They Called Me a Freeloader at the Reunion, But I Paid Every Bill

Eight years into running my restaurant, my old high school class president sent me a hundred dollars in the group chat, then called me up.

"Denys Dickerson, tomorrow's reunion is still at your place. Bump the food up a tier from last year, and throw in a few more bottles of top-shelf liquor so we don't run dry. I already sent you the deposit."

This was the eighth time Austin James had thrown a reunion at my restaurant, and every single time he only paid a hundred-dollar deposit.

I couldn't help pointing it out.

"You never settled the balance on any of the last ones."