Every single time the cashier is about to total our groceries, Jason’s phone rings like clockwork.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he says, his voice dripping with fake urgency. And just like that—poof!—he’s gone, leaving me alone with a full cart and a big bill.
But not this time.
I’ve got a plan, and Jason is about to learn a lesson he won’t forget.
Jason is a wonderful husband—hardworking, funny, and even remembers our anniversary without a single reminder. But he has one habit that drives me absolutely insane.
Every time we go grocery shopping together, right when we reach checkout, he suddenly gets a “very important work call.” Every. Single. Time. Like clockwork.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this,” he says, disappearing before I can blink. And there I am, left alone to deal with a long receipt and an empty wallet.
At first, I didn’t notice. Marriage is all about teamwork, right? But by the tenth time in a row, I saw the pattern clear as day.
One day, when we were loading groceries into the car, I asked, “Who was that?”
“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 everything—cleaning supplies, snacks, fresh produce, and his precious imported coffee beans. As we neared 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 his pants were on fire.
“Jason,” I started, but he cut me off.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.”
I watched him casually stroll toward the store entrance, phone pressed to his ear, pretending to be deep in conversation. Meanwhile, I was left unloading our overflowing cart onto the belt.
The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, gave me the look. You know, the “girl, I see what he’s doing” kind of look.
Was it really that obvious? Had the whole store been watching this ridiculous routine week after week?
My face burned with embarrassment, but that quickly turned into frustration when I saw the total: $347.92.
The cashier handed me the receipt with a sympathetic smile.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Jason was snoring peacefully beside me, blissfully unaware that I was about to turn his own game against him.
The next morning, while Jason was still fast asleep, I grabbed his phone.
I wasn’t snooping—we trust each other. But I had a different mission.
I found my contact name in his phone and changed it to Bank Fraud Department.
Then, I set up an app on my phone that would let me call Jason with a pre-recorded message at the exact right moment.
By the time I crawled back into bed, I was grinning. The trap was set.
Saturday morning came as usual—sleep in, breakfast, then grocery shopping. We walked through the store, filling our cart with the usual necessities and some not-so-necessary treats.
“Do we really need three different kinds of chips?” I asked, playing it cool.
“Absolutely,” Jason said with a serious nod. “They all serve different purposes. 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 couldn’t help smiling. This was one of the things I loved about him—his goofy charm. Too bad it didn’t extend to paying for groceries.
We reached the checkout, and I watched as Jason’s hand subtly drifted toward his pocket.
It was showtime.
RING! RING!
Jason’s face lit up with relief as he pulled out his phone. “Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—”
Then he froze.
His eyes widened in horror as he stared at the screen.
Bank Fraud Department.
I watched his face drain of color. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked sweetly.
He gulped. “Uh… I—”
I reached over and pressed the answer button for him.
A robotic voice blared from the speaker: “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 face turned the same shade as the tomatoes in our cart.
The cashier coughed awkwardly.
The couple behind us burst out laughing.
I crossed my arms, savoring the delicious moment of his humiliation. “That was an important call, huh?”
Jason couldn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s just… finish checking out.”
And for the first time in months, Jason pulled out his wallet and paid.
The cashier—who I was sure had seen this whole thing unfold week after week—gave me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Did you need help with the bags, sir?” she asked Jason, her voice dripping with amusement.
“No, I got it,” he muttered, grabbing as many as he could carry.
The car ride home was painfully silent. Jason gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. I stared out the window, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
Finally, as we pulled into our driveway, he sighed. “That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all innocence. “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had no defense. He’d been caught.
“How long have you been planning this?” he finally asked.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your convenient phone calls,” I shot back.
“I don’t plan them!” he protested. “They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every single time? Right at checkout? Like magic?”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “Okay, maybe I was avoiding it.”
“Avoiding it?” I laughed. “Jason, you turned dodging the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
He sighed. “Yeah, that was a pretty jerk move.”
I smirked. “But clever, I’ll admit.”
“Not as clever as your ‘Bank Fraud Department’ trick.” He shook his head. “That was diabolical. How did you even think of that?”
I shrugged. “Couldn’t handle those cashier pity looks anymore.”
He winced. “Wait… the whole store knew?”
“We’ve been coming here for years, Jason. Of course they noticed.”
He groaned. “That’s embarrassing.”
“Well, lesson learned.” I patted his arm. “Maybe next time, pick a quirk that doesn’t leave your wife footing the bill.”
And guess what?
Since that day, Jason’s magical disappearing act vanished completely.
In fact, now he insists on paying. Sometimes he even takes his phone out and puts it on the counter during checkout—just to prove a point.
But I still keep my smartwatch charged.
You know, just in case.
