The Message Before Marriage

There were exactly seven days left until the wedding between Blair Scott and me. The living room coffee table was piled high with freshly arrived wedding candy boxes. The red silk edges scratched my wrist, and the gold-embossed word of "happiness" on the box dazzled my eyes. Last night, Simon Jones traveled over a thousand kilometers by high-speed train, carrying a bulging canvas bag filled with my favorite marinated duck—he always remembers my cravings. We crouched on the floor pasting the decorations; he always stuck them crooked, the corners lifting like drooping ears. I laughed at his clumsiness; he retorted, "It's not me getting married anyway," yet still awkwardly pressed the corners flat. I looked at his profile, recalling how we used to paste Spring Festival couplets as children—he was the same then, always teased by my mother afterwards, and we would chase and wrestle. Halfway through washing, my phone vibrated three times in the living room; in the quiet, the sound was all the more piercing. The phone lay beside me, its screen lit up, and a message popped up: "I want to spend another night with you. The hotel is booked, Room 1208." Immediately after came a photo of a profile, the collar pressed low, and a mole on the collarbone I knew all too well — it was Blair Scott. My hand clenched tightly, knuckles white, the phone case digging painfully into my palm, and my breath caught for a moment. How could it be her? Yesterday she said she was going to try on wedding dresses with her close friend today and complained she was tired, asking me to take her out for hotpot. I wanted to rush into the bathroom and confront Simon Jones, but my legs felt like they were filled with lead, my mind flooded with chaotic thoughts: Could it be a namesake? Could it be a prank? The phone vibrated again: "Hurry up, don't make me wait as long as last time." The words "last time" stung like needles in my heart. On a whim, I answered Blair Scott's video call. It connected after three rings. She wore a half-finished off-white wedding dress, her hair pinned behind her ears, smiling as she said, "Eric, why the sudden call? Missing me?" Her close friend Vivian leaned over and said, "Eric Lincoln, Blair just said she's going to make you breakfast every day!" Blair pushed Vivian gently, causing the camera to wobble, revealing the mirror in the bridal shop and other girls trying on dresses. My tense shoulders eased slightly, and I forced a smile: "It's nothing, I just wanted to see if you were fine." "I'll show you the dress tomorrow. Today, we're just adjusting the measurements." Blair blinked and exchanged a few casual words before hanging up. I stared at Simon Jones's darkened phone screen, like a silent mouth. The sound of water in the bathroom ceased. Simon Jones stepped out, wrapped in a towel, his hair still dripping: "Who just called? I thought I heard you talking." "A sales call, asking about booking a hotel." I handed him the phone, unable to meet his eyes. He gripped the phone tightly, his fingers tracing the screen. When he turned to get his clothes, I noticed his ears were flushed, and his footsteps were quicker than usual, as if avoiding something. At that moment, a cloud of doubt rose again in my heart, like a thin mist shrouding my unease. The wedding candy box in the living room remained vividly red, but its glare felt like a cruel mockery of my self-deception. The next morning, I woke up very early, before dawn had fully broken. From the living room came the sound of Simon Jones playing games—the tapping of keys stirring my restless mind. I sat on the edge of the bed, yesterday's messages replaying like scenes from a movie, Blair Scott's smiling face overlapping with the words, a heavy ache settling in my chest. I decided I had to get a clear answer—at least to understand the pain fully. I walked into the living room; Simon Jones had headphones on, deeply focused on ranked gameplay, leaning forward. "What's up? Hurry, I am in the middle of a game." "Are you seeing someone?" I fixed my gaze on his profile, unwilling to miss a single expression. His hand froze for half a second, his eyes drifting away. "No, I don't have time for that." "Then who sent you those messages last night? She even sent photos." I pressed him further, my voice involuntarily rising. He suddenly yanked off his earphones and slammed them onto the table, his phone crashing onto the sofa. "Eric Lincoln, what do you mean? You checked my phone?" "It popped up by itself! I hardly had a choice but to see it!" I was angry too—clearly, he was at fault, yet he twisted it back on me. "Just because it popped up doesn't mean you had to look. Why are you invading my privacy?" He stood up, towering over me, "We've been childhood friends, but you can't interfere with my private life!" "I'm worried about you! What exactly is going on between you two?" I stood up too, my chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "You're being unreasonable!" He grabbed his coat and stormed out. "You can handle the wedding yourself—I don't want to see your face!" He slammed the door so hard that the picture frame on the wall rattled.