Some Like It Hopeless (A Temporary Engagement) by Megan Bryce

or even tragic. The good times are good. The end.”
    “And the bad times are bad?”
    “The bad times blow. The bad times are inevitable. Celebrate the good times. Remember them .”
    But it felt so wrong. It felt so wrong to remember the good times when he’d been the one to end them.
    Brady unlocked the back door, stepping inside and leaving Cassandra by the pool.
    He wandered into the great room. White and clean. Sterile. There were no toys littering the floor, no little hand prints smudging the walls.
    The tears threatened again and Brady turned away. The kitchen sparkled with disuse and he sat at the counter and remembered all the times he’d sat here watching his wife clean up after a meal.
    Cassandra found him there, skirting around him to open cupboards and drawers. Dishes were stacked neatly, but the fridge was empty, the pantry bare. She swiped a finger on a shelf and found no dust. Took out a bowl and held it up to the light to see it sparkle.
    She said, “Creepy.”
    “Cleaning service.”
    “They just keep cleaning an empty house?”
    He nodded. “I can’t tell them to stop.”
    “I can’t believe your TV is still here.”
    He laughed, and it echoed. Cassandra sat next to him at the counter. “I’d like to see some pictures.”
    “That. . .will hurt.”
    “I don’t know why it has to. Every end is tragic, Brady. It doesn’t, can’t, change what came before.”
    He waved his hand toward the office, and she tugged at him until he stood up to come with her.
    When they entered the office, she said, “And the computer is here, too? Did you hire nuns?”
    He didn’t have a clue what was on the computer; wouldn’t have cared if it had been taken.
    He pulled Cassandra to the bookcase where seven thick photo albums stood side by side, and Cassandra said, “Scrapbooks. I’m getting a real impression about what kind of woman your wife was.”
    He chuckled again and this time it didn’t hurt so bad. “You don’t scrapbook?”
    She puffed out her cheeks. “No.”
    She grabbed the first, the one with swirling gold script that said, “Our Wedding,” and opened it to the first page.
    “Yep. She’s beautiful; I just knew she would be. And look at you! So young.”
    “I was twenty-five.”
    “You both look like babies.”
    He looked, and they did. They looked young and fresh. The bridal party flanked them and he realized with a jolt how young his father looked. How old he looked now. How tired.
    His brothers stood next to him in the photo, his sister in her bridesmaid dress. All of them so happy, so together .
    Brady had lost more than just his wife and son on that stretch of road.
    Cassandra flipped the page, laughing and pointing. “Is that an ice swan?”
    When he nodded, she said, “Oh, please tell me there were doves, too?”
    “I don’t remember having doves. But I didn’t remember the ice swan, either.”
    “Then I will hold out hope.”
    She sat down at the desk, flipping pages, pointing to people and asking who they were, laughing at the funny things that grabbed her.
    Brady stood right behind her, answering when he could. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through seven scrapbooks full of memories. One for their wedding, one for every year of their marriage, and one named Baby.
    He knew before Cassandra opened it that the first picture was of the pregnancy test; he remembered how his gut had dropped when Samantha had shown it to him. Remembered laughing when she’d taken a picture of it.
    And knew that must have been a time when he hadn’t been using much, precisely because he could remember it.
    He did remember the first ultrasound, when they told him it was a boy. And when Cassandra twisted the album this way and that, trying to make it out, he still couldn’t see it. Could hardly see that it was a baby, let alone a boy.
    There were pictures of Samantha getting bigger and bigger. Pictures of the baby shower, Samantha surrounded in little blue clothes and gifts.
    He