Twin Promises - chapter 01 of a work in progress

Amelie and Katelyn have burdened one another with sisterly promises they're determined to keep. John meets Amelie on the first day of college and sparks fly. It's going to get complicated fast.

It was blazing hot, the kind of August heat that presses on you like a heavy blanket, and squeezes out rubber and oil aromas from the concrete. Sweat soaked through my shirt as I hugged Mom goodbye. She tried to smile, but her chin trembled.

Dad offered his hand. I shook it, another part of the ritual.

“You be good now, son, you hear?”

“Yes sir,” I said.

Something just gave way inside me, and I pulled him into a hug before he could object. He held tight for a long moment, his fists bunching the fabric at my back. The intensity of it was almost enough to crack something open, but I kept it together. He stepped back, nodded once, lips tight. That was us. We felt things, but we didn’t let them show. Once, when I’d been upset as a pre-teen, Dad had called it “The Anderson Way” – feel, but don’t spill. It had stuck with me.

I’d already said goodbye to Viking back in San Antonio, the big dog confused and anxious about my departure. Living without him was going to be every bit as difficult as being away from Mom and Dad. Still, I was only ninety minutes away and could catch a bus back home for a weekend now and then.

Mom and Dad climbed into the truck and waved as they eased into the garage traffic. I stood watching until the taillights vanished behind a concrete pillar.

Just like that, I was on my own.

My arrival in the University of Texas at Austin had begun with a hiccup: Dad’s truck never got close to Carothers Hall. Mooov‑In congestion on Whitis Avenue meant staff waved us straight into the garage. I’d thought arriving a week before classes would spare us the chaos, but apparently not.

Still, I had my student ID from orientation during an earlier visit, my Mooov‑In envelope, my dorm room key, and my parents’ company, which steadied me. By some miracle, the Carothers front desk had a cart available, so I’d grabbed it and headed toward the garage. I’d read the instructions and knew I wasn’t supposed to take the cart that far away, but I didn’t know what else to do in the circumstances, so I’d hustled toward the garage before anyone could stop me.

Mom and Dad had walked alongside, their heads pivoting to take in the buildings. This was hard for them, I’d thought at the time. Their only child was leaving home to attend college, and an empty nest awaited them when they got back to San Antonio. At least they’d have Viking, who was retiring from police K-9 duty at the same time.

After my parents drove off, and I’d braved the heat while pushing a fully loaded cart, the Carothers lobby AC felt like stepping into heaven. The cart’s front-right wheel wobbled like it was trying to detach itself, announcing me with a clatter as I crossed the floor. I probably looked like I did after a high‑school basketball game – like I needed to be wrung out.

That’s when I saw her.

She stood near a loose cluster of students and families waiting for carts – sun‑blond hair, blue-green eyes, athletic, self‑possessed. Shorts, tank top, backpack slung easily over one shoulder. Not trying to draw attention, not posing, just… there. Something about her clarity hit me like a shot to the chest.

Clarity?! I forced myself to stop projecting – there’s no way I could figure out her character from a quick glance – and I kept moving.

People stared at me all the time – six‑six and and a big build will do that – but today they were mostly eyeing the cart I was pushing. She looked too, but not with the hungry, half‑desperate cart‑lust the parents had. And not, I thought, because I was oddly large. Something different. Curious, maybe. Her gaze lingered – on me, not the cart, like she was searching for something – before looking away. She seemed… deliberate.

More projection. Get a grip, John! I ordered myself.

Upstairs, I claimed a bed, took in the view of the quad green from the window, and unloaded my stuff. My roommate wasn’t there yet—just his name on the door and a text from earlier, promising a mini-fridge, which I hadn’t even considered, and couldn’t have afforded to do anything about even if I had. The room felt as bare as it looked. It smelled a bit musty, too, which got me wondering about the air conditioning ducts, which ought to clear out stale air.

I knocked back a warm bottle of water and pushed the empty cart back to the lobby.

The cart‑hopeful crowd had grown. People perked up when they saw me exit the elevator with an empty cart, and I felt the weight of their optimism. She was still there, now closer to the front, alone and patient in a way that made her stand out even more.

I don’t do impulsive. Not historically. I’m a planner. But something nudged me, and before I could talk myself out of it, I said to the room at large:

“Sorry – got another load.”

The collective groan was guilt-inducing.

Then I stepped toward her and lowered my voice. “You’re the only one here without a family. If you need help, walk with me.”

I don’t think I’d ever done something that bold, off the basketball court, anyway. She blinked once, processing, maybe evaluating, then nodded and followed me out the door. Yes, deliberate. Definitely. And decisive. This was a girl who knew how to make a decision.

“Where’s your stuff?” I asked once we were out on the street.

“San Antonio garage,” she said.

“I just came from there.”

She fell into step beside me. “Queue‑jumping is frowned on, you know.”

I glanced at her. She was smiling. Dry humor’s good. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, so I got the sense that she was evaluating as well as enjoying herself. Well, to be fair, who wasn’t on the first day of college?

“We’re not allowed to take the carts this far, either,” I said.

“Queue jumping, flaunting rules on carts; we’re renegades,” she said.

“John Anderson,” I said.

“Amelie Foster.”

“Third floor, Carothers.”

“Second floor, Carothers,” she said, amused. She liked the banter, I thought. We traded majors next.

“First year. Plan II Honors and Architecture in a five-year program,” I said.

“First year. Business Honors at McCombs,” she said. “Plus some social‑impact coursework through the RGK Center.”

“Shouldn’t a university with a world‑class business school have a more efficient Mooov‑In system?”

“Maybe buy more than six carts for the whole building,” she said.

“Revolutionary thinking.”

She laughed, and the sound unclenched something in me. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, too. Maybe I’d passed some kind of test.

We found her Jeep – a brand‑new Grand Wagoneer, immaculate, shockingly expensive. I didn’t comment on it. It didn’t matter; what mattered to me in the moment was the way Amelie moved – steady, competent, focused on the moment rather than the spectacle, which in my experience was unusual for an unquestionably beautiful girl. I watched her glance at me when we reached the car – assessing again but trying not to show it, I thought. I was glad I’d said nothing about the luxury vehicle.

We loaded the cart. A couple of plastic bins didn’t fit, so we perched one on top, which I held steady as I pushed the cart, and she carried the other. By the time we reached Carothers, after twenty minutes in the baking heat, we were both soaked with sweat.

Back in the cool lobby, eyes tracked us – well, tracked the wobbling cart – but I wasn’t focusing on the waiting hordes anymore. We took the elevator up one level to Amelie’s floor.

She hesitated with the keys to her dorm room. It was the first moment of indecision I’d seen. But she unlocked the door and we entered. Same layout as mine. Her roommate wasn’t arriving for days, she told me.

“Nice view,” I said, taking in the scene from the window, which looked west over Whitis.

“Uh huh,” she said, but she wasn’t looking out the window. She was looking at me and biting back a smile.

I felt that look all through my body.

“You want to check out Kinsolving for dinner later?” I asked, trying to play it cool. It occurred to me that I’d just invited a girl on a sort-of date without obsessing over it – a giant first.

Amelie checked the time. “It’s still early, but I’m starving now.”

We left the cart at the front desk – earning hero‑level gratitude from the next group of desperate cart worshippers – and I stepped back into the heat. With Amelie.