When Tom’s gaze fell on the empty spot where our old couch once stood, panic washed over his face. “Please tell me you didn’t…” he began, but it was too late.
For months, I’d been urging Tom to get rid of the worn-out couch. “When are you taking the couch out? It’s practically in shambles!” I’d insist.
“Tomorrow,” he’d reply, his eyes glued to his phone. Other times, it was, “Next weekend, I promise.”
Spoiler alert: tomorrow never arrived.
Last Saturday, tired of seeing that moldy eyesore dominating our living room, I finally lost my patience. I rented a truck, wrestled the couch out by myself, and carted it off to the dump. I returned home proud of my accomplishment.
But when Tom arrived later, he barely made it through the entryway before shock registered on his face at the sight of the brand-new couch I’d purchased. For a moment, I imagined he might thank me—or at least smile.
Instead, his expression turned to disbelief. “Wait… what’s this?”
“Surprise!” I chimed. “I finally got rid of that eyesore. It looks great, doesn’t it?”
His complexion drained, and he stared at me in horror. “You took the old couch… to the dump?”
“Of course! You’d said you’d handle it for months. It was disgusting!” I defended myself.
He was struck dumb, panic evident in every feature. “Are you serious? You tossed out the plan?!”
“What plan?” I inquired, genuinely confused.
He took a deep breath, muttering, “No, no, no… This can’t be happening.”
“Tom!” I interrupted, beginning to feel anxious myself. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes widened, filled with fear. “I… I don’t have time to explain. Grab your shoes. We have to go. Now.”
My stomach dropped as I stood there, bewildered. “Go? Where exactly?”
“To the dump!” he snapped, rushing toward the door. “We need to get it back before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” I echoed, bewildered. “Tom, it’s just a couch—a disgusting one, at that! What could possibly be so urgent?”
He paused momentarily, his gaze flicking back to me. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” I challenged, crossing my arms. “I want to know why you’re willing to dig through a pile of garbage for an old couch.”
“I’ll explain on the way. Just trust me,” he insisted, gripping the doorknob tightly. “You have to trust me.”
The look in his eyes sent chills through me.
The car ride to the dump was filled with silence. I kept sneaking glances at him, but he maintained a fierce concentration on the road, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. I’d never seen him like this—so anxious—that his silence only heightened my concern.
“Tom,” I finally broke the stillness, but he barely flinched. “Can you just fill me in on what’s happening?”
He shook his head, still focused on the road. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“See what?” I pressed, irritation creeping into my tone. “You dragged me out here for a couch, Tom!”
“I know,” he replied, shooting me a quick look before reverting his focus to the road. “I realize it seems absurd, but you’ll understand once we find it.”
I frowned, falling into silence until we arrived at the dump. Tom jumped out of the car before I could ask another question and took off toward the gate with urgency.
He caught one of the workers’ attention. “Please. My wife brought something here earlier. I need to retrieve it. It’s really important.”
The worker raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but something in Tom’s expression must have convinced him. Reluctantly, he allowed us entry. “All right, but you’d better hurry.”
Tom bolted inside, scouring through the mountains of refuse as if he were on a treasure hunt. I stood outside, feeling ridiculous amongst the trash while he frantically searched.
After what seemed like eternity, Tom’s eyes lit up. “There!” he cried, scrambling toward it. He dove onto the couch, which lay sideways on the edge of a pile, and flipped it over, his hands delving into a small gap in the fraying lining.
“Tom, what—” I began, but my words froze as he pulled out a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper, fragile and weary with age. It looked inconsequential—just an old scrap with faded, uneven handwriting. I stared, confused.
“This?” I asked incredulously. “All this… for that?”
