Every time we go grocery shopping, my husband Jason pulls the same trick. Just as we reach the checkout, his phone rings.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” And just like that—poof—he’s gone. Off to handle some “important work call,” while I stand there paying for everything. But this time? This time, I have a plan. A plan that will make Jason wish he’d just paid his share like a normal person.
Jason is a great husband—hardworking, funny, and he even remembers our anniversary without needing phone reminders. But this one habit of his? It drives me absolutely crazy.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. We’re married, and sometimes one person covers for the other, right? But after the tenth time, I started noticing a pattern.
“Who was that?” I asked one day as we loaded the groceries into the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” Jason said casually. “Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.”
Spoiler alert: He never got it next time.
Last Saturday was the final straw. We needed everything—cleaning supplies, food for the week, and, of course, his fancy coffee. As we rolled up to the checkout, I counted down in my head.
Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand flew to his pocket faster than if it had been on fire.
“Jason,” I started, but he cut me off.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.” And just like that, he strolled to the front of the store, nodding along like he was making a million-dollar deal.
I turned back to the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes. She looked at Jason, then at me, and gave me that look. The “girl, I see what he’s doing” look.
Had she noticed him pulling this stunt every week? My face burned with embarrassment, but that quickly turned to frustration when I saw the total: $347.92.
That night, I lay awake. Jason snored peacefully beside me, completely unaware that I was plotting. Enough was enough. I needed to put a stop to this nonsense.
I reached for his phone—not to snoop, but for something far more devious. I found my name in his contacts and changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.” Then, I set his phone down exactly as it was and crawled back into bed, smiling to myself.
The next morning, we went through our usual routine—lazy Saturday morning, breakfast, and then off to the store.
“Do we really need three different kinds of chips?” I asked as we browsed the snack aisle.
“Absolutely,” Jason said, deadly serious. “These are for movie night, these are for lunch sandwiches, and these are for when I get hungry at midnight.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help but smile. This was part of why I loved him—despite his checkout-dodging nonsense.
We loaded up the cart and headed for the register. I waited. My heart pounded in anticipation. Then, right on cue, Jason’s hand moved toward his pocket.
It was time.
I tapped a button on my smartwatch.
RING. RING.
Jason’s face lit up with relief. “Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” He stopped mid-sentence, staring at his screen.
His face went pale.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” I asked sweetly. “It looks important.”
He hesitated. The people behind us started watching. The cashier raised an eyebrow.
Jason held up his phone with a trembling hand. “Lauren… it says ‘Bank Fraud Department.’”
“Then you better pick up,” I said, and before he could react, I swiped his phone to accept the call.
My pre-recorded message played loud and clear:
“Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious behavior on your account. Specifically, you pretending to get a phone call every time it’s YOUR turn to pay at checkout.”
Jason’s jaw dropped. His face turned the color of the tomatoes in our cart. The cashier stifled a laugh. The couple behind us giggled.
I crossed my arms, savoring his embarrassment. “That sounded serious. Maybe you should call them back?”
Jason let out a defeated sigh and pulled out his wallet for the first time in months.
The total? $389.76.
The same cashier as last time gave me a subtle thumbs-up as she handed him the receipt.
“Would you like help with the bags, sir?” she asked, voice dripping with fake sweetness.
Jason muttered, “No, I got it,” and grabbed as many as he could carry.
The car ride home was silent. Jason gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.
Finally, as we pulled into the driveway, he spoke. “That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all sugary sweetness. “Oh? Lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? He’d been caught red-handed.
“How long have you been planning this?” he asked as we unloaded the groceries.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your little disappearing act.”
“I don’t plan it! It just… happens,” he protested weakly.
I raised an eyebrow. “Every time? At checkout? Like clockwork?”
He looked embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I was avoiding it a bit.”
“A bit? Jason, you’ve turned avoiding the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
He groaned. “I didn’t think about it that way. It was stupid.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed. But I softened a little. “It was also pretty clever.”
“Not as clever as your ‘Bank Fraud Department’ stunt,” he admitted, pulling out a gallon of milk. “That was diabolical. How did you even think of that?”
“I was tired of the cashiers looking at me like I was your sugar mama.”
Jason winced. “The whole store knows?”
“We’ve been shopping here for years. Of course, they noticed, Jason. You weren’t exactly subtle.”
He sighed. “Well, fine. You got me. No more fake calls.” He held up his hands in surrender. “But I have to admit, that was genius.”
I took a dramatic bow. “Thank you. I learned from the best con artist.”
We laughed as we finished putting away the groceries. It felt good, like we were a team again.
Then, unexpectedly, Jason said, “I’m sorry. I really was being a jerk. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I shrugged. “We all have weird quirks. Just, maybe next time, pick one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag. Literally.”
And you know what? Since that day, Jason’s magic disappearing act vanished completely.
In fact, now he insists on paying. Sometimes he even places his phone on the counter, making a show of not touching it.
But I keep my smartwatch charged.
Just in case.
