“Just letting you know—you don’t need to include us in the shared budget. We’ll bring our own stuff,” wrote Emily in the group chat. “We’re on a diet, eating like birds, you know…”
And that was the first red flag.
Lucy sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other gripping a bulky tote bag. She read the message twice. Maybe she was overreacting? It was polite enough, but… there was something off, like someone had already mapped out an escape route to avoid pitching in.
The group chat for the May weekend was buzzing with notifications. New faces had joined recently—James and Emily, friends of Oliver’s. Oliver was well-liked and trusted, so no one questioned it.
The group dynamic was warm and friendly. Everyone was around thirty—responsible, organised, but with a sense of humour. They knew each other well, so there were unspoken rules. Everyone had their role.
Oliver brought in newcomers. Lucy handled the logistics—booking cottages near the woods with porches, a gazebo, and even decent showers. Everyone agreed, and they started discussing supplies: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
And then came Emily’s message:
“James and I won’t need anything. We’re on a diet, so we’ll prep our own meals.”
Lucy replied neutrally: “No worries, suit yourselves.” She set her phone down.
Honestly, it shouldn’t have been a problem. Some did keto, others calorie counting. Whatever. They even had a guy who never chipped in for meat—strict vegetarian—but he always brought more veggies than he could eat, grilling them so well no one could resist.
Quirks were normal. The key was decency and participation. Still, something about that “don’t include us” sent a chill down Lucy’s spine. There was a slipperiness to it. But she decided not to jump to conclusions.
The day of the trip was perfect—warm, fresh, a light breeze. Everyone arrived on time, nothing forgotten. The scent of pine and crisp air lifted spirits instantly.
They settled into the cottages, unpacked, some went to set up the barbecue.
James and Emily arrived late, after most of the work was done. Their “own stuff” turned out to be a small block of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, rice crackers, and two beers. Lucy glanced at their haul and thought, “That might last an evening. But three days?”
They sat apart at first, eating their cheese, clinking bottles, snapping sunset selfies. Then, gradually, they drifted toward the group. Within half an hour, James was by the grill.
“What’s that you’re cooking? Looks amazing…”
“Hard to resist when you’re on a diet, eh?” Emily laughed, edging closer.
Lucy exchanged a glance with Sophie. A slight shrug. What could they do? Send them away? The group wasn’t about embarrassing people, especially newbies.
By nightfall, James and Emily were deep in the feast—eating, drinking, swapping stories, singing along to the guitar. They were fun, sociable. Not unpleasant. But Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been played.
She went to bed uneasy. Not angry. Just… irritated. Her parents always said: if you’re part of a team, you play by the rules. James and Emily had slipped in, holding their cards close, then shared the winnings.
That first night, Lucy thought, “If this happens again, I’ll have to say something.” It wasn’t a pleasant thought—who wanted to parent adults? But she brushed it off. They were here to relax, not monitor plates. Maybe it was a one-off.
It wasn’t.
“Oh, are we still splitting costs? We’ll stick to our little salads, like always,” Emily giggled in a voice note, as if discussing decorations for a school play.
Lucy listened to it while shopping for pasta and a new gas canister for the stove. Another trip, another “we’ll bring our own”—summer barbecues, a weekend lodge, a picnic with tea and sandwiches. Each time, James and Emily arrived with a tiny bag—bananas, a sad salad, bargain-bin wine.
Never shared. Never left.
“Nice wine,” James would remark, pouring from someone else’s bottle.
“We’re all about veggies now. So good for the skin—oh, but I’ll just try a bite…” Emily would murmur, loading her plate with everyone’s roast beef.
At first, it was awkward smiles. Maybe money was tight? Layoffs? Debts?
Then came the glances. Then the whispers.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Sophie muttered while packing leftovers.
“James went back to the grill three times. And that prawn salad? He demolished it,” Lucy replied flatly.
Jokes with edges followed. Tom once asked James how a pound of sausages fit his calorie count. Sophie deadpanned, “Appetites grow on diets.” James just laughed. Emily pretended not to hear.
Lucy hated confrontation. Hated begrudging people food. But when Sophie texted her a photo of James and Emily’s brand-new SUV—gleaming, showroom-fresh—something twisted inside her.
“Oh, finally! We did it!” the caption read.
Money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring came. Plans for another trip bubbled up. This time, Lucy set the tone early.
“Guys, no offence: shared table, shared costs. We’re all adults with healthy appetites. No pay, no play.”
Most just liked the message. Sophie sent a thumbs-up sticker.
James didn’t reply. An hour later, Emily messaged Lucy privately.
“Think we’ll skip this one. Have other plans. Enjoy your trip!”
They all knew what it meant.
Lucy closed the app, exhaling. Finally—fair. No freeloaders, no guilt.
The trip felt lighter. No eyes darting to the snack bowls, no stealthy grabs at the crisps.
They weren’t being stingy. Just done with audacity.
“Today’s just… perfect,” Tom said, clinking cups with Lucy. “Air’s different, somehow.”
“Not the air. The company,” she smirked. “No one’s ‘bringing their own’ just to take someone else’s.”
Around the fire that night—roasting marshmallows, sizzling sausages—no one mentioned James or Emily. And Lucy knew she’d been right.
Weeks later, she ran into Oliver at a coffee shop. He was getting an oat-milk latte and a croissant.
Small talk first—weather, work, holiday plans. Then, casually:
“Seen James and Emily lately?”
Oliver hesitated, stirring imaginary sugar. Bracing for blame.
But Lucy didn’t blame him. He was the social glue, too trusting at times. This was just collateral damage.
“Ah, they’re into board games now. Late-night sessions, tournaments. More their crowd, they said.”
Lucy sipped her coffee, tilting her head. New table, same game.
“Right. ‘Their crowd.’ Wonder how long that’ll last. Board games aren’t cheap—especially when everyone chips in.”
Oliver chuckled, but stayed quiet. His silence said more than any joke.
Some people never change. They just find a new table to sit at—where someone else pays. Not the end of the world. Just life.
The trick was not putting out a sign that said “Free buffet.”
