Page 24 of You Owe Me

“You’re defending the couch now?”

“I’m defending the history we have together. That couch raised me.”

“You moved in a year ago.”

“And it’s been a journey.”

Brenda, the sales associate, appears like a summoned demon. “Can I help you two find anything?”

“Something sturdy,” I say. “That doesn’t?—”

Ainsley steps in. “Something that cradles your soul.”

Brenda blinks. “Right. Let me show you our modular options.”

As she walks off, Ainsley whispers, “You’re bluffing, right? You aren’t really going to replace our sofa, are you?”

I look at her seriously. “I’m not bluffing. It’s gotta go.”

She stares at me, arms crossed.

And I know this isn’t about fabric or price tags. It’s about comfort. Safety. Memory.

And I’m trying to convince her to outgrow it.

We trail behind Brenda like two hostages.

The “modular options” turn out to be a lineup of couches the size of small islands, all in various shades of socially acceptable. Gray. Charcoal. Taupe. One that might’ve been navy but gave up halfway through production.

Brenda gestures to a russet sectional like she’s presenting a prize on a game show. “This one’s very popular with couples. It’s roomy, durable, and comes with stain-resistant fabric.”

Ainsley snorts. “You mean it’s ugly.”

I run a hand over the armrest. “It’s not bad.”

She blinks at me like I’ve just slapped her.

“Maverick. That thing looks like it belongs in a basement man cave next to a neon beer sign and a dartboard with holes in the drywall.”

“Sounds ideal,” I mutter, testing the cushions. “You could actually nap on this without dislocating a rib.”

“Blasphemy,” she says under her breath.

Brenda pretends not to hear. “It comes in several configurations: L-shape, U-shape, even a pull-out bed option?—”

“We definitely need a pull-out,” Ainsley cuts in. “For when Maverick pisses me off because I can’t get comfortable on this new couch.”

I give her a deadpan look. “You’d miss me after an hour.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

And there it is again. The loyalty to something that’s not even comfortable anymore.

It’s not about furniture. It’s about what the old couch held. The breakups. The breakdowns. Movie nights. Study sessions. That week she got the flu and refused to be babied, so she built a pillow fort and declared it a quarantine zone. She healed on that couch, emotionally and otherwise. And somewhere along the way, she let me sit beside her without kicking me out.

I respect the attachment. I do.

But I also want a couch that doesn’t sound like it’s giving up on life every time we sit down together.

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