Every single time we go grocery shopping, right when the cashier starts scanning our items, Jason’s phone rings. Like magic. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he says, then—poof!—he vanishes, leaving me to pay. But not this time. Oh no. This time, I have a plan, and Jason is about to regret ever dodging the bill.
Now, don’t get me wrong—my husband Jason is a great guy. He’s funny, hardworking, and even remembers our anniversary without needing a reminder. But he has one little habit that’s been driving me absolutely crazy.
For months now, the moment we reach the checkout line, Jason suddenly gets an “urgent” work call. It’s so perfectly timed that I almost admire his commitment to the bit. Almost.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this,” he says, already walking away as I stare at the full cart and the total climbing higher and higher.
The first few times, I didn’t think much of it. Marriage is about balance, right? Sometimes he pays, sometimes I pay. No big deal.
But then it kept happening. Again. And again. And again.
“Who was that?” I asked one day as he strolled back, right as I was wheeling our loaded cart toward the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he said vaguely. “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 to restock everything—food, cleaning supplies, even that fancy coffee Jason loves.
As we approached the checkout, I started counting down in my head. Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand shot to his pocket so fast you’d think someone had zapped him with a taser.
“Jason…” I started, but he was already talking over me.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.”
And just like that, he was gone. Again. Strolling toward the store entrance, nodding like he was negotiating some high-stakes deal, while I unloaded our mountain of groceries.
The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, glanced from me to Jason and then back to me. She gave me that look—the one that said, “Girl, I see what he’s doing.”
Was it that obvious? Had she been watching this sad routine play out week after week?
My face burned with embarrassment, but it quickly turned into something else: determination.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Jason snored beside me, blissfully unaware of the plan forming in my head.
Oh, he was about to learn a lesson.
The next night, while Jason was fast asleep, I grabbed his phone. No, I wasn’t snooping—I trust him, despite his checkout disappearing act. I had a different mission.
I went to his contacts and found my name. Then, with a few taps, I changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.”
I set his phone back exactly how it was and crawled into bed, barely containing my grin.
The trap was set.
The next morning, we followed our usual Saturday routine—sleep in, eat breakfast, then head out for groceries.
As we walked through the aisles, I acted completely normal. We loaded up on the essentials: eggs, bread, veggies. Then came Jason’s usual “nice-to-have” items—ice cream, chips, his fancy coffee.
“Do we really need three different kinds of chips?” I asked, feigning casual curiosity.
“Absolutely,” he said, completely serious. “They all serve different purposes. These are for movie night, these are for sandwiches, and these are for midnight snacks.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. This was why I loved him—flaws and all.
Then, the moment arrived. We reached the checkout line. Jason’s hand edged toward his phone.
It was time.
Casually, I tapped a button on my smartwatch.
RING. RING.
Jason’s face lit up in relief at the sound of his ringtone. Like clockwork, he pulled out his phone, ready to make his escape.
“Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened. His face turned pale.
Because the caller ID on his screen read: “Bank Fraud Department.”
I watched as panic spread across his face.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” I asked sweetly. “It looks important.”
He hesitated, looking from the phone to me to the line of people behind us, all of whom were watching.
“Lauren, this…” he stammered, holding up the phone like it might explode.
“Just answer it,” I encouraged, then reached over and swiped to accept the call.
And then, my pre-recorded message played for the entire checkout line to hear.
“Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious activity 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 exact color of the tomatoes in our cart.
The cashier coughed to hide a laugh.
The couple behind us burst out giggling.
I crossed my arms, savoring the moment. “That sounded serious, Jason.”
Jason swallowed hard. “Let’s just… finish checking out.”
And for the first time in months, Jason pulled out his wallet and paid. $389.76.
I couldn’t help but notice the cashier—the same one from before—give me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Need help with the bags, sir?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
“No, I got it,” Jason mumbled, grabbing as many as he could carry.
The car ride home was silent. Jason’s grip on the steering wheel was tight. I stared out the window, trying not to laugh.
Finally, he sighed. “That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all innocent. “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
Jason opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no defense.
“How long have you been planning this?” he asked as we unloaded groceries.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your ’emergency’ calls.”
“I don’t plan them! They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every single time? Like magic?”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I was avoiding it.”
“A bit?” I laughed. “Jason, you turned dodging the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
He winced. “I didn’t think about it that way. It was stupid.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed. “But pretty clever, too.”
“Not as clever as your Bank Fraud trick,” he admitted. “That was diabolical.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a dramatic bow. “I learned from the best.”
We laughed as we put away the groceries. And for the first time in a while, it felt like we were a team again.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “It really was a jerk move. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I shrugged. “We all have our quirks. Just maybe pick one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag. Literally.”
And you know what? Since that day, Jason’s disappearing act has vanished completely.
In fact, now he insists on paying every time. Sometimes, he even puts his phone on the counter during checkout—like he’s proving a point.
I keep my smartwatch charged, though.
Just in case.
