“Count us out of the shared budget. We’ll bring our own,” typed Emily in the group chat. “We’re on a diet anyway—eating like sparrows…”
That was the first warning sign.
Sophie sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other gripping a bulky tote bag. She read the message twice. Had she imagined the edge to it? Polite on the surface, yet… like someone already digging for loopholes.
The chat for the May weekend away buzzed nonstop with notifications. New faces had joined recently—James and Emily, friends of Daniel, who was well-liked and trusted in the group. No one questioned their inclusion.
The vibe was warm, friendly. Everyone was in their thirties—responsible, organised, but with a sense of humour. Years of shared history meant unspoken rules and assigned roles. Daniel introduced newcomers. Sophie handled logistics—guest lists, routes, cottage rentals near the woods, complete with verandas, a gazebo, and even proper showers. Everyone agreed, shopping lists were drafted: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
Then came Emily’s message:
“James and I won’t need anything. On a strict diet—we’ll prep our own meals.”
Sophie replied neutrally: “Sure, no problem.” Then set her phone aside.
It shouldn’t have been an issue. Some did keto, some counted macros—heck, some swore by moon-charged water. There was even a vegetarian who never chipped in for meat but always overcompensated with grilled veggie skewers no one could resist.
Odd quirks were normal. What mattered was decency and participation. But something about “count us out” sent a chill down Sophie’s spine. There was a slippery quality to it. Still, she’d wait and see.
The day of the trip dawned flawless—warm, breezy, golden. Everyone arrived on time, nothing forgotten, no last-minute dashes for skewers or corkscrews. Pine-scented air lifted spirits instantly.
Cottages were claimed, gear unpacked, the grill set up.
Emily and James arrived late, after the heavy lifting was done. Their “own supplies” amounted to a small block of cheddar, tomatoes, rice cakes, and two beers. Sophie glimpsed the haul and thought: *Enough for tonight, maybe. But three days?*
They perched on a bench, aloof at first, nibbling cheese, clinking bottles, snapping sunset selfies. Then, inch by inch, they edged toward the group. Within half an hour, James was by the grill.
“What’re you cooking? Smells amazing…”
“Hard to stay on a diet around you lot,” Emily laughed, sidling closer.
Sophie glanced at Lucy beside her, who gave a barely-there shrug. *What could they do? Turn them away?* Hospitality was sacred, especially with newcomers.
By nightfall, Emily and James were fully immersed—eating, drinking, swapping stories, singing along to guitar tunes. They were fun, engaging, not aloof. Nothing *awful*. Yet Sophie felt a prickling unease, like they’d been played.
She fell asleep vexed—not angry, just… irritated. Her parents had always taught her: if you’re part of a team, play by the rules, lay your cards on the table. But James and Emily had slipped in, keeping their chips hidden while sharing the pot.
*If this happens again,* she thought that first night, *I’ll have to act.* The idea weighed on her—who wanted to scold grown adults? But she shook it off. They were here to relax, not police plates. For now, just a one-off quirk.
Except it wasn’t. Over the next year, it became their signature move.
“Are we splitting costs again? Oh, we’ll stick to our salads,” Emily chirped in a voice note, giggling like it was a PTA meeting where parents were *optionally* asked to bring decorations gathering dust at home. No obligation, no extra spend.
Sophie listened en route to buy pasta and a new gas canister for the stove, tallying transport duties, petrol splits, who’d bring meat, plates, coffee. And yet again—*we’ll stick to ours.*
Five times it happened. Summer barbecues at Lucy’s. A September lodge trip. Even an autumn picnic with tea and sandwiches. Each time, Emily and James arrived with a tiny tote—two bananas, a sad cabbage slaw, bargain-bin wine.
They never shared. They never left hungry.
“Nice wine,” James would muse, pouring himself a glass from the bottle Tom brought.
“We’re all about clean eating now. So pricey, but *so* worth it,” Emily cooed, assembling a sandwich with someone else’s roast beef.
At first, it drew awkward smiles. *Quirky pair. Maybe times are tight. Maybe they’re drowning in debt.*
Then came the sideways glances. Then the whispers.
“Did you *see* how much they ate?” Lucy muttered as they packed leftovers after another trip.
“James hit the grill three times. And he devoured the prawn salad,” Sophie grumbled, shoving meat into Tupperware.
Jokes followed—digs disguised as banter. Tom once asked James how a pound of sausages fit his calorie count. Lucy dryly noted how appetites *flourished* on diets. James just laughed. Emily pretended not to hear.
Sophie hated conflict, hated nitpicking over food. But when Lucy texted her a photo of Emily and James’ new car—a sleek white crossover, fresh from the dealership—something curdled inside. The caption: “We *finally* did it!”
Sophie didn’t respond. The conclusion was clear: Money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring arrived. Plans for another trip were made. This time, Sophie opened the chat firmly.
“All good—but shared table, shared funds. We’re all adults with appetites. If you’re not in, you’re not eating.”
Silence. Most just liked the message, understanding the subtext. Lucy sent a thumbs-up sticker.
Only James didn’t reply. An hour later, Emily DM’d Sophie.
“Think we’ll skip this one. Have fun, though!”
Message received.
Sophie closed the app, exhaling. *Finally—fair.* No more freeloaders.
The trip felt different. No one eyed the salad bowl, usually raided by “dieters.” No one hid snacks under jackets.
They weren’t stingy—just weary of where ease bled into entitlement.
“Today’s been perfect,” Tom said, clinking plastic cups with Sophie. “Something just feels… lighter.”
“That’s not the air,” she smirked. “It’s the company. No one’s ‘bringing their own’ just to scavenge onAnd as Sophie sipped her coffee, she realised some people would always hunt for a free ride—but now, at least, the road ahead was clear.
