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

pointed at the next picture. “She yelled at me for taking that last one. Said she didn’t want to remember when she was that big and awkward.”
    “She still looks beautiful.” Cassandra flicked her eyes back at Brady. “And I could call her something here, but I won’t. So, brownie points.”
    She turned the page before Brady could say anything, and then he couldn’t say anything. The very first picture of Charlie, screaming and hugged tight to his mother’s chest. Samantha’s smile so wide, the tears flowing down her cheeks.
    Brady walked away from that picture. He walked over to the window and stared out at the brightly lit pool.
    Cassandra’s arms slid around him and she laid her head against his back, and Brady didn’t like it. Not here, not in his home. His wife’s home.
    He pushed her arms off. “How can the end not change what came before, Cassandra? How can I not look at that picture and not remember what happened to him?”
    “Just look at the picture and remember him on that day. Remember holding him in your arms, remember how he smelled, remember how he cried. On that day.”
    “You know what I remember about that day? You know what I remember about all those important days? I remember that little baggie sitting in my pocket. I remember the feel of the bottle in my hand.”
    He didn’t know when he’d started using, just knew it was sometime in college. Couldn’t remember why, it was just the thing to do.
    He couldn’t know how many of the pictures he’d just looked at had been of him high. He would guess most of them were because that was how he usually celebrated back then.
    And he wouldn’t have called himself a user or a drunk until he’d been chained to a hospital bed, dying because he couldn’t get a hit. Screaming and sweating and unable to remember what had happened, what he’d done, because of the drugs he’d been on and the alcohol he’d washed them down with.
    Her arms came back around his waist and she hugged him tight, squeezed her hands together so he couldn’t push her off.
    “You don’t remember holding him at all?”
    “You don’t want me to remember that other part? The reason for my misery?”
    “You live in misery, Brady. Tonight’s for the good memories.”
    The good memories hurt just as bad. And it was so long ago, so clouded, but he closed his eyes and tried to remember.
    “. . .I remember them wiping him down. He was. . .blue and purple and covered in gunk, and they were so rough. And Samantha just held him and cried. She’d been screaming and in pain, and then she was laughing and crying.”
    “Sounds horrible.”
    It had been. Horrible, and he didn’t know how his wife could have even imagined doing it again.
    But he remembered it had been wonderful, too.
    Horrible and wonderful. And wasn’t that the very definition of life?
    For a moment, he could almost understand it. Could almost hear what Cassandra had been telling him over and over again. The horrible parts couldn’t undo what was wonderful. You just had to get through it.
    Life’s a bitch. What’s next?
    Brady hadn’t wanted a next; he didn’t know why he’d been given one. He didn’t know why he’d been given another one when he’d refused to do anything with the first one.
    But he looked down at Cassandra’s arms wrapped tight around his waist and knew she was his next.
    He said, “There’s a pen holder on the desk where I used to hide drugs.”
    He turned in her arms, forcing her to let him loose. She looked where he was pointing and he pushed her toward the desk softly.
    When she picked it up, Brady could feel it in his hand. Remembered what it felt like, how heavy it was.
    Cassandra took out the pens, looked inside, flipped it upside down. Brady stayed by the window and watched her.
    “Smack it a few times.”
    She did, harder and harder until the false bottom fell out. No little baggies fell with it and Brady started breathing again.
    Cassandra picked up the false bottom.