I went to dinner with my friends, including Susan and Greg, who always dump their expensive bills on others. I only ordered a drink, while they ordered pricey meals, around $200. When it came time to split the check, I insisted we only pay for what we ordered, leaving them with a bigger share.
The next day, they called me…
Greg’s voice was tight, fake-friendly. “Hey, Mira. We’re just worried about how you handled the check last night.
It kind of made things awkward.”
Susan jumped in. “It’s just… we always split things evenly in this group. It’s how it’s always been.”
I said what I’d been holding in for months.
“Right. But you two always order appetizers, cocktails, entrees, dessert. I had a seltzer.
I’m not paying for your lobster.”
Dead silence. Then Greg said, “Well, maybe next time, you can just speak up earlier, before the check comes. It’s about the vibe, you know?”
That was the start of a weird frostiness.
No texts. No invites. Group dinners kept happening without me.
At first I was hurt. I’d known them since college. We used to travel together, crash on each other’s couches, help move apartments.
But over time, I realized—I wasn’t sad about missing overpriced dinners where I paid for other people’s wine pairings. I was just missing the version of them that existed years ago. Three months passed.
I started making plans with other people. Hung out more with my coworker Rina, who was newly single and always down for a long walk or cheap tacos. I got closer with my cousin Zora too.
Somehow, I felt lighter. Then came the wedding. It was a huge one—Maya’s, our old roommate.
Destination, coastal Maine, early June. She invited all of us. I almost didn’t go, thinking Greg and Susan would be there.
But Maya texted me privately: “Please come. I miss you. And you were always the glue of the group.”
So I went.
The inn was charming—weathered gray shingles, climbing ivy, wild roses out front. I checked in and instantly ran into Arjun and Kelsey, friends from our study abroad days. Big hugs.
Laughter. Drinks on the porch. And for the first time in months, I felt like I wasn’t tiptoeing around people’s egos.
But sure enough, later that evening, I saw them. Susan in a billowy pale blue dress, Greg in a coral button-down trying too hard. They spotted me at the welcome mixer and gave polite, brittle smiles.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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