Page 22 of Comforting the Grump

“Thanks,” I breathed out, grateful for the help. We maneuvered Marnin toward the door, his feet dragging, a string of halfhearted protests tumbling from his lips.

“Get him home safe, huh?” Jack said as we reached my car.

“Will do.” I nodded, carefully settling Marnin into the passenger seat and buckling him in. “And thanks again, Jack.”

Jack gave a curt nod, then headed back inside to the warmth of the bar and its patrons.

I shut the car door with a soft click, stealing a moment to look at Marnin. His breath fogged the window and his face creased not just with drunkenness but something deeper, a shadow of turmoil. I shook the thought away, focusing instead on getting us home safely.

It was a mercifully short drive to my place. The engine’s hum was a lullaby that Marnin seemed immune to, his head lolling against the window with every turn I took.

“You holding up okay, Marnin?”

“Perfect,” he slurred, his words thick with sarcasm and alcohol. His eyes flickered open, then shut, a grimace flashing across his features. “Never better.”

I chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach my heart. It was hard not to feel a pang of affection for the man beside me—even when marinated in whiskey, there was an endearing vulnerability about him.

“Almost home,” I reassured him, though I wasn’t sure if the words penetrated the fog in his brain.

I focused on the road, my hands steady on the wheel, but inside, my thoughts were whirling. I needed to get Marnin home safe, tuck him into bed, and make sure he slept off the booze without choking on his own vomit.

“Home sweet home,” I announced as I parked in my driveway, cutting the engine.

Marnin groaned, a deep sound that rumbled in his chest as he struggled to sit up straight. “Don’t need your help,” he muttered, pushing at the door.

“Sure you don’t.” I got out and rounded the car to his side. “But humor me, will ya?”

He allowed me to help him stand, swaying on his feet, his tall frame threatening to topple over.

I slipped an arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s get you up to bed.”

We stumbled through the front door, Marnin cursing softly every time his foot caught on the carpet. I directed him toward the guest bedroom. “Okay, here’s the bed. Just lie down and?—”

“No.” He tried to push me away but ended up sitting on the bed. “No bed.”

“Come on, Marnin. You’re drunk, and you need to sleep it off.”

I helped lift Marnin from the bed to unbutton his shirt. His movements were sluggish, his usual brisk efficiency dulledby alcohol and emotional exhaustion. Each piece of clothing seemed like a layer of armor falling away, revealing the man beneath who was so rarely seen.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as I slid the shirt off his shoulders, “for being such a mess.”

“Hey, no apologies needed.” I pulled off his shoes. “We all have our moments.”

With careful hands, I eased his pants down his lanky frame, supporting him as he stepped out of them. That would have to do.

“Don’t wanna sleep. Too many thoughts,” he murmured, resisting my attempts to push him onto the mattress.

“Thoughts can wait until morning,” I insisted, guiding him onto the bed. “Right now, you need rest.”

“Can’t.”

“Just close your eyes and let go.”

I expected the heavy veil of sleep to claim him, but instead, he propped himself up on his elbows, a furrow of worry knitting his brows. His eyes, normally so guarded and sharp, were clouded with a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within me. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

My heart clenched. Marnin, the man who seemed to wield sarcasm like a shield, was peeling back layers I’d never seen before. “Scared? Of what?”

He stared at me for a long time. “Cancer.”

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