So, I was just about to try this—
“Don’t include us in the shared budget. We’ll bring our own stuff,” wrote Emily in the group chat. “And honestly, we’re on a diet, eating like birds…”
And that was the first red flag.
Sophie sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other clutching a bulky tote. She read the message twice. Maybe she was overthinking it? The words were polite, but… it felt like someone was already scouting for loopholes before the trip even started.
The group chat for their May getaway kept lighting up with notifications. New faces had recently joined—Jack and Emily, friends of Liam, who was a well-respected, long-time member of the crew. No one batted an eye when they were added.
The vibe was warm and easygoing. Everyone was in their early thirties—grown-ups, responsible, but with a good sense of humour. They’d known each other for ages, so there were unspoken rules, and everyone had their role.
Liam was the one who brought in new people. Sophie handled the logistics—planning meetups and trips. This time, she’d already sorted the guest list, mapped the route, and booked forest cabins with porches, a gazebo, and even decent showers. Everyone agreed, and they started discussing supplies: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
Then came Emily’s message:
“Don’t count Jack and me in. We’re on a diet, so we’ll prep our own meals. We won’t need anything.”
Sophie replied neutrally: “Alright, fair enough,” and put her phone away.
Honestly? Not a huge deal. People had different diets—keto, paleo, whatever. One guy in the group never chipped in for meat because he was vegetarian. But he always brought mountains of veggies and grilled such killer veggie skewers that no one could resist.
Quirks were normal. As long as everyone was decent and pitched in. Still, something about that “don’t count us” sent a chill down Sophie’s spine. There was something… slippery in it. But she decided not to jump to conclusions.
The day of the trip was gorgeous—warm, fresh, a light breeze. Everyone showed up on time, remembered everything, even the skewers and corkscrew. The scent of pine and crisp air lifted spirits instantly.
They settled into the cabins, unpacked, and some went straight to fire up the grill. Emily and Jack rolled in late, when most of the work was done. Their “own stuff” turned out to be a tiny block of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, rice cakes, and two bottles of beer. Sophie peeked as they unpacked and thought, “Maybe enough for tonight. But for three days?”
They perched on a bench at first, separate. Ate their cheese, clinked bottles, snapped sunset selfies. Then slowly edged closer. Within half an hour, Jack was by the grill.
“Ooh, what’s that? Kebabs? Smells amazing…”
“Yeah, sitting near you lot on a diet is dangerous,” Emily laughed, stepping closer.
Sophie glanced at Olivia beside her, who gave a tiny shrug. Like, well, they’re here now—might as well share. The group wasn’t about embarrassing people, especially newcomers.
By nightfall, Emily and Jack were eating and drinking with everyone like old mates. Laughing, swapping stories, singing along to guitar tunes. And honestly? They were fun, easygoing. Not an ounce of arrogance. Yet Sophie couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been played.
She went to bed with a weird aftertaste. Not anger—just the first seed of irritation. Her parents had always taught her: if you’re part of a team, play by the rules and show your cards. But Jack and Emily had slipped into the game, keeping theirs close while sharing the winnings.
That first night, Sophie thought, “If this happens again, I’ll have to say something.” The idea stressed her out—correcting grown-ups felt awkward. But she shook it off. They were here to relax, not police plates. Maybe it was a one-off.
Except it wasn’t.
“You all chipping in again? Well, we’ll stick to our salads, like always. Counting calories,” Emily giggled in a voice note, breezy as if discussing decorations for a school play—no pressure, no extra costs.
Sophie listened to it while grabbing groceries—pasta, a new gas canister for the stove. She was tallying who’d cover transport, fuel, meat, utensils, coffee. And here it was again: “like always.”
There’d been five “like always” trips in the past year. Summer barbecues at Olivia’s. A September lodge weekend. Even an autumn park picnic with tea and sandwiches. Every time, Jack and Emily showed up with a tiny bag—a couple of bananas, some sad cabbage slaw, bargain-bin wine.
Never shared, never left hungry.
“Mmm, is that wine nice?” Jack would ask, faux-casual, pouring from the bottle someone else brought.
“We’re sticking to veggies. So pricey, but so good for the skin. Mine used to be so dry. Oh, I’ll just try a bite…” Emily would murmur, loading her plate with someone else’s roast beef.
At first, it got awkward smiles. Quirky couple. Fine. Maybe money was tight. Maybe layoffs, maybe debt.
Then came the side-eyes. Then the whispers.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Olivia muttered as they packed leftovers after another barbecue.
“Hard to miss. Jack hit the grill three times. Ate nearly all the shrimp salad himself,” Sophie griped, shoving meat into containers.
Jokes with edges followed. Tom “joked” about how a pound of kebabs fit Jack’s calorie count. Olivia dryly noted how diets seemed to sharpen appetites. Jack just laughed. Emily pretended not to hear.
Sophie hated conflict, hated food-shaming even more. But when Olivia DMed her a photo of Jack and Emily’s new car—a shiny white crossover, straight from the dealership—something twisted inside. Caption: “Finally! We did it!”
Sophie didn’t reply. But the message was clear: money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring rolled around. The group planned another trip. This time, Sophie opened with new rules.
“Guys, no hard feelings: shared table, shared costs,” she wrote. “We’re all adults with healthy appetites. If you’re not in, you’re not eating.”
Most just liked the message. Olivia sent a thumbs-up sticker.
Only Jack stayed silent. An hour later, Emily DMed Sophie.
“Probably skipping this one. Other plans. Have fun though!”
Message received.
Sophie closed the app, exhaling. Finally—fair play. No freeloaders.
The vibe this time? Lighter. No one side-eyeing the salad bowl “dieters” usually raided. No hiding snack packs.
They weren’t stingy. Just done with nonsense—where easygoing tipped into entitled.
“Honestly,” Tom said, clinking plastic cups with Sophie, “today’s just… smoother. Not that other trips weren’t great. But this time, the air’s clearer or something.”
“Not the air. The guest list,” she smirked. “No more ‘bringing their own’ to hunt for ours.”
That night, by the fire—marshmallows, sausages, laughter—no one mentioned Jack or Emily. That’s when Sophie knew she’d done right. No regrets.
Weeks later, she bumped into Liam at a cafe near work—the one who’d brought Jack and Emily in. He was ordering oat-milk coffee and a croissant.
They caught up—weather, work, holiday plans. Then Sophie asked:
“Seen Jack or Emily lately?”
Liam hesitated. Stirred nonexistent sugar. Like bracing for blame.
But Sophie didn’t blame him. He was the social glue, sometimes too trusting. This was just collateral damage.
“Eh, they’re into board games now. Late-night sessions, tournaments. More… creative crowd, they said.”
Sophie sipped her coffee, brow arched. Ah. New feeding ground.
“Creative. Wonder how long that’ll last. Board games aren’t cheap—group buys, expansions…”
Liam chuckled, but didn’t answer. His silence held more sarcasm than Olivia’s jabs ever could.
Sophie nodded. Some people don’t change. They just find new tables to mooch off. Not tragic—just life. The trick? Never post a sign that says “Free buffet.”
