‘What’s not working?’
‘Us. We’re not working,’ he replies.
Now he’s the one glancing around the room like he’s looking for someone, although I don’t think it’s a person he’s looking for, it’s an escape.
I just stare at him. I can’t have heard that right.
‘What do you mean “not working”? What are you trying to say?’
‘I’m trying to say,’ he starts slowly, like it’s something he’s building up to, ‘things haven’t felt right for a while. And being here, at this wedding, it’s just… reminded me that I can’t see a future where we do this. You and me. Getting married.’
My chest goes tight.
‘I don’t care if we get married,’ I say quickly, not doing the best job of hiding the panic in my voice. ‘That’s not the point. We’re happy. Or… I thought we were.’
He sighs, and it’s worse than if he’d shouted.
‘I don’t want to be harsh, Jessa. But I want to be honest,’ he says and I know I’m not going to like this. ‘I do want to get married. Just… not to you.’
There’s so much I want to say, and I have so many questions, but I can’t make my voice work. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing – still dancing though, of course.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ he continues.
I laugh, but it’s not a real laugh, it’s a sarcastic laugh, the kind that helps my voice come back.
‘You’re breaking up with me? At a wedding?’ I check.
‘There’s no point pretending everything’s fine. That’s more dishonest,’ he says, and there’s something frustratingly calm about his voice. Measured. Like he’s rehearsed this. Perhaps he has been thinking about this for a while but, damn, it would have been nice to know.
‘You want to talk about dishonest?’ I say, still keeping control of my tone, given that we’re – y’know – at a wedding, on the dance floor. ‘Try pretending you’re happy for God knows how long. Sitting through a three-course meal and smiling at people like everything’s fine.’
Around us, everyone keeps dancing. No one notices us bickering. We’re literally dancing through a break-up, it’s absurd.
Is this karma? For telling that girl in the loos to dump her boyfriend? Then again, I’m not him. I’m not the one refusing to commit. I’m not the one choosing something else over someone who loves them. If anything, Todd is the one who should be getting dumped.
‘We should talk about this in the car,’ Todd says quietly.
‘It should’ve been a conversation for the car from the beginning,’ I practically hiss. ‘But it’s too late now. You’ve made yourself clear.’
‘Jessa, don’t be like that,’ he pleads – in fact, he sounds almost annoyed that I’m not taking this break-up as he had hoped, the idiot.
‘Like what?’ I snap. ‘Furious? Shocked? Embarrassed? You’re lucky we’re at a wedding, because if we weren’t, I’d be reacting very, very differently right now.’
And then the song ends. There’s nowhere to hide now.
The music fades and applause erupts around us, and I let go of him. Too quickly. I style it out by clapping for the happy couple, a smile firmly fixed to my face so that no one suspects anything is up.
Inside, though, I’m screaming.
I suppose with one beautiful beginning comes a savagely brutal end.
This is the last thing I expected to happen today. It’s going to take a lot more than a bit of airbrushing to forget this bad memory.
4
I’m in the bath. Because of course I am.
It’s practically a post-break-up cliché at this point – a sad sack of a girl, scented candles, an inconvenient amount of bubbles, and a tub of chocolate ice cream teetering dangerously on the edge – sort of like myself, if you’ll allow me a little joke in the middle of my emotional breakdown.
