Living with Taryn started out like a dream. She was friendly, always smiling, and easy to talk to. At first, she seemed like the perfect roommate—sociable, neat, and full of energy. I even thought, “Wow, I got lucky this time!” She made an effort to get to know me, sharing stories about her life, and we’d often chat over coffee or binge-watch shows together.
But as time went on, things began to change. Taryn had this habit of asking me to buy groceries. It wasn’t a big deal at first. She’d hand me a short list, and I’d pick up what she needed while doing my own shopping. She always promised to pay me back.
“I’ll transfer you the money later,” she’d say with a bright grin. “Just remind me, okay?”
The groceries she wanted started getting… fancier. Gourmet cheeses that smelled like heaven, exotic fruits I couldn’t even pronounce, and imported chocolates wrapped in shiny foil. Each time, I’d hand her the receipt, and she’d wave it off like it was no big deal.
“Oh, I totally forgot!” she’d say when I asked her about the money. “I’ll get you next time, promise.”
But “next time” never came.
At first, I let it slide. I didn’t want to seem petty. But after months of this routine, I realized I was racking up expenses while Taryn avoided paying a dime. No matter how casually or directly I brought it up, she’d give the same excuse.
Then came the breaking point.
One day, Taryn told me she was hosting a party. Not just any party—this was going to be “the party of the year,” as she put it. She handed me a shopping list so long it could’ve doubled as a scroll.
“I’ll give you some cash for this,” she said, handing me a few crumpled bills. “But I’ll owe you for the rest, okay? You’re amazing, Alex!”
The list was ridiculous: premium wines, caviar, artisanal bread, gourmet cheese platters, exotic fruits, you name it. My eyes widened as I read through it, and my heart sank when I realized the bill would be massive.
That’s when I decided I’d had enough.
I went to the store with her list in hand, but I wasn’t about to bankrupt myself for her over-the-top party. Instead, I got creative.
For the premium wines, I found the cheapest bottles I could and picked ones with fancy labels. The gourmet cheese? I grabbed pre-sliced sandwich cheese and carefully rewrapped it in wax paper. Exotic fruits? A bag of bruised bananas and some wrinkly apples would do the trick. And the caviar? I picked up a small jar of budget fish roe, laughing to myself at how convincing it might look in the right container.
When I got home, I spent hours re-packaging everything. I poured the cheap wine into elegant glass bottles and sealed them with corks. The sandwich cheese was arranged on a platter with decorative herbs. The fruits were polished until they shone, and I plated the fish roe with a tiny spoon to give it that “fancy” look. By the time I was done, the spread looked like it belonged in a high-end magazine.
The night of the party, Taryn was ecstatic.
“Oh my God, Alex! This looks amazing!” she squealed, clapping her hands. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Guests arrived soon after, and Taryn paraded the food around like it was a Michelin-starred feast.
“Isn’t this divine?” she bragged, holding up a glass of wine. “I have such a taste for the finer things.”
At first, everything seemed fine. Guests complimented the spread, and Taryn soaked it all in, grinning ear to ear. But then, the cracks started to show.
One guest took a sip of wine and made a face. “Huh. This tastes… weird,” he muttered, glancing at the bottle.
Another guest nibbled on the cheese and frowned. “This doesn’t taste right. Is this… processed cheese?”
Someone else bit into the fruit and immediately spit out a seed. “What kind of exotic fruit has seeds like this?” they asked, holding up the offending piece.
The final blow came when a guest scooped up some of the “caviar” and tasted it enthusiastically. Their face froze in horror.
“This isn’t caviar!” they shouted. “It’s just cheap fish eggs!”
All eyes turned to Taryn. Her face turned beet red as she stammered, “I-I don’t know what happened! It’s supposed to be the best of the best!”
She pulled me aside, her voice hissing with anger. “What the hell, Alex? What did you buy?!”
I smiled innocently. “Exactly what you asked for. Well, close enough. I figured it didn’t really matter since you never actually pay me back.”
Her jaw dropped. She opened her mouth to argue but then closed it, realizing she had no defense. She’d been caught, and everyone knew it.
The party ended awkwardly, with guests leaving much earlier than expected. The next morning, Taryn handed me an envelope stuffed with cash—the full amount she owed me for all her grocery requests over the past few months.
“I guess I deserved that,” she said quietly, looking genuinely embarrassed.
After that, Taryn started doing her own shopping. She never asked me for another favor, and our relationship as roommates became much more distant.
The lesson? If you can’t afford the gourmet life, don’t expect someone else to pay for it. And for me, I learned that standing up for yourself is sometimes the sweetest victory of all.
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