“Just a little taste, that’s all,” wrote Irene in the group chat. “Don’t count us in for the shared budget. We’ll bring our own. We’re on a diet, eating like birds, you know…”
And that was the first warning sign.
Anne sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other clutching a bulky tote bag. She read the message twice. Maybe she was imagining things? It was polite enough, yet… something about it felt slippery, as if someone were already carving out loopholes.
The May getaway chat kept flashing in notifications. New faces had joined recently—Stephen and Irene, friends of Oliver, a respected and long-standing member of the group. No one questioned their inclusion.
The atmosphere was warm and familiar. Everyone was in their thirties, responsible but with a sense of humour. Years of camaraderie had bred unspoken rules, each person with their role. Oliver brought new blood. Anne handled the logistics—guest lists, routes, renting woodland cabins with verandas, a gazebo, even decent showers. Everyone agreed, then turned to discussing supplies: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
Then came Irene’s message:
“Don’t count Stephen and me in. We’re on a special diet—we’ll prepare our own meals. We won’t need anything.”
Anne replied neutrally: “Alright, as you wish,” then set her phone aside.
Not a problem, really. Plenty of people had dietary quirks—keto, vegan, moon-charged water. One chap never chipped in for meat, being a staunch vegetarian. But he always brought more veg than he could eat, grilling skewers so delicious no one could resist.
Oddities were part of life. All that mattered was decency and participation. Yet that “don’t count us” sent a chill down Anne’s spine. There was something… off about it. Still, she resolved not to jump to conclusions.
The day of the trip was idyllic—warm, breezy, everyone punctual, nothing forgotten, not even the skewers, chopping board, or corkscrew. The pine-scented air lifted spirits instantly.
Cabins were claimed, belongings unpacked, the barbecue set up. Irene and Stephen arrived late, when the heavy lifting was done. Their “own supplies” amounted to a block of cheese, a few tomatoes, rice crackers, and two bottles of beer. Anne glimpsed their haul and thought: *Enough for an evening, perhaps. But three days?*
They perched on a bench apart, nibbling cheese, clinking bottles, snapping sunset selfies. Then, gradually, they edged closer. Within half an hour, Stephen was by the grill.
“What’s this? Skewers? Smells divine…”
“Hard to stick to a diet around you lot,” Irene laughed, sidling up.
Anne caught Kate’s eye beside her. A barely-there shrug. *What can you do? Might as well share.* The group avoided embarrassing newcomers.
By nightfall, Irene and Stephen were eating and drinking from the communal spread as if they’d paid their dues. They were lively, funny, not aloof. No one disliked them. Yet Anne felt a twinge of exploitation.
She went to bed uneasy—not resentful, just irked. Her parents had always taught her: *Play by the rules if you’re part of the team. Show your cards.* But Stephen and Irene had slipped in, keeping their hands hidden while sharing the winnings.
That first night, Anne thought: *If this happens again, I’ll have to act.* The idea unsettled her—who wanted to police grown adults? Still, she shook it off. They were here to relax, not scrutinise plates. A one-off quirk, surely.
But as subsequent trips proved, it wasn’t a quirk. It was a calculated freeload.
“Are you chipping in again?” Irene’s voice note tinkled. “We’ll stick to our little salads, as usual. Watching those calories!”
As if budgeting were a PTA bake sale, not shared expenses.
Anne listened while shopping for buckwheat and a new gas canister. She tallied transport duties, fuel costs, who’d bring meat, crockery, coffee. And again, that “as usual.”
Five such “usual” trips unfolded—summer barbecues at Kate’s cottage, an autumn lakeside break, even a picnic with tea and sandwiches. Each time, Irene and Stephen arrived with a tiny bag: bananas, cabbage slaw, budget wine. They never shared, yet never left hungry.
“Lovely wine,” Stephen would say, pouring from a bottle someone else had bought.
“We’re mostly on greens. Pricey, but so good for the skin. Just a nibble…” Irene cooed, layering her plate with others’ roast beef.
At first, it drew awkward smiles. Quirky pair, alright. Maybe strapped for cash, buried in debt.
Then came the sidelong glances. Then the whispers.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Kate murmured as they packed leftovers.
“Stephen hit the grill three times. Polished off the shrimp salad single-handed,” Anne muttered, shovelling meat into Tupperware.
Jokes followed, laced with barbs. Ian once asked how half a kilo of skewers fit Stephen’s “calorie count.” Kate dryly remarked how hunger thrived on diets. Stephen just laughed. Irene pretended not to hear.
Anne loathed conflict, hated begrudging anyone food. But when Kate texted a photo of Irene and Stephen’s new car—a gleaming white crossover—something curdled inside. The caption: “We did it! Finally!”
Anne said nothing but understood: money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring returned. Plans for another trip surfaced. This time, Anne opened with a new preamble:
“Let’s be clear: shared meals, shared costs. We’re all adults with healthy appetites. No pay, no play.”
Most just liked the message, knowing the subtext. Kate sent a thumbs-up sticker.
Only Stephen stayed silent. An hour later, Irene messaged Anne privately:
“Think we’ll skip this one. Other plans. Have fun, though!”
Everyone understood.
Anne closed the app, exhaling. Finally, honesty. No more parasites feeding off the group pot.
The trip felt different—no stolen glances at the salad bowl, no hiding crisps from “dieters.” It wasn’t stinginess. Just boundaries, clearly drawn.
“Today’s perfect,” Ian said, clinking Anne’s plastic cup. “Something’s… lighter.”
“Not the air,” Anne smirked. “Our ranks. No more ‘bring your own’ hunters after everyone else’s.”
By the campfire, roasting marshmallows, no one mentioned Irene or Stephen. Anne knew she’d been right. No regrets.
Weeks later, she bumped into Oliver at a café near work. He was ordering oat-milk coffee and a croissant.
After small talk—weather, jobs, holidays—Anne asked:
“Seen Irene or Stephen lately?”
Oliver hesitated, stirring imaginary sugar. “They’ve, ah, gotten into board games. Late-night sessions, tournaments. More their crowd now, they said. Creative types.”
Anne sipped her coffee, arching a brow. New feeding ground, then.
“Creative.” *I wonder how long they’ll last. Board games aren’t cheap—no discounts for friendship.*
Oliver chuckled but said nothing. His silence spoke louder than any jest.
Anne shrugged. Some people never change. They just find new tables to sit at, waiting for plates to be handed to them. No harm, so long as you didn’t hang a sign reading “Free Buffet.”
