Chapter 1: No Reservation, No Respect

Memorial Day weekend was coming up, and I’d snagged a discounted hotel stay online. Honestly, just clicking that “book now” button felt like a mini victory—one of those moments where you can’t help but grin and think, This is going to be good. I was already picturing the cool sheets, the hum of the AC, and a couple days with nothing on my agenda but relaxing.

The air outside was thick with the promise of barbecue smoke and distant fireworks, but all I wanted was a little peace and quiet. Scoring a deal on a hotel room during Memorial Day? That’s practically a miracle. Usually, prices skyrocket, but every once in a while, if you dig deep enough, you get lucky. I felt a little smug—like I’d outsmarted the system. Honestly, it was the kind of thing that makes you want to brag just a little.

So when I showed up to check in, suitcase in hand, I was already in vacation mode. But then the clerk at the front desk blinked at her screen, her brows pulling together. For a second, I thought maybe she’d made a typo. I waited, expecting her to ask for my ID or something. But then she said, "There’s no reservation under your name."

The lobby was a circus—families hauling coolers, kids with floaties slapping against their legs, the hum of holiday chaos everywhere. I stood there, clutching my suitcase, my name echoing in my head like a stubborn song lyric. If I just stood still long enough, maybe it would pop up on their screen. But the front desk clerk, nails clacking against the keyboard, barely glanced at me. She looked right through me, like I was invisible, her fingers typing out the verdict on my weekend.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the email, holding it out to her. She just looked at the screen, then up at me, and smirked. She actually smirked. “If you can’t afford it, why pretend you’re on vacation? Don’t you know hotel prices go through the roof during the holidays?”

Her words hit like a slap. My face went hot, and I could feel the couple behind me shifting, pretending they hadn’t heard. My cheeks burned. It was the kind of moment where you just want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Everyone else seemed to belong. Not me.

Then, without another word, she turned back to her computer and, just like that, canceled my reservation.

She didn’t even pause. Her finger hovered over the mouse for a heartbeat, then—click. I watched as my weekend plans vanished in a flash of red on the screen. I gripped my phone tighter, knuckles white, trying to keep it together.

Fine. Desperate times. I reached for my work badge.

“Corporate audit!”

I’d never had to do this before. But desperate times. The badge hung heavy on its lanyard—"Corporate Quality Inspection" in bold blue letters. Would she even care? I flashed it at her, the lanyard swinging. My voice came out steadier than I felt. Fake it till you make it, right?

“I already told you, there’s no such booking in our system!” She rolled her eyes, lips pursed, arms crossing tight over her chest. I caught the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. Bluff called.

“Stay or not, it’s $229 a night now.” She frowned, clearly impatient.

Her lips twisted into a frown, and she started tapping her foot. I could practically hear her thinking: Hurry up, you’re holding up the line.

That sentence kept looping in my mind, as if repeating it could make it true. I’d done everything right. Double-checked dates, saved the confirmation email. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Yeah, I’d thought I was so clever, beating the crowds. Should’ve known better.

It felt like déjà vu, except now my patience was running thin. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to keep my voice even. The lobby smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and desperation. Nope. Still there. I wasn’t crazy.

I held out my phone and opened the booking page. For a second, I let myself hope—maybe if I showed her the details again, she’d see reason.

“Look, I really do have a confirmation here. Maybe the hotel’s system glitched?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but there was a tremor in it. My voice wobbled anyway.

My screen was bright with the booking app. I held it up, hoping the glow would lend me some authority. The time stamped on the reservation mocked me. She barely glanced at it, dismissively.

The front desk clerk glanced at it dismissively. She looked at me like I was handing her a fake ID. I’d been here before—well, not exactly, but it felt the same.

She pushed my phone back toward me, as if it might contaminate her workspace. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to snap.

“Seriously? Is this some kind of joke? I mean, come on—how could it be a shady channel?”

The idea that I’d fallen for some scam? Insulting. My jaw clenched.

I wasn’t convinced and asked her to check the system again.

“I really did book. Why don’t you try rebooting your computer or maybe ask someone else to help?”

I was determined not to be that angry guest. Not yet.

She didn’t say anything, just kept clicking her mouse. Her jaw clenched, and I saw her eyes dart to the clock. Why won’t this woman just leave?

She finally looked up. Sighed. “Alright.”

Maybe this nightmare was finally over.

I thought, finally, the system had refreshed. I could check in.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders eased. Maybe I could finally head up to my room.

I breathed a sigh of relief—especially during Memorial Day. Those rooms disappear fast.

I could almost picture myself flopping onto a crisp white bed, flipping on the TV, maybe even catching a ballgame. The tension in my chest loosened just a little.

I clicked on my reservation. Maybe this time, the front desk would actually verify it.

Just in case. Always have a backup. I pulled up the email again, finger hovering over the refresh button.

I stared. No way.

Poof. The reservation was gone.

It glared at me. Mocking. “Reservation canceled” in bold red letters stared back at me.

So when she said “alright,” she meant... she’d just canceled my booking.

Anger. Fast and hot.

My hands shook. I clenched my jaw.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my phone across the lobby. Instead, I just stood there, seething.

She smirked. A tiny, victorious curl of her lip.

I glanced at her name tag: Front Desk Receptionist: Madison Porter. It fit—too cheerful, with a sharp edge.

You’re here to have fun—stay positive. I repeated it to myself, over and over, like a shield.

I squared my shoulders. “Get your manager out here!”

If she wanted to stonewall me, fine. I was ready to escalate. I’d been through enough corporate red tape to know how to push back.

Got her. Finally. The moment she heard I wanted her superior, she got anxious.

Her bravado slipped. She looked over her shoulder, then back at me. Her fingers drummed nervously on the counter.

She raised her voice, as if trying to rally the lobby. Her words hung sharp and ugly: “If you can’t afford it, why are you even trying to stay at a four-star hotel? And our hotel has never had a low price like $119 a night! Your booking must be from some scam site.”

She spat it out like it was a curse. Her voice was a mix of condescension and defensiveness, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me. I could feel my blood pressure rising.

I looked at her and smiled. “Are you the hotel owner? How do you know there isn’t such a price?” Not backing down.

Hey, just because you’ve never seen it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Hotels do promos for anniversaries all the time. Maybe you missed the memo?

People started edging closer, curiosity piqued. Someone in a baseball cap nudged his wife. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

A dad leaned in, whispering to his wife. A colleague next to Madison tugged at her sleeve under the desk, giving her a look.

The other clerk was tall, eyes darting around. I saw the silent exchange—her coworker’s eyes wide, a warning in her expression. Madison’s bravado faltered for a split second.

She caught on and her tone softened. “Let me take you to the lounge. If you have any complaints, I’ll help you call the manager.”

Maybe this was it. Maybe things were finally turning around. Her voice was suddenly syrupy sweet. She gestured for me to follow, as if she was doing me a favor. I hesitated, but figured it was better than causing a bigger scene in the lobby.

The lounge was quiet, cool, and smelled faintly of coffee. Plush chairs, fake plants, and a TV playing muted weather updates. I sat down, still clutching my phone like a lifeline.

She set it on the table, the glass sweating in the air-conditioned room. “Someone will be with you shortly,” she said, her smile brittle.

But I waited there for an hour. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the wall ticked louder with every minute. I checked my phone, refreshed my email, paced the room. No one came. The water went warm. My patience frayed to the breaking point.

I needed a break from the four walls and my own boiling thoughts. The hallway was empty, the carpet muffling my footsteps. I pushed open the restroom door, just wanting a moment to collect myself.

Their voices echoed off the tile. I froze, not wanting to interrupt, but their conversation caught my ear.

“It’s the first day of the holiday, and we’re so slammed. Even bathroom breaks are tough.”

So Madison never called the manager—she just left me waiting for nothing! The realization stung.

My jaw clenched. She’d played me for a fool. I felt the sting of humiliation, but now I was just mad. I splashed cold water on my face and stormed out.

My shoes squeaked on the polished floor as I marched straight to the lobby front desk. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the lobby, all eyes on me. I didn’t care. I was done being polite.

She was all smiles: “Uncle Rick, Aunt Marsha, I knew you’d be traveling for Memorial Day. I made sure to reserve a deluxe king room for you, breakfast buffet included.” All smiles. Like nothing ever happened. Her voice was honey-sweet, her posture perfect. She fussed over their bags, ignoring the growing line behind them.