The Night That Would Haunt Me Forever: Part 3

The Couch

Hi friend! This is Part 3 of my babysitting mini-series.

In Parts 1 and 2, I shared how my mom voluntold me to babysit her best friend Maggie’s high school son, Matt, and his buddy, Collin, before their UNC campus tour.

Despite my roommates' delicate dynamic—especially with Ashley, whose mood swings could turn our apartment into a war zone—they surprisingly agreed to let the boys crash at our place.

What started as reluctant chaperoning at tonight’s massive Lūʻau party quickly spiraled out of control, with the boys downing drinks like they’d invented alcohol and making a full-blown spectacle of themselves.

Now, as we’re forced to leave the party early with both boys completely wasted, I’m realizing our night of disasters is only just beginning...

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Emily’s Jeep is parked just outside, and our apartment is only seven minutes away.

Freedom so close I can almost taste it.

But two minutes into the drive, Collin groans and frantically rolls down his window. I recognize that sound—the universal precursor to disaster.

He makes a valiant attempt to puke outside and fails miserably.

Vomit splatters everywhere in the back of Emily's pristine Jeep, the sour-sweet stench of alcohol and Jell-O shots immediately filling the enclosed space.

"UGH, are you SERIOUS?!" Emily shrieks, her knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. "That is DISGUSTING! If you're going to get plastered, at least learn to hold your liquor!"

She shoots me a look that could freeze hell over. This is not the sweet, peacemaking Emily I know. This is Emily pushed past her limit.

"I am so, so sorry," I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "I had no idea they would completely lose their minds."

She knows that's true, but truth doesn't magically clean vomit from leather seats—or erase the vile smell now permanently embedded in her new Jeep.

Emily rolls down all the windows. The night air whips through the car, blowing our hair and carrying away the worst of the smell, but not the tension.

We ride the last five minutes home in complete silence, except for Matt's occasional drunken singing and Collin's pathetic moaning.

When we finally reach the apartment, Emily and I guide the boys straight to the living room.

Matt is still mostly functional—stumbling but upright—but Collin is a different story. We have to drape his arms around our shoulders, practically dragging his deadweight across the threshold.

"Careful with his shoes on the carpet," I whisper to Emily, picturing Ashley’s face if we add muddy footprints to our growing list of sins.

We deposit Collin onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. His head lolls back, eyes glassy and unfocused.

I rush to the kitchen, returning with water bottles, saltine crackers, and two mini trash cans—one positioned strategically next to each boy. My last desperate attempt to contain the chaos.

It doesn’t do much.

Collin takes one sip of water and then, as if in slow motion, his cheeks bulge. Before I can react, he projectile vomits—completely missing the trash can not two feet away—and nails Ashley’s pristine white couch.

My heart doesn’t just drop. It shatters.

Shit. This is NOT good.

The couch isn’t just furniture. It's Ashley’s pride and joy—her “design centerpiece.”

Emily and I lock eyes, exchanging panicked looks. We both understand the weight of this.

Before we moved in, Ashley had appointed herself the personal interior designer for the apartment. When she first mentioned it last summer, we all shrugged it off as a harmless hobby.

None of us thought much of it—what college apartment needs an interior decorator?

I’d nearly forgotten about it until she called us a few weeks before fall semester began to unveil her "design vision."

She’d spent her entire summer creating mood boards and floor plans, sourcing furniture and accent pieces.

We all oohed and aahed at the presentation.

It was admittedly beautiful—like something straight out of Architectural Digest.

The excitement quickly faded when she dropped the bomb: "Okay, so we each need to put in $3,500 to contribute to the interior fund."

The interior fund?

I remember wondering if she was delusional. $3,500? Each?

I thought of my bank account balance: $134.29.

My sticker shock must have been visible. Thankfully, Brittney and Emily backed me up in turning down the idea.

Ashley was disappointed but claimed she "understood we all came from different financial backgrounds"—her way of saying we were poorer than her without actually saying it.

"Don’t worry. I can just work with whatever furniture y’all can afford,” she said, as if this was the most gracious thing she could do.

Not that any of us were buying new furniture for a sophomore-year college apartment anyway.

I certainly wasn’t.

Anything I contributed came straight from Craigslist—or was a hand-me-down from my parents’ house.

“I’ll just sprinkle in a few new pieces here and there and work my magic," she said. "I can make this work. Don’t fret.”

None of us were fretting.

Of course, I wanted it to look nice inside the apartment, but this was a temporary living situation.

The gap between our worldviews was glaring.

And nothing symbolized that gap more than her beloved white couch.

We all knew her crown jewel in this decorating project was the couch.

You would’ve thought it was hand-delivered from Milan the way she talked about it.

I stare at that same couch now, splatter-painted with Collin’s vomit in shades of neon green and bile yellow.

Something inside me snaps.

My southern hospitality has been stretched too thin. At a certain point, one must hold their boundaries.

I am so annoyed with the boys I can hardly speak.

"Are you KIDDING me?! The trash can is RIGHT THERE!" I point, fury rising in my voice like a tide. "This is unbelievable! I'm done. I’m going to BED. Y'all are on your own. Good NIGHT!"

I storm into my bedroom, kick off my heels with enough force to dent the wall, and collapse onto my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I try to calm myself down.

Maybe Ashley will be understanding. Maybe she'll take all the factors into account.

I repeat the phrase over and over, but it's hard to lie to myself.

Ashley is not exactly known for being level-headed. She can switch from friend to foe in an instant. She's the type of "friend" you never want to get on the bad side of—and I'm worried I've just crossed that line.

My spiraling thoughts are interrupted by Collin’s pitiful groaning from the living room. Despite my anger, a tiny flicker of pity ignites.

These are still just high school kids, way out of their depth.

I tell myself to take a few deep breaths and recenter.

The night is almost over. You can do this, Sarah-Frances. You are so close.

With a heavy sigh, I yank some extra blankets and pillows from my closet. The bedding feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in my arms. The weight of the night is finally sinking in.

When I reemerge into the living room, Collin has stretched out on the other couch—one leg dangling off the edge, mouth wide open, drooling slightly onto the cushion.

"Here," I say flatly, tossing the blanket over his sprawled form.

He makes no acknowledgment. For a terrifying second, I'm afraid he's unconscious for real. I kick his foot to shake him, and he groans in response. Relief floods through me. Thank God.

One crisis averted, at least.

I glance around for Matt, but he's nowhere in sight. I check the bathroom, the kitchen, even peek out onto the back patio.

When I walk back to the front of the apartment, my heart stops cold.

The front door stands wide open, cool night air drifting in.

"Oh my GOD, Emily!" I shout, panic creeping up my throat like bile.

Emily emerges from her room, toothbrush in hand, and we both stare at the open door in horror.

"Dammit!" I shout, my frustration boiling over. I turn to Collin, who's barely conscious on the couch. "This is unbelievable! I told y'all to stay put for FIVE MINUTES!"

"Where’s Matt?" I demand, kneeling down and shaking Collin's shoulder.

His eyes are glazed over as he points weakly toward the door. "He left," he slurs, then promptly passes out again.

Very helpful. I gathered that much myself.

I try not to spiral into full-blown panic mode.

Emily tries to calm me. “Don’t freak out. He's probably just in the courtyard or getting some fresh air. Let’s go see.”

Of course! I think, feeling my heart rate slow down.

Emily and I begin the search. We check everywhere—the courtyard, the stairwell, the parking lot, the streets around us.

But Matt is nowhere to be found.

We try his cell—it goes straight to voicemail. Once, twice, five times.

"What the hell?!" Emily says, shaking her head. "Where could he have gone so quickly?"

It doesn't make sense to me either.

But then again, nothing about this night has made much sense.

For a second, I consider just going back inside, crawling into bed, and pretending none of this is happening.

I am so close to making the decision—but then I picture what I'll have to say to Maggie in the morning.

Oh hey, Maggie! Beautiful morning, huh? By the way, I totally misplaced your son. He's been missing for eight hours, but don't worry! I'm sure he's FINE.

My stomach twists into knots.

My mom would actually disown me.

Standing there in the empty parking lot, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my arms, I realize with sinking certainty:

This nightmare is far from over.

In fact, it’s just beginning.

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