“Just a little taste,” Irina wrote in the group chat. “Don’t count us in for the shared budget. We’ll bring our own stuff.” She added a breezy laugh. “Besides, we’re on a diet—eating like birds these days…”
That was the first red flag.
Annie sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other gripping a bulky tote bag. She read the message twice. Maybe she’d misread it? It was polite enough, but… something about it felt slippery, like someone testing the waters for loopholes.
The May weekend getaway chat kept buzzing with notifications. New faces had joined recently—Stephen and Irina, friends of Ben’s. Ben was well-liked, a trusted member of the group for years, so no one questioned it.
The vibe was warm and easygoing. Everyone was in their thirties—responsible, organised, but with a sense of humour. They’d known each other long enough to have unspoken rules, each with their own role. Ben brought in newcomers. Annie handled logistics—planning meetups and trips. This time, she’d sorted the guest list, picked a route, and booked cosy cabins by the woods, complete with porches, a gazebo, and proper showers. Everyone was on board. The shopping list was set: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
And then—this.
“Stephen and I won’t need anything,” Irina messaged. “We’re on a special diet, so we’ll bring our own food. No need to include us.”
Annie replied with a neutral “Okay, no problem” and set her phone aside.
Honestly, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Some ate keto, some did intermittent fasting—heck, some sipped moon-charged water. There was even a vegetarian who never chipped in for meat but always brought way more veg than he could eat, grilling kebabs so good no one could resist.
Quirks were normal. What mattered was fairness and participation. But something about that “don’t count us” sent a chill down Annie’s spine. There was a… shiftiness to it. Still, she held back judgement.
The day of the trip was perfect—sunny, crisp, a light breeze. Everyone arrived on time, nothing forgotten, not even the skewers, chopping board, or corkscrew. The pine-scented air lifted moods instantly.
Cabins unpacked, gear unloaded. Some got the barbecue going straight away.
Irina and Stephen arrived late, when the hard work was done. Their “own stuff” turned out to be a single block of cheese, a few tomatoes, a pack of rice cakes, and two beers. Annie caught a glimpse as they unpacked and thought, “That might last an evening. But three days?”
They sat apart at first, nibbling their cheese, clinking bottles, snapping sunset selfies. Then, bit by bit, they edged closer to the group. Within half an hour, Stephen was hovering by the grill.
“What’s cooking? Burgers? Smells amazing…”
“Hard to stay on a diet around you lot,” Irina giggled, sidling up.
Annie glanced at Kate beside her, who gave a barely-there shrug. Well, couldn’t exactly turn them away. The group wasn’t cruel, especially not to newcomers.
By nightfall, Irina and Stephen were digging into the shared food like old friends—laughing, telling stories, singing along to the guitar. They were fun, even charming. No outright bad vibes. Still, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been played.
She went to bed uneasy—not angry, just… irritated. Her parents had taught her: if you’re part of a team, you play by the rules and show your cards. But Stephen and Irina had slipped in, keeping their hands hidden while helping themselves to the pot.
That night, Annie thought, “If this happens again, I’ll have to say something.” The idea stressed her—who wanted to scold grown adults? But she shook it off. This was a holiday, not a time to police plates.
Except it wasn’t a one-off.
Over the next year, it happened again and again: summer barbecues at Kate’s place, a September lodge trip, even an autumn park picnic with tea and sandwiches. Every time, Irina and Stephen turned up with a tiny tote bag—two bananas, a sad little salad, bargain-bin wine.
They never shared. They never went hungry.
“That wine any good?” Stephen would ask, pouring himself a glass from the bottle someone else brought.
“We’re sticking to veg. So pricey, but so good for the skin,” Irina would coo, stacking her plate with someone else’s roast beef.
At first, it was awkward smiles. Odd couple, but harmless. Maybe money was tight. Maybe they were drowning in debt.
Then came the side-eyes. Then the whispers.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Kate muttered as they packed up after another barbecue.
“Stephen hit the grill three times,” Annie said tightly, shoving leftover meat into a container. “And he single-handedly demolished the prawn salad.”
Jokes started, laced with hints. “How does half a kilo of burgers fit your calorie count?” Ben once teased. “Appetite comes *on* a diet, huh?” Kate said icily. Stephen just laughed. Irina pretended not to hear.
Annie hated conflict, hated nitpicking over food. But when Kate DM’d her a photo at New Year’s—Stephen and Irina’s brand-new white SUV, fresh from the dealership, captioned *“We did it!”*—something inside her twisted.
So, money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring rolled around. The group planned another trip. This time, Annie opened the chat with a new rule:
“No offence, but shared meals mean shared costs. We’re all adults with healthy appetites. If you’re not pitching in, you’re not eating.”
Most just liked the message, knowing exactly why it was there. Kate sent a thumbs-up sticker.
Only Stephen didn’t reply. An hour later, Irina messaged Annie privately:
“We might skip this one. Plans changed. But have fun!”
They all knew what that meant.
Annie closed the app, exhaling. Finally. No more freeloaders.
The trip had a different energy. No one side-eyeing the coleslaw bowl the “dieters” usually raided. No hiding crisps under jackets.
They weren’t stingy. They just knew where laid-back ended and taking the mickey began.
“This is proper nice,” Ben said, clinking plastic cups with Annie. “All our trips are great, but this one… the air just feels cleaner.”
“It’s not the air,” she murmured. “It’s the company. No more ‘bring your own’ just to poach everyone else’s.”
That night, by the fire—toasting marshmallows, frying sausages—no one mentioned Stephen or Irina. That’s how Annie knew she’d done right. No regrets.
Weeks later, she bumped into Ben at a café near work. The same Ben who’d brought Irina and Stephen into the group. He was ordering an oat-milk latte and a croissant.
They made small talk—weather, work, holiday plans.
Then Annie asked, “Seen Irina or Stephen lately?”
Ben hesitated, stirring sugar into his already-black coffee like he expected a scolding.
But Annie didn’t blame him. He was just too trusting, too open. This was just collateral damage from his big heart.
“Uh… they’ve gotten into board games,” he said. “Lots of late-night meetups. Tournaments. Different crowd, more… creative types.”
Annie sipped her coffee, tilting her head. Ah. New targets.
“Creative. Interesting.” She smirked. “Wonder how long that’ll last. Board gamers split costs too—and those expansion packs aren’t cheap…”
Ben chuckled but stayed quiet. His silence said more than any joke.
Annie sipped her drink. Some people didn’t change. They just found new tables to mooch off. Not the end of the world.
Just don’t put out a sign that says *free buffet*.
