The Heart-broken Proposal

This year's Valentine's's Day breeze carries a hidden anticipation I can no longer conceal. I cut short my ten-month overseas assignment by two months, all to surprise Wendy Scott with a marriage proposal. Ten months ago, as I dragged my suitcase to the airport, Wendy held me tightly, tears streaming, promising to get engaged when I returned. At that moment, as I stroked her hair, my heart was certain—she was the one for life. Before departing, I carefully removed my grandmother's silver lock, wrapped it twice with a red cord, and wore it around my neck, intending that at the engagement, she could touch this warm lock and hear my grandmother's story. For this proposal, I secretly contacted Wendy Scott's favorite flower shop. I ordered two hundred pots of red roses with thorns three months in advance; she always said that flowers with thorns are the most vibrant, just like our love. When I placed the order, the owner joked that it's rare to see a man so devoted, even choosing the variety Wendy mentioned—'Carola.' I smiled and said I wanted the best for her. I chose the rooftop restaurant by the river for the proposal—the spot with the best view. I specifically asked the owner to replace the wall with a collage of our photos, from high school to now—a wall full of memories. There is a photo taken at our senior year graduation; I am wearing a blue and white school uniform, and she stands beside me, holding up an ice cream, her smile curving her eyes into crescent moons. Back then, I believed that smile would stay with me for a lifetime. At five in the afternoon, I stood on the terrace waiting for Wendy Scott, clutching the ring box. My fingertips repeatedly traced the edges of the velvet box; even my palms were sweaty. I adjusted my tie in the glass reflection, then tucked the silver lock further into my collar, afraid it might show during the proposal and spoil the surprise. From afar, I saw Wendy Scott approaching, dressed in the white dress she had said she wanted to wear last year. But the next moment, my eyes were locked onto her belly—the unmistakable curve that no longer could be concealed. A chill wind swept across the river, yet I felt as if I were burning alive, as though a pot of boiling water had been poured over me. A loud buzzing erupted in my mind, as if struck by a heavy mallet. The ring box in my hand slipped and fell with a sharp 'pop'; the ring rolled out, shimmering dazzlingly in the sunset. I wanted to move, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't lift my foot; all I could see was Wendy Scott's swollen belly, magnified over and over in my vision. Wendy hurried over, bent down, and picked up the ring; tears instantly welled in her eyes. She held her belly, her voice trembling with sobs: "Yale, I know what you want to do, and I'm willing!" She reached out to slip the ring onto her finger, her movements desperate, as if afraid I would change my mind. I rushed forward and snatched the ring from her hand. My voice shook, yet was filled with uncontrollable anger: "Willing? In your dreams!" I gripped the ring too tightly, its edge digging painfully into my palm, yet I felt nothing—only as if my heart were being squeezed by a hand, struggling to catch its breath. Wendy Scott was stunned; the joy on her face vanished instantly, replaced by a look of hurt. She bit her lip, tears streaming down: "Yale, what's wrong? Is it just because I'm pregnant?" She reached up to wipe her tears away, her movements still as coquettish as before, as if I had no right to be angry or to question her. "Pregnant?" I stared at her belly, my heart aching as if stabbed by a needle. "Is this child mine?" How I wished she would immediately deny it and say I was overthinking, but her eyes flickered before she averted her gaze. Wendy Scott's eyes flickered briefly, then she returned to her usual coquettish demeanor. She reached out to take my arm, but I pulled away. "Why do you ask that? I just wanted to test you—to see if you would leave me because of the child." The words 'test you,' spoken so casually from her lips, stabbed into my heart like a knife. "Test me?" I recalled last year's incident, and my anger flared even more. "Last time, before I had to sign an eighty-million contract, you said you had a car accident. When I rushed to the hospital, you were drinking bubble tea. Was that also a test?" That day, I had turned down an important meeting, running red lights all the way to the hospital, only to see her sitting on a bench, holding a pearl milk tea, smiling as she said, "I was just kidding, I just wanted you to keep me company." Wendy Scott pouted, looking completely self-righteous: "I just feel insecure! You're always on business trips, and I'm afraid you'll forget me." "Feeling insecure, so you try to test me by carrying someone else's child?" I looked at her and, for the first time, felt she was a stranger. I used to think her little temper was cute, but now I realize it wasn't a little temper at all—it was selfishness, a complete disregard for my feelings.