When Tom’s eyes locked onto the empty space in our living room, a look of pure panic spread across his face. “Please tell me you didn’t…” he started, but it was already too late. I’d been asking Tom to get rid of that old couch for months.
“Tom,” I’d say, “when are you taking the couch out? It’s practically falling apart!”
“Tomorrow,” he’d mumble without looking up from his phone. Or sometimes, “Next weekend.
I swear, this time for real.”
Spoiler alert: tomorrow never came. So, last Saturday, after watching that moldy piece of furniture use up half of our living room for another week, I finally snapped. I rented a truck, wrangled the thing out by myself, and took it straight to the dump.
By the time I got back, I was pretty proud of myself. When Tom got home later, he barely got past the entryway before his eyes went wide at the sight of the brand-new couch I’d bought. For a second, I thought he’d thank me, or at least smile.
But instead, he looked around, stunned. “Wait… what’s this?”
I smiled, gesturing at the couch. “Surprise!
Finally got rid of that eyesore. It looks great, right?”
His face went pale, and he stared at me like I’d committed a crime. “You took the old couch… to the dump?”
“Well, yeah,” I said, taken aback.
“You said you’d do it for months, Tom. It was disgusting!”
He gaped at me, panic flashing across his face. “Are you serious?
You threw away the plan?!”
“What plan?” I asked. He took a shaky breath, muttering to himself. “No, no, no… This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening.”
“Tom!” I interrupted, starting to feel a little panicked myself. “What are you talking about?”
He looked up at me, eyes wide with fear. “I… I don’t have time to explain.
Get your shoes. We have to go. Now.”
My stomach twisted as I stood there, trying to understand.
“Go? Where are we going?”
“To the dump!” he snapped, heading for the door. “We have to get it back before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” I followed him, bewildered.
“Tom, it’s a couch. A couch with, like, mold and broken springs! What could be so important?”
He paused at the door, turning back, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” I challenged, crossing my arms.
“I’d like to know why you’re so desperate to dig through a pile of garbage for a couch.”
“I’ll explain on the way. Just trust me,” he said, gripping the doorknob and glancing back over his shoulder. “You have to trust me, okay?”
The way he looked at me — it sent a chill down my spine.
The drive to the dump was dead silent. I kept glancing at Tom, but he was laser-focused on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight. I’d never seen him like this, so completely panicked, and his silence was only making it worse.
“Tom,” I finally broke the silence, but he didn’t even flinch. “Can you just… tell me what’s going on?”
He shook his head, barely looking at me. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“See what?” I pressed, the frustration creeping into my voice.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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