My friend invited me to a fancy steakhouse downtown—the kind with dim lighting, heavy silverware, and menus that don’t list prices because they assume you’re not afraid of them.
Before we even went, I was clear. I told her I couldn’t drop $200 on dinner and that if I came, I’d keep it light. She laughed it off and said, “Of course. No problem at all.”
I believed her.

The moment we sat down, I knew this night wasn’t going to be what she promised. She ordered like it was a celebration—one of the largest steaks on the menu, cooked medium-rare, plus three sides: truffle mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and grilled asparagus. She added a glass of wine without even glancing at the price.
When it was my turn, I ordered a small steak salad. That was it. No drink. No sides. I even skipped dessert when the waiter asked.
I tried to enjoy myself, but there was a quiet tension in my chest the whole time. I’ve known her long enough to recognize that familiar pattern—the way she likes to live big and let someone else absorb the consequences.
When the waiter finally came back and asked if we were ready for the check, she smiled brightly and said, “Oh, we’ll just split it.”
The words landed like a weight.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t correct her. I just nodded once and said, “Sure.”
A few minutes later, she excused herself to go to the restroom. The second she disappeared around the corner, I raised my hand and quietly called the waiter back.

