The night before my wedding, Peyton Sawyer's childhood friend posted a picture on Instagram wearing my wedding dress.

She was all smiles, clinging to Peyton's arm: "Just wanted one last spin in this beauty before it belongs to someone else."

I commented: "Maybe I should just call off the wedding? Otherwise, that dress only gets one day in the spotlight."

The post vanished seconds later.

Then, she was sobbing, burying herself in Peyton's chest: "You're going to be with another woman tomorrow. I was just feeling a little sentimental, I didn't mean to upset your fiancée..."

Peyton immediately changed his Instagram background to a picture of the two of them cheek-to-cheek.

Then he called me. "She grew up with me. I'm like a brother to her. If you're going to be this jealous and sarcastic, maybe we should just call off the wedding!"

I wasn't jealous.

I was seriously considering calling off the wedding.

……

By the time Peyton got back, I'd already finished drafting the text messages to our friends and family announcing the wedding was off.

"You wrote these?"

He grabbed one and skimmed it, a casual smirk on his face.

I was taking off my makeup, and just quietly said, "Yep."

"No wonder they're so ugly." He chuckled.

I paused.

The first time I wrote him a love letter, completely smitten by him on the racetrack, he'd said the same thing.

I was crushed for a long time, practiced calligraphy for hours, but he just brushed it off: "It's okay, I love you even if your handwriting sucks."

Later, his friends saw my writing and were blown away. He just pulled out a perfectly typed letter and scoffed: "You guys haven't seen decent handwriting before."

I found out later that the typed letter was from Ashley Carter.

I didn't say anything and kept taking off my fake eyelashes.

When he didn't get a response, he came over with a goofy grin and pulled me into a hug, messing up my hair. "Alright, I'm just kidding. I brought you a gift."

He held out a Chanel perfume and lipstick set.

I glanced at the color and opened my vanity drawer, pulling out an identical, but scratched-up lipstick: "Thanks, but I already have it."

Peyton's face fell.

He gave me this set for our first anniversary.

I'm not into mauve shades, but because he gave it to me, I wore it to meet his friends.

Ashley, who had just returned from Europe, scoffed: "OMG! My grandma wouldn't even wear such an outdated lipstick!"

Before I could say anything, Peyton pinched her cheek, smiling. "Come on, not everyone can pull off any color like you do."

Ashley giggled, playfully hitting his chest: "Stop it, you're just saying that because you picked a good color for me."

Learning that Peyton had been helping Ashley pick her lipsticks, I had my first fight with him.

Not long ago, I saw Ashley's post on Instagram, showing a new lipstick.

The caption said: "A man has to choose lipstick carefully for a woman, after all, he is going to end up eating it."

He lost his temper for once: "She grew up with me. If I really wanted something to happen with her, what would you have to say! Stop being so sensitive, or let's just end it here!"

That fight ended with me crying and begging him not to break up with me.

I put away this lipstick, the symbol of my grievances.

But Peyton, as if he didn't remember anything, gifted me an identical one.

He seemed a little guilty, and hugged me. "I'm so sorry, baby. I've been busy and got the wrong shade. I'll get you a new one, pick whatever you want."

"I want to tell you, I really want to marry you this time."

I didn't speak.

This was already the third time we were planning a wedding.