Some Like It Hopeless (A Temporary Engagement) Read online

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 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. “Creative.”

  “Users are.”

  She looked at him and he said, “I still want it. Every once in a while, it’ll just hit me. I’ll visit a place, or see an old friend. I’ll watch an old movie that reminds me of college, and I’ll remember how good it felt. And I’ll want it, want it so bad that want just doesn’t describe it, and the only reason I don’t is because I tell myself I can still feel her blood. I can still hear his screams.

  “I can’t forgive myself. If I forgive myself, I will go back to that.” He closed his eyes. “I will do it again. To someone else’s child, someone else’s wife. I can’t forget; I can’t forgive.”

  He waited. Waited for her arms to slide around him again. To tell him that he wouldn’t. That she believed in him. That she loved him.

  That’s what his wife had always told him. And he’d believed her.

  But when he opened his eyes, Cassandra was still by the desk, watching him.

  And Brady knew why he could relax around her. Why he could sleep, why he didn’t need his nightmares when she was with him.

  Cassandra had already given her no-matter-what love away.

  She looked down at the false bottom still in her hand and Brady said, “You won’t forgive me, right? I come home a little drunk, a little high, and you won’t forgive me. There won’t be any second chances. You won’t love me no matter what, because you already love Shane like that.”

  Cassandra dropped the false bottom in the trash and came toward him. She stopped a foot away and said, “I won’t forgive you. No matter what.”

  He whispered, “My wife would have. She would have forgiven me even that.”

  Cassandra nodded. “You said she was an angel.”

  He nodded back to the woman in front of him. No angel, just a woman who knew how to do no matter what.

  Brady closed his eyes, relaxing into his peace. Finally sure he could remember the good memories; not afraid to lose the bad memories.

  He could find out what was next for him. He could sleep lying down in bed and not need his nightmares.

  He had Cassandra. She would never forgive him, no matter what.

  Her arms slid around him, her chin rested on his chest.

  He opened his eyes slowly, carefully.

  She said, “Your cleaning service is going to freak when they see those pens littering your desk.”

  And Brady laughed.
r />   Shane liked to think of himself as a glass half-full kind of guy.

  He liked to think he looked for the good in people. . .while making fun of the bad, because well, life was short.

  And when he’d looked into Christian’s eyes and decided that this was it, he’d known there would be bad with the good.

  He just hadn’t been prepared for a siege. Hadn’t been prepared for the bad to be NEVER ENDING.

  He said, “Please, God. Make it stop.”

  Christian turned, looking over his shoulder into the full-length mirror in the oh-so-cute boutique they’d passed and then turned right back around to enter.

  Because a man never had too many clothes. In his closet. On his body was a different matter.

  And that just wasn’t something he could say to Christian yet. Where was Cassandra when he needed her?

  Shane let Christian admire himself and went to find something wearable instead of the swill his beloved kept picking out.

  He grabbed a shirt– not plaid, not button-up– and brought it back. He held it up and said, “What color is this?”

  Christian cocked his head, taking a moment to get it right. “I’d call it eggplant.”

  “You are gay. Gay! Go put that blue-checkered shirt back right now. We have standards.”

  Christian glanced around the store guiltily, then glared at Shane and hissed, “Stop it.”

  Shane glared back. “No one cares. Half the men in here are gay. Another quarter are metro who wish they were gay. And the rest are pussy whipped.”

  Christian turned away, hiding the blush on his cheeks. He muttered, “And yet, this shirt is on sale here.”

  “That shirt is meant to be worn ironically.”

  “I like it.”

  “You don’t.” Shane wiggled the hangar he was holding, tempting with eggplant. “You like this.”

  Christian’s eyes darted to the shirt and then back to the God-forsaken monstrosity he was wearing.

  His chin went up and he said, “I like this.”

  “Gah! You are so stubborn.”

  Shane came up behind Christian, holding the shirt up in front of Christian’s chest and pulling it this way and that.

  “You like this.” Shane cocked his head. “It’s a terrible color for you, but you like it. I’d go with a light pink. Or coral; you’d look amazing in coral. But I’ll compromise with eggplant.”

  Christian whispered, “Shane.”

  Shane whispered back, “You can try on the eggplant or I can go find something in coral for you. Maybe a pair of swim shorts that don’t hide anything.”

  Christian grabbed the shirt and ran into the dressing stall.

  Shane went back to browsing while he waited, finding a few more shirts for Christian to try on. And a few for himself.

  Shane glanced at his watch, knowing for a fact that it didn’t take ten minutes to change shirts. Then slowly made his way back to the dressing area.

  “Christian?”

  Christian’s voice floated over the door. “I don’t like this. It’s a terrible color for me.”

  “Agreed. But come out so I can see you in something besides plaid. I’m getting tingly just thinking about it.”

  Christian didn’t come out.

  “You’re not even going to show me?”

  “No.”

  Shane flung a shirt over the door. “You need bright colors. Beachy colors. Luckily, we live in L.A. and beach colors are everywhere.”

  Christian flung the aqua-blue shirt back over the door without a word.

  Shane pushed it back over. “You are sticking out like a sore thumb in that costume of yours. It’s embarrassing.”

  “. . .I’m embarrassing you?”

  “Your shirt is embarrassing me. I lived with the swim shorts big enough to fit you, me, and Cassandra. I won’t even touch those khaki cargos because I’d die a thousand deaths if I saw you in a pair of skinny jeans. But, please, the shirt. Please, the shirt.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do, Shane.”

  He knew. He knew what he was asking. He was asking for a proclamation. He was asking for Christian to announce to the world that he was gay.

  He knew that’s what Christian thought he was asking him to do by wearing color.

  “It’s a shirt, Christian. That’s all it is. A gorgeous shirt that does not have buttons.”

  When the door opened a little while later, Shane might have gasped at what he saw. At how the color brought out Christian’s eyes and how the material outlined farm-boy pecs.

  Shane whispered, “Gorgeous.”

  Christian shut the door, and when he came out a few minutes later, he was back in his plaid button-up.

  “This is who I am. In public. Can you love even that?”

  Shane pushed down his disappointment. “I love even that.”

  That stopped Christian, and he stood there, looking down at the aqua-blue shirt in his hands. “It is a gorgeous shirt.”

  “It is.” And Shane bit his tongue. Didn’t say anything more. Because he remembered something about a horse and water and drinking. The exact phrase eluded him, but he knew Christian had to do it himself.

  Christian hung the shirt up on the rack and Shane grabbed for it. “Then I’ll buy it. Just for the weekends, when you’re at home and comfortable.”

  He’d just keep leading his horse to water. As often as he needed to.

  Two could play that stubborn game.

  He bought the shirt to protests, ignoring Christian until he was out the door. Out the door and mad. For some reason, furious.

  He whirled back to Christian, holding out his hands, one with the shopping bag swinging in it.

  “You won’t wear a shirt. You’ll never hold my hand out in public, will you? We’ll always be this, won’t we? A gay man and his friend who must be straight because he has no fashion sense whatsoever. That’s what you’re protecting when you won’t wear a shirt.”

  Christian looked alarmed. “Not here, Shane. Please.”

  “You’re protecting your image. God knows why you’ll even be seen with me, I must be so embarrassing to you.”

  He turned in a circle, his arms still out wide, showing Christian that nothing would happen. No one would look at them, no one would be shocked. Not here. Not in this strip of boutiques in L.A.

  When he was looking back into Christian’s embarrassed eyes, he said, “This is who I am. Will you love even that?”

  Because, dammit, he wanted that proclamation. He wanted the words.

  Out in public. Out loud.

  And he knew he’d never get them from Christian.

  Shane fell against the building, looking down at his feet. He sighed. “I’ll make you a deal. Here, in L.A., where you can’t throw a beach ball without hitting a gay or lesbian couple, we will be out. And when we go to Utah to meet your family, I will be your friend. Who has a girlfriend.”

  He pulled out his phone, flipping it to a picture of Cassandra and holding it out to Christian. “Who has a picture of his girlfriend, even.”

  “The classic beard.”

  “She’s not my beard, because I’m not hiding. She’s your beard. . . No, that’s not right. She’s my beard, for you. . . She’s my beard because you’re hiding. . . She should be your beard.”

  Christian started laughing, coming to lean against the wall next to Shane. He looked down at the phone, at Cassandra who was loved. At Cassandra, who would probably have a few choice words about being anyone’s beard, let alone his.

  Christian said, “Just when I start thinking this is never going to work between us, you do something that makes me never want to let you go.”

  Shane’s head came up and he turned his head slowly toward Christian. “The feeling is mutual.”

  Christian said sadly, “It’s never going to work between us.”

  “It would work if you would simply put the shirt on.”

  “I know you’re joking, but that’s what I’m talking about. What you wa
nt, I can’t do.”

  Shane said, “I’m only kind of joking. All my problems with us would disappear if you would just take this ugly shirt off.”

  Christian shook his head, rolling his eyes at Shane, and Shane said, “I don’t know why you are so afraid of people knowing that you’re gay.”

  It was the second time Shane had said that today, maybe even the third. Third time to call him gay and Christian’s stomach still turned at it.

  How could Shane not be afraid, how could he not be ashamed?

  Shane watched people walk by and said, “If everyone disappeared off the face of the earth, and it was only you and me forever, which shirt would you wear?”

  “You are really hung up on the shirt.”

  “It’s your symbol. It’s the flag you wave to show everyone that you are what they want you to be. I hate it. Because no one cares.”

  “Some people care.”

  “Name one.”

  Christian ticked up fingers as he said, “My dad. My mom. My three brothers and my sister. My two grandfathers, my grandma. My umpteen nieces and nephews. My aunts and uncles and cousins. My friends back home.”

  “You think they would all care that you were gay?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’d do what about it? What level of care are we talking about? Whispers at family reunions when you show up with your boyfriend? Beat it out of the both of us when they see us kiss?”

  Christian folded his arms. “No. They wouldn’t try to beat it out of me. Or us.”

  “Then why are you afraid?”

  “Because I don’t want to disappoint them. I’m not afraid of them; I just don’t want to hurt them.”

  Because Christian knew what disappointment looked like on his family’s collective face. He’d seen it, he’d heard that awful silence, and could imagine it even now. Because he was afraid they already thought he was gay. Because he was afraid it was something you couldn’t hide, no matter what kind of shirt you wore.

  Shane said, “It must really suck to be born into a family where so much is expected. To want to please those you love and continually fail at it. Because the expectations are impossible to live up to.”

  “That’s how it is for everyone. All parents have expectations for their children.”

  “No. It’s not like that for everyone. I forget sometimes how lucky I am.” He sighed. “And I don’t want us to be like that.”