“Oh, we’re just trying this out—don’t include us in the shared budget. We’ll bring our own,” wrote Emily in the group chat. “We’re on a diet anyway, eating like birds…”
And that was the first warning sign.
Anna sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other clutching a bulky tote bag. She reread the message twice. Maybe she was overthinking it? The words were polite, but… there was something slippery about them, like someone already mapping escape routes before the game had even begun.
The chat for the May getaway blinked incessantly with notifications. Newcomers had recently joined—Stephen and Emily, friends of Oliver. Oliver was well-liked, trusted, a longtime member of their circle, so no one questioned it.
The group had a warm, easy dynamic. Everyone was around thirty—grown, responsible, but with a sense of humour. They’d known each other long enough to have unspoken rules, each playing their part.
Oliver brought new faces. Anna handled logistics—meetups, trips. She’d already drafted the guest list, planned the route, booked forest cabins with porches, a gazebo, even proper showers. Everyone agreed, then started discussing supplies: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
And then, this:
“Don’t count us in,” Emily wrote. “We’re dieting, so we’ll prepare our own meals. We won’t need anything.”
Anna replied neutrally: “Alright, as you like.” Then she set her phone down.
On the surface—no big deal. Some did keto, some fasted. Let them charge their water by the moon for all she cared. They already had a vegetarian who never chipped in for meat—though he always brought mountains of veg and grilled kebabs so good you’d fight for seconds.
Oddities were part of life. The key was decency, participation. Yet that “don’t count us” sent a chill down Anna’s spine. There was something… greasy in the phrasing. Still, she held her judgment.
The day of the trip was perfect—warm, breezy, golden. Everyone arrived on time, nothing forgotten, not even the skewers or corkscrew. The pine-scented air lifted spirits instantly.
They settled into the cabins, unpacked. Some started setting up the grill.
Emily and Stephen arrived late, when the work was done. Their “own supplies” amounted to a block of cheese, a few tomatoes, rice crackers, two beers. Anna glimpsed their haul and thought, “That might last an evening. But three days?”
They perched on a bench, separate at first. Ate their cheese, clinked bottles, snapped sunset selfies. Then they drifted toward the group. Within half an hour, Stephen was at the grill.
“What’s this? Kebabs? Smells amazing…”
“Honestly, impossible to diet around you,” Emily giggled, edging closer.
Anna shot Kate a glance. Kate shrugged minutely—what could they do, shoo them away? The group wasn’t about embarrassing newcomers.
By nightfall, Emily and Stephen were digging in like old friends—laughing, swapping stories, singing along to guitar strums. Charming, really. Yet Anna felt a twinge, as if they’d been played.
She went to bed unsettled. Not angry. Just… irked. Her parents had always said: if you’re part of a team, play fair, show your cards. But Stephen and Emily had slipped in, holding theirs close, then shared the winnings all the same.
That first night, Anna thought, “If they do it again, I’ll say something.” The idea nagged—who scolded adults over food? Still, she shook it off. They were here to relax, not police plates. A one-off quirk, nothing more.
Except it wasn’t. It was a strategy.
“Pooling money again? We’ll stick to our little salads, as usual,” Emily chirped in a voice note, giggling like it was about party decorations, not splitting costs.
Anna listened while shopping—buckwheat, gas canisters for the stove. She tallied transport, petrol, meat, cutlery, coffee. And again: “as usual.”
Five “usual” trips later—summer BBQs at Kate’s, an autumn lakeside weekend, even a park picnic with tea and sandwiches—Stephen and Emily always arrived with a tiny tote: bananas, limp cabbage slaw, discount supermarket wine.
They never shared. They never left hungry.
“This wine’s lovely,” Stephen mused, pouring from the bottle Ian brought.
“We’re mostly on greens. Pricey, but so good for the skin. Used to be so dry. Oh, I’ll just try a bite…” Emily cooed, stacking her plate with Ian’s roast beef.
At first, it drew awkward smiles. Quirks, right? Maybe money was tight. Layoffs. Debts.
Then came the side glances. Then the whispers.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Kate murmured as they packed leftovers.
“Stephen hit the grill three times. Ate most of the prawn salad,” Anna muttered, shoving meat into containers.
Jokes with edges followed. Ian asked how half a kilo of kebabs fit Stephen’s calorie count. Kate smirked, “Appetite comes on a diet.” Stephen just laughed. Emily pretended not to hear.
Anna hated conflict, hated food-shaming. But when Kate DMed her a photo of Emily and Stephen’s brand-new white crossover—salon-fresh, caption: “We did it!”—something curdled inside.
So they had money. Just different priorities.
Spring returned. Plans for another trip surfaced. This time, Anna opened with:
“No offence, but shared table, shared funds. We’re all grown, all hungry. Opt out? Then don’t eat.”
Most just liked the message. Kate sent a thumbs-up sticker.
Stephen stayed silent. An hour later, Emily DMed:
“We’ll pass. Other plans. Have fun!”
Everyone understood.
Anna closed the app, exhaled. Finally—fair. No freeloaders.
The trip felt lighter. No eyes darting to the salad bowl “dieters” usually raided. No hiding crisp packets.
They weren’t stingy. They just knew where easygoing ended and audacity began.
“This is bliss,” Ian said, clinking plastic cups with Anna. “Air’s fresher somehow.”
“Not the air. Our numbers,” she smirked. “No more ‘bring our own’ to poach others’.”
By the fire later—marshmallows, sausages—no one mentioned Stephen or Emily. Anna knew then: she’d done right. No one blamed her.
Weeks later, she ran into Oliver at a café. The one who’d brought Emily and Stephen in. He was ordering an oat-milk flat white, a croissant.
Small talk—weather, work, holidays. Then:
“Seen Emily or Stephen lately?”
Oliver hesitated, stirred phantom sugar into his coffee. Bracing for blame.
But Anna didn’t blame him. He was guileless, too open. This was just collateral damage.
“They’re into board games now. Late-night meetups, tournaments. More… their crowd. Creative types, they said.”
Anna sipped her coffee, arched a brow. Ah. Fresh prey.
“Creative. Wonder how long that’ll last. Those miniatures aren’t cheap…”
Oliver chuckled but said nothing. His silence dripped more sarcasm than Ian’s jabs ever could.
Anna smiled. Some people never changed—they just hunted new buffets. Not scary, just life. Just don’t put out a sign saying “Free Feast.”
