Every time the cashier rings up our groceries, my husband Jason’s phone magically starts ringing. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” And just like that, he disappears, leaving me to pay the bill—again.
But not this time.
I had a plan, and Jason was about to learn a lesson he’d never forget.
Jason is a great husband—hardworking, funny, and surprisingly good at remembering anniversaries without reminders. But he has one annoying habit that drives me up the wall. Every time we go grocery shopping together, he mysteriously receives a “very important work call” the second we reach checkout. It’s like clockwork.
At first, I brushed it off. “Marriage is about balance,” I told myself. But after the tenth time, I saw the pattern.
“Who was that?” I asked one day as he strolled back to the cart, just in time to help load the groceries into the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he answered 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 everything—cleaning supplies, food for the week, and of course, the fancy coffee he insists he can’t live without. As we approached the checkout, I counted down in my head. Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand shot to his pocket faster than a cowboy in a Western showdown.
“Jason,” I started, but he cut me off.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.”
I watched as he strolled toward the entrance, nodding like he was negotiating a billion-dollar deal. Meanwhile, I stood there, unloading our mountain of groceries.
The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, gave me a knowing look. The kind that said, “Girl, I see what he’s doing.”
My face burned with embarrassment, but the $347.92 total quickly turned my shame into fury.
That night, I lay awake, my irritation turning into determination. Jason snored peacefully beside me, completely unaware of the plan forming in my mind.
It was time for payback.
The Perfect Trap
While Jason slept, I grabbed his phone. I wasn’t snooping—we trust each other. I just needed to change one small detail.
I found my contact name in his phone and changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.”
Then, I used an app to record a message and set up a trigger on my smartwatch. When I tapped a button, Jason would get a call—from the “Bank Fraud Department.”
The trap was set.
The Shopping Trip
The next morning, we went about our usual Saturday routine—lazy breakfast, casual browsing through the store, and a cart full of essentials… and unnecessary snacks.
“Do we really need three different kinds of chips?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“Absolutely,” Jason said seriously. “Each has a purpose: these are for movie night, these for sandwiches, and these for when I get hungry at midnight.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. This was part of why I loved him, despite his checkout vanishing act.
As we approached the checkout line, I saw Jason’s hand twitch toward his pocket. Showtime.
I casually tapped my smartwatch.
RING. RING.
Jason sighed in relief. “Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” He froze mid-step when he saw the caller ID: “Bank Fraud Department.”
All the color drained from his face. His eyes darted between the phone, me, and the checkout line. Everyone was watching.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked sweetly. “It looks important.”
Jason gulped. “Lauren, this…” he held up his phone, his hand shaking.
“Go ahead,” I said, swiping the answer button for him.
His eyes widened in horror as my pre-recorded message played aloud:
“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.”
The cashier coughed awkwardly.
The couple behind us burst out laughing.
I crossed my arms, watching Jason squirm.
“That was an important call,” I mused. “Possibly the most important one yet.”
Jason rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to meet my eyes. “Let’s just… finish checking out.”
For the first time in months, he pulled out his wallet and paid. The total: $389.76. I saw the cashier—yes, the same one from before—give me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Did you need help with the bags, sir?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
Jason grumbled, grabbing as many as he could carry.
The Aftermath
The car ride home was silent. Jason gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. I stared out the window, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
Finally, as we pulled into the driveway, he sighed. “That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all sweetness. “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
Jason opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he say? He was caught.
“How long have you been planning this?” he asked as we unloaded groceries.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your convenient phone calls.”
“I don’t plan them!” he protested. “They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every single time? At checkout? Like magic?”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I was avoiding it.”
“A bit?” I laughed. “Jason, you’ve turned avoiding the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
He groaned. “I didn’t think about it that way. I just… I don’t know, Lauren. It was stupid.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed. “But also impressive. You were consistent.”
Jason smirked. “Not as impressive as your ‘Bank Fraud Department’ trick. That was diabolical.”
“Thank you,” I said, bowing dramatically. “I learned from the best con artist.”
We laughed as we finished putting groceries away. For a moment, it felt like we were a team again.
Then Jason got serious. “I really am sorry. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I shrugged. “We all have our quirks. Just, maybe next time, pick one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag. Literally.”
Since that day, Jason’s magical disappearing act has vanished. In fact, he insists on paying now. Sometimes, he even places his phone on the counter during checkout, like he’s proving a point.
I keep my smartwatch charged, though.
Just in case.