“We can’t have a wedding with a groom who doesn’t know how to WALTZ!” Christy said through gritted teeth.
Brett bit his lip, and something snapped.
“Maybe,” he said calmly, “you shouldn’t have a wedding, then.”
He took as deep a breath as he could, turned, and walked out of the room. Then he went to the bedroom, packed his few belongings in his backpack, and started to walk out of the flat.
Christy, unfrozen, grabbed his arm to pull him around.
“Oh NO you don’t,” she snarled in Brett’s face, “You are NOT walking out on me this close to the date! Do you have any idea -”
“Do YOU,” yelled Brett, “have any idea how much of a pain in the arse you’ve been? For months! Fuck! It’s a wedding, not a move to bloody Africa!”
“But…” tears started to flow, “I did it all for us!”
“No,” he said, softening, but not much, “You did it for you. You never even asked what I wanted. You know what I want?”
Christy shook her head silently.
“Definitely NOT you!” he said, and walked out of the door, out of the flat, out of her life.