A Promise kept

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The airport was too bright at 7am. TSA lines and rolling suitcases and announcements that didn’t matter.

Alessio kept hugging her like he could fit 18 years into it.

Irene was checking her hair for the 4th time. "Hai il caricatore? [Do you have the charger?] I farmaci? [The meds?]"

"Yes, Mom."

Luca stood next to them, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t saying much. Just there to say goodbye to his little sister.

Gate announcement....

Alessio pulled back and looked at her. "Sei pronta, principessa [You ready, princess]?"

Aurora nodded. Couldn’t talk or she’d cry in the airport.

Irene squeezed her hands. "We’ll be there next week, okay? One week. I promise." Then she switched fully to English. "Text us when you land. We love you."

And then Aurora walked away. No turning around.

Houston, Texas

LANDING

The flight to Houston was 3 hours and felt like 10.

IAH was huge. Hot air hit her the second the doors opened. The kind of humidity that made her hair frizz instantly and her shirt stick to her back.

A man in a United polo held a sign: ROMANO.

"Your grandpa sent me," he said, loading her suitcase. "Traffic on 59 is bad."

Houston out the window was all highways and billboards and palm trees that didn’t look like LA palms. Bigger. Wilder. It took 45 minutes to get to The Woodlands. The highways got smaller and the trees got taller. Everything smelled like pine and hot asphalt.

GRANDMA + GRANDPA

The house was a one-story brick with a porch and wind chimes and a St. Christopher medal on the door.

The door flew open before she could knock.

Grandma — Irene’s mom, Linda — grabbed her first. She was 5’2 with big hair and bigger hugs. "There’s my girl! Did you lose weight? You look tired. You hungry?"

Grandpa, Tom, stood behind her in a short-sleeve button down and khakis. He didn’t hug. He just did the nod. The one that meant I’m proud but I won’t say it. Then he took her suitcase. "Flight alright?"

The house smelled like coffee and his aftershave and something frying. Garlic and onions and the AC running too loud. Framed photos everywhere. Irene in her pilot uniform. Aurora at 8 with braces. Luca at his high school graduation.

Aurora’s room: twin bed with a quilt Grandma made, a crucifix on the wall, a window that faced the neighbor’s fence and a live oak tree. Her suitcases by the door. Same as last night, different city.

The phone buzzed on the quilt.

Mom: did you arrive?

She typed back: Yes. At grandparents'

Sent.

That night Grandma made spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. "Eat," she said, piling her plate. "You’re too skinny."

Grandpa asked about the flight, about LA, about Davis. After dinner they sat on the porch. Cicadas. Heat. Cars passing on the street.

"You okay, baby?" Grandma asked, handing her sweet tea.

Aurora nodded. "Just tired and hot."

"First week’s always the hardest," Grandpa said. It was the most he’d said all day.

THE H-E-B RUN

Two days in and Linda decided Aurora was "too skinny" and "needed fresh air."

"Honey can you run to H-E-B for me? Get hamburger buns, ground beef, potato salad, and that chocolate sheet cake from the bakery. We’re having the neighbors over Saturday for a cookout."

Aurora had never been to an H-E-B. It was massive. Colder than LA. There were 40 kinds of salsa, a whole wall of Dr Pepper, and a guy making tortillas by hand at the front.

She wandered the aisles with the list in her hand, feeling 15 again. No one spoke Italian. No one knew her. The lady at checkout called her "sugar" and asked if she found everything okay.

When she got home the bags were heavy. Tom took them without a word. Linda was already setting up folding chairs in the backyard. "You did well. Now go shower. It’s gonna be hot tomorrow."

Back home, no texts from Ethan.

She opened their chat.

His last message was from days ago: Yeah

She typed: Houston is hot

Deleted.

Typed: I miss you

Deleted.

Typed: can we talk

Deleted.

Turned off the phone.

DAY 5

It was 11:47pm. She was lying in the twin bed staring at the ceiling fan.

Her thumb hovered.

She sent it before she could think.

hey. I’m in Houston. It’s really hot here.

Three dots.

Then gone.

Nothing.

She threw the phone face down and pulled the quilt over her head.

THE COOKOUT

Saturday hit 96 degrees with 80% humidity.

The backyard filled up fast. Linda’s friends from church. Tom’s buddy from the golf course. Kids running through sprinklers.

And people she knew.

Mrs. Patel from 2 doors down who always gave her sugar cookies at Christmas. Coach Miller who used to run the church softball league.

They all did the same thing when they saw her.

Stopped. Stared. Then hugged her too hard.

"Oh my God, Aurora. Beverly Hills made you taller."

"Last time I saw you were 15 and hiding behind Irene. Look at you now."

"How’s California? Still all palm trees and traffic?"

It was too much. Too loud. Too many eyes.

She smiled until her cheeks hurt. Ate a burger. Ate potato salad. Ate cake to make Linda happy.

Tom was at the grill in khakis and an apron that said Kiss The Cook. He didn’t say much, but he kept sliding plates onto the picnic table near her. "Eat."

That’s when she saw her. A girl, maybe 19, sitting alone under the big oak tree with a red cup. New face. Didn’t recognize her from any of the old photos on Linda’s fridge. Aurora grabbed two waters and walked over. "Hey. I’m Aurora."

The girl looked up, surprised. "I’m Maya. We just moved in on Elm. My parents said there’d be food."

She laughed. "You look like you don’t wanna be here either."

They talked for 20 minutes. About how hot it was. About how weird it was being back in Texas. Maya was starting at Lone Star College in the fall. She asked if Aurora missed California.

Aurora said "sometimes" and left it there.

Then Tom’s voice cut across the yard. "Aurora! Come take a picture with your grandma."

And just like that, the bubble popped. Linda had her arm around her, squeezing too tight. "Look at you. You’re beautiful. Your mama would be so proud."

Aurora smiled for the photo.

But her eyes kept drifting back to Maya under the tree. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know the Beverly Hills version of her.

That night she stood at the window. Houston lights, not LA lights. The highway humming in the distance.

5 weeks until Davis. 5 weeks until everything.

She checked her phone one last time.

Nothing from Ethan.