Every time the cashier starts scanning our groceries, Jason’s phone buzzes at the precise moment—without fail. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he announces, and just like that, he disappears, leaving me to handle the bill on my own. But not this time. This time, I’ve come up with a plan that’s going to make him wish he’d just swiped his card instead.
Jason is hardworking, funny, and even remembers our anniversary without a single reminder. But he has one ridiculously maddening habit: every time we go grocery shopping, as soon as we hit the checkout, he declares a “very important work call” and vanishes. It’s become so predictable that it’s almost impressive. At first, I shrugged it off, thinking marriage was about compromise. But after the tenth time I was left with a full cart and a $347.92 bill, the pattern became impossible to ignore.
One day, as we pushed our loaded cart toward the car, I asked him, “Who was that?” He shrugged, muttering, “Oh, just work stuff. Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.” Spoiler alert: he never does.
Last Saturday, during our usual grocery run for everything from cleaning supplies to his precious fancy coffee, I mentally prepared myself as we approached checkout—three… two… one—and then the inevitable ringtone. Jason’s hand shot toward his pocket like a reflex, and without missing a beat, he declared, “Oh, babe, I gotta take this—work.” He strutted off toward the entrance as if he were off to negotiate a multi-million-dollar deal. Meanwhile, I began unloading our groceries onto the belt. The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, shot me a knowing look, as if to say, “Girl, I see you.”
I flushed with embarrassment and a simmering frustration when I glanced at the total again. That night, as Jason snored beside me, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in my mind, I came up with a plan to end his disappearing act. While he slept, I quietly grabbed his phone and changed the contact name for my number to “Bank Fraud Department.” I wasn’t snooping—I just wanted him to experience a fraction of the inconvenience he’d been causing.
The next morning, we fell into our usual routine—a lazy Saturday, breakfast together, and then off to the grocery store. We picked out our usual essentials, plus a few indulgences—snacks, ice cream, wholewheat pasta. As our cart filled up, I tried to act casual, though my heart raced with excitement. When we hit the checkout, I saw his hand move toward his phone. I knew it was time.
I tapped a button on my smartwatch, and instantly, his phone rang with my custom ringtone. Jason’s eyes lit up with that familiar sense of relief as he pulled out his phone. But when he saw the caller ID—“Bank Fraud Department”—the color drained from his face. His eyes widened in panic. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked innocently, feigning concern as everyone in line turned to look. He hesitated, trembling, before holding up the phone to show me. I leaned in, swiped to answer, and my pre-recorded message boomed out: “Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious behavior on your account—specifically, you pretending to receive work calls every time it’s your turn to pay.”
His jaw dropped. His face turned as red as the tomatoes in our cart. The cashier cleared her throat awkwardly, and the couple behind us tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle their giggles. I couldn’t help but savor every moment of his discomfort.
“This was an important call,” I quipped with a smirk.
Jason, clearly mortified, muttered, “Let’s just finish checking out.” For the first time in months, he actually pulled out his wallet and paid the full $389.76. As we packed our bags, the ride home was uncomfortably silent. Then, finally, Jason muttered, “That was low, Lauren.”
I smiled sweetly, replying, “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?” He fumbled for words, his face a mask of regret. “How long have you been planning this?” he asked, his voice tinged with panic.
I raised an eyebrow and answered, “Not nearly as long as you’ve been planning your convenient phone calls.”
He admitted sheepishly, “Okay, maybe I’ve been avoiding it a bit.”
I laughed. “A bit? Jason, you’ve turned dodging the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
His embarrassment was palpable as he hung his head. Then, with a touch of humor, he added, “Not as clever as your ‘Bank Fraud Department’ trick. That was diabolical. How did you even think of that?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t stand the sympathetic looks the cashiers were giving me every time you tricked them into letting me pay alone.”
Jason winced. “You mean the whole store knows?”
I grinned. “We’ve been shopping here for years. Of course, they noticed—you weren’t exactly subtle.”
Finally, he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, you got me. No more fake calls,” he said. And just like that, a genuine team spirit returned as we laughed and put away our groceries together. Later, as we cracked open a gallon of milk, he looked at me seriously and admitted, “I’m sorry. I really was being a jerk. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I softened and said, “We all have our quirks. Just next time, try one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag—literally.”
Since that day, Jason’s disappearing act has vanished entirely. In fact, now he insists on paying every time we shop, sometimes even placing his phone on the counter as if to prove he’s fully committed to our partnership. And while I keep my smartwatch charged—just in case—our grocery runs are now a lot more honest… and a whole lot more fun.
