Charlie--1--Denver International Airport

"What do you mean 'canceled'?" I ask, my voice shrill. Impatient footsteps tap behind me, a long line of customers no doubt extending beyond the gate. Around me are the sounds of rolling suitcases on terrazzo flooring, voices crackling over the intercom.

The flight attendant looks up from her computer, her freshly-manicured beige nails tapping against her ID badge. "The flight has been canceled due to the snowstorm. I'm very sorry." To her credit, she does look sympathetic, but I can sense an undertone of annoyance in her stance. After all, it's Christmas Eve, and I know the last thing she wants to deal with is a difficult customer.

I take a deep breath, willing my voice to stay calm, but my hands are beginning to shake. Here we go again. "Isn't there anything you can do? I can just be moved to a later flight, right?"

The flight attendant—Jennifer, from her name badge—grimaces. "I'm afraid there will be no flights out to Chicago anytime soon."

I scoff. "Because of a little snow?" I've definitely flown in a flurry before, and it's Christmas Eve. I have to make it home.

Irritation creeps into Jennifer's brow. "Ma'am, there's a blizzard outside." She gestures over her shoulder to the window behind her, a blanket of snow already coating the tarmac. Airport employees rush to plow it away, tiny dots against a white canvas. Maybe there's a little more snow than I originally thought.

My stomach plummets. This can't be happening. Since my flight landed from LAX this morning, I've been waiting in the airport Starbucks for the past four hours, anxious to make it home. There wasn't any snow then, and now there's a flight cancellation? I glare up at the ceiling, at whatever higher power is playing tricks on me. Does this really have to happen today? Planes were supposed to be good at the whole not-crashing thing.

Okay, so maybe I'm being dramatic. I obviously would like not to crash. And I know that pilots and air traffic controllers are way smarter than I am.

My elbows are still resting on the countertop when a voice from behind me drawls, "You're holding up the line."

I whip around to see a man, probably around my age, with his eyebrows raised. He's wearing a black marled peacoat and a white scarf, contrasting with his dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. All dark, dark, dark, and his smug expression is really starting to piss me off. Who wears a peacoat on a flight? I glance down imperceptibly at my own ensemble: a matching sweatshirt and sweatpants look, topped off with a pair of worn-down sneakers. I almost make a comment about his outfit before biting my tongue at the last minute.

Be nice. You don't even know him. I swallow a deep breath, taking a step back from my constant rash judgments. "Just one second," I say, forcing a small smile.

I turn back around, prepared to make another half-assed plea to the flight attendant when peacoat-boy says, "One."

He did not.

I slam my palms on the counter louder than I initially intended, startling Jennifer back a half-step. I give her a sheepish look before turning back around to face my airport enemy. "Really? That's the comeback you came up with?"

Mystery-man puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, a dimpled smile stretching across his face. "You said 'one second.'"

"It's an expression," I snap. "Are you five?"

He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts them up in innocence. "Hey, I've got places to be too, sweetheart." He points over his shoulder at the line of people behind him, who are all staring at me, and who all look annoyed. "This isn't just about you."

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks start to burn. I hate attention. "I gathered that, jackass. Got any more helpful advice?"

"Maybe...step away from the counter? The plane's not leaving no matter how long you argue." The man raises his eyebrows, looking down warily at the clenched fist at my side. "No offense."

"Still offended." Red blurs into my vision, but now is not the time for a Charlie-angry outburst. They were infamous for making my sister Caroline cry when we were younger. I wasn't sure how Rude Boy would fare.

"Hurry up!" someone calls out from the line. I look up but can't distinguish the voice amidst the cacophony of airport noise.

I turn my attention back to Peacoat-Man. He looks smug. "Maybe you should mind your own business," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Jennifer clears her throat behind me. Although this entire interaction has only been about thirty seconds, I can sense her impatience from a mile away.

"Sure thing," he pauses, glancing over at the boarding pass still clenched in my left hand, "Charlotte."

"It's Charlie," I snap, and chide myself for starting to lose my temper again. It's not like I owe this stranger my nickname. This is why I never worked in customer service.

The man rolls his eyes and I take a deep breath, finally turning back around.

Jennifer's face is completely blank, the only sign of what she witnessed is a mix of amusement and irritation in her eyes. I wonder just how bad she's seen airport altercations get. "When flights to Chicago start up again, I can transfer you over," she says, her voice more gentle than our previous interaction.

"Do you have any idea when that might be?"

"Based on the weather reports, I would expect for you to spend Christmas Eve at the gate."

I rest my head in my hands, defeated. "I need to get home now."

"Right now, all I can do is direct you to the bus and rental car terminal if you'd like to do that instead."

My head shoots up. "I can work with that." Driving in a snowstorm isn't ideal, and the road to Chicago is definitely a long one, but at least I wouldn't have to stay at the airport wishing I was on one of the planes.

Jennifer tells me the way to the rental cars, down by arrivals. As soon as she finishes, I thank her for her patience (or lack thereof), and brush past the man in the peacoat, bumping his shoulder in the process. Okay, so that part wasn't actually intentional, but definitely well deserved. I can feel his eyes burning the back of my head as I make my way down to my salvation.