Chapter 2 - Cancel Everything
The woman behind the blue counter didn't flinch when my sister said it.
I had expected some hesitation, a question, a look between us. Instead she just nodded and turned to her keyboard. Her fingers started moving fast across the keys and the monitor above her desk flickered. The departure board behind her kept scrolling green flights to Chicago and Denver, but her screen had gone white with a reservation list.
My sister stood with her elbows on the counter edge, her checkered tote still hanging from her shoulder. She hadn't set it down once. She flipped the brown leather planner open wider with one hand and slid it toward the agent, her black pen uncapped and resting in the crease.
"Entire party," she said again, quieter this time but more certain. "All under Whitaker."
That was our last name. Hearing her say it like that made my stomach drop. It wasn't just the two tickets in front of her. It was all of us.
The agent leaned forward to read the planner. I could see the blue ink from where I stood, lines of handwriting, dates boxed in the corner, a phone number underlined. My sister's finger tapped next to a confirmation code.
"Seven passengers?" the agent asked.
"Seven," my sister said. "Cancel and refund to the original card."
Her husband stood a half-step behind her, his hands in his pockets. I looked at him without meaning to, hoping he'd do something small to stop it. He didn't look at me. He watched the screen over my sister's shoulder and gave a short nod, like she was handling something correctly. That nod was the whole thing. He was with her. I was alone on the other side of the belt stanchion.
I should have walked away then. I had my keys in my coat pocket and the parking lot was a five minute walk. I could have left them to sort their mess and driven home. But I didn't.
I stayed and I watched.
The agent typed again and a new window popped up on her monitor, a grid of names. I couldn't read it from where I stood, but I saw colors change. Green to gray, row by row. A soft chime came from the system every time she hit enter. She worked quickly, like she'd done this a hundred times for other families.
My sister breathed out slowly and adjusted the strap of her tote. She didn't look at me either.
The monitor at the next counter over flashed CANCELLED in red block letters for a second before it refreshed. I noticed that. I noticed the way the fluorescent lights made a glare on the countertop, the way my sister's layered necklaces shifted when she leaned, the way her planner's leather cover had a worn spot at the snap where her thumb always pressed.
"I need to confirm," the agent said, turning her screen slightly toward my sister. "Cancelling the outbound for all seven passengers today. No rebooking."
My sister didn't hesitate. "Yes. Everything."
Her husband made another small sound, almost a hum of agreement. He put his hand lightly on the back of her blazer, right between her shoulder blades. It was such a casual, married gesture. It made what they were doing feel normal, like they were deciding on dinner.
I felt my own hands get cold. The sentence I'd said a minute earlier was still hanging in my ears. Maybe it's easier this way. I'd said it to make the moment smaller, to give them an out. Now watching those rows turn gray, easier didn't feel like the right word at all. It felt like I was watching someone erase a week I had already packed for.
The agent hit one last key and the screen went still.
"Done," she said. "You'll get confirmation emails within the hour. The funds will return in five to seven business days."
She closed the planner gently and slid it back across the counter. My sister snapped it shut. The click of that snap was loud.
Behind us, a family with two rolling suitcases stepped up to the empty spot at the next counter and started laughing about their boarding passes. The hall kept moving. Announcements about baggage claim played overhead. No one else knew that our entire trip had just disappeared from the system.
My sister finally turned around. Her face was calm, composed, exactly the same as it had been when she told me I'd slow them down. She held the planner against her chest now, tote over her shoulder, and looked right at me.
May you like
"It's handled," she said.
Her husband was already pulling his suitcase back from the belt line, wheeling it away from the counter. There was nowhere to go. We had no outbound flight now. The three of us were just standing in that bright hall with our bags and a cancelled reservation, and I understood for the first time that I wasn't the only one who wasn't going anywhere.
