I perched on the edge of the bed. “What kind of tests?”

“Could be nothing.” His attempt at nonchalance was only halfhearted, not enough to overpower the fear lurking in hisgaze. “Or it could be serious. I mean, at my age, things start breaking down, don’t they?”

“Have you been having symptoms? Is that why you’re worried?”

“Symptoms, yeah.” He avoided my gaze, picking at the bedsheets. “It’s nothing definitive yet. But the waiting, the not knowing—it eats at you, you know?”

I took his hand and held it. He didn’t pull away, which was all kinds of alarming in itself. “What kind of symptoms?”

“I’ve been…experiencing some problems. Erectile problems.”

The words hung heavily between us, an admission that had to cost him. I tightened my grip on his hand ever so slightly, a lifeline in the form of a human touch. “That’s got to be scary, but these kinds of issues are more common than you think. And they can be treated, you know?”

“It’s not about sex, Ennio. It’s like my body is betraying me, and my mind goes to the darkest places. What if it’s a sign of something worse? What if it’s…?” He swallowed. “Prostate cancer?”

“Isn’t that one of the cancers that’s easiest to treat? And besides, you don’t know if you have it. You’ll have to wait for the tests.”

“I know.” He blinked slowly. “I hate waiting. No patience.”

“Shocker. How about we talk about this tomorrow when you’re sober, hmm? Come on, let’s get you comfortable.” I coaxed his hands to release mine. “You need to rest.”

Tucking the covers around his body, I watched him settle into the mattress, his expression softening as the warmth enveloped him. He looked up at me, a silent thanks passing through his gaze, and I felt a swell of protectiveness.

“Try to sleep,” I whispered, brushing a thumb across his brow. “I’m just a shout away if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.” The word was barely audible as his eyelids grew heavy.

As Marnin’s breaths evened into the rhythm of sleep, I sat quietly on the bed, my gaze fixed on his peaceful face. The harsh lines that usually furrowed his brow had smoothed away, revealing a vulnerability he kept shielded behind a fortress of sarcasm during the day. It was like watching walls crumble, exposing the raw bricks of his fears and hope beneath, and a sense of protectiveness washed over me.

I wanted to be there for him, but would he let me? My fear was that in the cold light of day, he’d regret sharing this with me and push me away. Marnin Rosser didn’t lean on people, least of all on little old me. Right?

9

MARNIN

The sun had no mercy as it barged through the curtains, and I groaned, feeling like a wrecking ball had taken up residence in my head. For a moment, I lay still on the unfamiliar bed, letting the throbbing in my skull sync with my heartbeat. Ennio’s guest room was quiet aside from my own pained breathing, but memories of last night—spilling my guts to him like some melodramatic confessional—crashed over me, wave after relentless wave.

“Ugh,” I muttered to the ceiling, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. What the fuck had I been thinking?

I hadn’t been, courtesy of my vain attempt to drown my sorrows in alcohol. Was it too much to ask for that much whiskey to have at least incapacitated my memory? Apparently so, as I remembered everything in vivid detail.

The embarrassment clung to me, sticky and suffocating, but underneath that was something lighter, a relief I didn’t want to examine too closely. Ennio hadn’t laughed at me or told me to man up. Instead, he’d listened with those deep blue eyes that rivaled the damn Skykomish itself—calm and fathomless. I wasn’t sure why he’d come to pick me up instead of Auden, but Iwas grateful. If it had been my best friend, I might’ve spilled my guts to him, and that would’ve been a thousand times worse than this.

Pushing myself upright, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, each movement sending fresh pulses of pain through my head. My body felt like it was filled with lead as I stumbled to the bathroom, slamming my toe against the doorframe.

“Son of a?—”

Once inside the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The sight wasn’t pretty: beard unkempt, hair sticking up in all directions, and eyes dulled by hangover haze. The perfect picture of middle-aged misery. How the mighty had fallen.

I stepped into the shower, wincing as the hot water hit my skin, beads of moisture running down like they were trying to wash away last night’s confession. But water couldn’t cleanse the worry or the growing sense of helplessness. How did one handle news that might flip your world upside down? How did one prepare for a battle when you didn’t even know if there was an enemy yet?

“God,” I whispered, resting my forehead against the tiles as the water beat down on me. “What now?”

The steam swirled around me, carrying away my sarcastic quips and leaving behind raw vulnerability—a stranger in my own skin. I let the water run over me, hotter and hotter, until it almost burned. But decisions eluded me, slipping through my thoughts. Every choice seemed either half-baked or catastrophic. With a frustrated sigh, I turned off the tap and started toweling off.

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