I hate the feelings of ingratitude and disappointment that invade this moment. I know perfectly well that this is all Mami can afford and that as hard as she works, it will always be all she can afford.
Charlie helps us move the rest of the boxes and small items inside. I’m in the kitchen setting down a box of plates when he comes in behind me with a box of small appliances, which he puts on one of the undersized counters. He takes his maroon A&M hat off and wipes the small beads of sweat off his forehead. “I think we got it all. It wasn’t too bad, right?”
“Yeah, not bad,” I say, thinking it’s a statement of how little we have.
Charlie leans back against one of the counters and picks at the edge of a half-open box of kitchen utensils. “So, for our first date tomorrow, I’d like to take you to San Antonio, maybe go to the Riverwalk.”
I can’t remember the last time I went to San Antonio. We went to SeaWorld once when Papi was alive.
“Yeah, that sounds like fun.” I push the cardboard box aside. “And thanks for being so good about this. Following my mom’s rules—it’s really important to me.”
“That’s one of the things that makes me like you so much. Just one of them. There are a lot of other things too.” Charlie reaches over to touch a strand of my hair, and he holds it between his fingers for a moment before letting it fall. “Tomorrow. San Antonio. All alone. I can’t wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s my first date with Charlie Wheeler—a day that seemed like it would never come.
“Did you just wash your car?” I ask him as I slide in next to him.
“Yeah. I can’t show up with a dirty car on our first date.”
“It looks good,” I say, taking in how clean it is on the inside too.
“So, I know the kiss usually comes at the end of the night, but since our whole relationship has been nontraditional, maybe we can start with the kiss?” He looks over at me hopefully.
I glance toward my front door, half-expecting Mami or one of my siblings to be standing there watching us, but I don’t see anyone. “I just hope we don’t get interrupted again.”
“How about I drive a few blocks first?” he asks.
I laugh. “Okay.”
He drives around the corner to a quiet street. After he puts the car in park, he turns to me and takes a strand of my hair and rubs it between his fingers just as he did yesterday in the kitchen. His hand moves slowly to my face, and he cups both his hands around it. I pull myself up onto my knees, lean forward, and adjust my arm in the space between us. He leans in and kisses me; gently at first, soon more intensely. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. One of his hands slides off my face and it falls to my waist. Slowly, he runs his fingers up my back, pressing me closer to him.
We pull away and look at each other, smiling. I unwrap my arms from his neck, and he leans back.
“I guess we’d better go,” he says.
“Yeah, but I’m glad we did the kiss first,” I say. I readjust my legs and stretch them out in front of me as I rebuckle my seat belt.
He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “Now I guess we can get on with our date.”
It’s a two-hour drive to San Antonio, and I can’t think of a better way to spend it than sitting next to Charlie.
“So, the other day when my dad was home for a few hours I sat down with him to start looking at classes for fall semester. He was almost cool about it. It’s the first time we’ve talked about it when he hasn’t made me feel like a complete traitor.”
“That’s good! How’s your mom been about it all?”
“It’s hard for her. She’s caught in between, like with almost every decision I’ve ever tried to make on my own. She wants to support me, but doesn’t want Dad to feel like she’s picking sides. And have you told your mom about Stanford yet?”
“Not yet. Soon.”
He reaches for my hand and gives it a little squeeze. “Thanks for trusting me with it. I’m just beyond happy that we’ll be there together.”
I smile and turn to look at him, his profile. “Me too. It actually makes me feel so much better about my decision. I’ll tell everyone soon. Things are better now that we have a place, and everyone seems happier.”
We drop the subject of Stanford and talk about our plans for the summer. Charlie’s got a job teaching tennis at his dad’s country club, and he’s going to volunteer at his dad’s campaign office too. Mindy and Dawson are officially a couple, and they’re already planning an end-of-summer party on Dawson’s dad’s boat, but Charlie isn’t sure if he’ll be able to go, since there will probably be alcohol. My plans are less exciting: babysit my siblings and help settle into the new house. But Charlie asks me all kinds of questions to pass the time on the long drive: my favorite movies, my favorite books, my happiest memories . . . and I can tell he’s listening carefully, filing everything away in his mind, the same way I once put my most cherished trinkets into my jewelry box.
≈
Charlie parks at the Rivercenter Mall parking lot, and we take the elevator down to the ground floor. We came here once when I was a little girl. Papi took Sele and me to see the Alamo and brought us here for ice cream.
Charlie grabs my hand as we make it onto the pathway that follows the river. “What sounds good for lunch?” he asks.
“Everything sounds good,” I say, looking around, wondering about the place where we had ice cream. I don’t even remember what it was called, and that was so long ago, it may not even be here anymore.
We walk on a cobbled path along the river. Large barges flow slowly past us. I stare at one boat named Dolly as it glides through the water.
Charlie tugs on my hand. “Want to ride one?” he asks.
“It kind of looks like fun.”
“It is a lot of fun. Let’s do that after we eat.”
My instinct is to ask how much it will cost, but of course that won’t be an issue for Charlie.
≈
As we disembark from the boat, Charlie holds my hand, our fingers intertwined. “That was so fun,” I say. “As long as I’ve lived in Texas, I’ve never done a boat tour.”
“Glad to initiate you. I like that guide. He’s always funny.”
We turn the corner and walk along the outdoor path that leads toward the Alamo. The plaza surrounding the Alamo is filled with people. We’re strolling toward a large crowd, and it looks like there might be a news crew there.
“I wonder what’s going on,” I say.
Charlie squints his eyes, trying to get a better view. “Oh, I think I heard something about Mayor Gutierrez having a campaign rally today.”
“That must be it.” Diego Gutierrez is running for governor.
“Yeah, I wish I had remembered earlier. We could’ve come to listen. It looks like it’s over. Wouldn’t that be great, though? Diego Gutierrez has done a lot here in San Antonio. I would love to see him be governor—maybe even president one day. He could be the first Latino president of the United States!”
“I don’t think I know too much about him,” I say, not liking where the conversation is headed. I don’t want to talk about politics or campaigns. I stop walking, and Charlie stops with me. “Let’s go back around the other way.”
“Why? I want to see if we can get a look at Gutierrez. Maybe he’s still here.”
I look toward the crowd and then in the direction we just came from. Behind us, people are fanned in different directions, some headed to the gardens behind the Alamo, some to Rivercenter Mall, and others across the street to the little museums and shops. As I turn back to face the front of the Alamo, I see a familiar-looking man watching me. He’s dressed in black slacks, a charcoal button-down shirt, and a blue tie. He has dark hair peppered with gray. I’m not sure where I know him from, but I know him. And he seems to know me.
“Let’s go, Charlie,” I say, pulling him back toward Rivercenter Mall.
The man in the blue tie is now walking toward us. Final
ly, Charlie sees him too and recognition sets in.
“Hey, I think that’s Sebastian Smith,” Charlie says.
Sebastian Smith. The host who interviewed Oscar. I wonder why he’s walking toward us, and I really don’t want to find out. “Come on, Charlie, let’s go.” I begin pulling on his hand, but he won’t move.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Smith calls out, his pace quickening. “Excuse me. You’re Milagros Vargas, right?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously, dropping Charlie’s hand.
He’s caught up to us now. “I’m Sebastian Smith. Oscar Zambrano did a segment on my show about you.” He extends his hand, and I reluctantly shake it.
Mr. Smith turns toward Charlie to introduce himself and shakes his hand. “You look familiar too. Why?”
“I’m Charlie Wheeler, sir.”
“Ah, Charles Wheeler’s son?” Sebastian says, still shaking his hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you both.” He looks between Charlie and me. “Milagros, would you mind . . .”
“Millie. I go by Millie,” I say instinctively.
“Millie, sorry. Millie, would it be okay if I taped a quick interview with you? My camera crew is just down there . . .”
“No. Sorry, but no.”
Mr. Smith nods. “I understand. It’s just that with Diego Gutierrez running for governor, I’d love to get a reaction. Just a few questions. I think it would be great for viewers to hear from you. You’re eighteen, right? So, you can vote. I just think it would be great.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, meeting his eyes to let him know that I’m serious.
“Millie,” Charlie starts to say, but I put my hand out toward him, and he stops.
“Mr. Smith, do you know what happened to me after you profiled me on your show?”
Mr. Smith’s face grows somber. “Actually, I do. We had a follow-up story about it.”
“Well, I didn’t watch it,” I say. “I didn’t have a TV at the time.”
“Millie, I’m sorry,” Mr. Smith begins.
“Stop. I got nasty notes put in my locker, I got trolled online, and my house burned down. To the ground. My family could have been hurt. And now you have the nerve to ask me for an interview.”
“Millie,” Charlie says, putting a hand on my arm.
I wave him off. My heart is beating violently against my chest. All my life, I’ve trained myself to keep my harshest thoughts inside, to squash them before they materialize. “No, Charlie. You stop.” I turn back to Mr. Smith. “This is just a story to you. That’s all you care about—another story to feed your news cycle for five or ten more minutes. Well, this is my life. My little brother and sisters had to run out of a burning house. Because I did your story. And if I do another story? What’s going to happen then? You don’t have to worry about it because you’re safe.”
Mr. Smith’s demeanor doesn’t change, almost as if people speak to him like that on a daily basis. “You’re right, Millie, I haven’t had anyone burn down my house. But I’m no stranger to death threats. In fact, I am probably the leading recipient of hate mail at my entire network. And it’s because I report on things that some people don’t want to hear. But I’m not going to stop reporting on those things, and I don’t think you should stop telling your story.”
“Mr. Smith, can you give us a minute?” Charlie says.
“Of course. Of course.” Mr. Smith takes a few steps away and turns around.
“Charlie, let’s go,” I say, glaring at him.
“Please think about it, Millie.”
Charlie’s statement pricks the thin exterior that is keeping my tears in check. “What?”
“Think about doing an interview. I know you’re scared, but I think it’s important. Mr. Smith is on your side. He wants to change perceptions about immigrants. Isn’t that what you want too?”
“What I want?” I laugh away the first tear that emerges. “What I want is never the issue. What I want never matters. Do I want to get my siblings ready in the morning and walk them to school? No, but I do it because that’s what my family needs. My mom needs to be at your house to get your sister ready for school. Do I want to come home after school and make them do their homework and cook dinner for them? No, I don’t want to, but I need to because my mom is at your house, taking care of your sister and making dinner for your family.”
“Millie, I’m sorry.” Charlie reaches out for me, but I push him away.
Everything I’ve always felt about the Wheelers bubbles to the surface, and for once I don’t bite back my words. “What I want is always put on hold for what my family needs. And what my family needs is inextricably tied to what the Wheelers want. The Wheelers want my mom to work more hours. Done. The Wheelers need my mom to serve at a dinner party. Done. The Wheelers need my mom to babysit Caroline at night. Done. And done. And done. Every time. Because we need the money.” The tears I was trying to hold at bay are now streaming down my face, but I do nothing to stop them because I can’t anymore.
“Millie, please . . .”
“I want to go to Stanford, but I’m afraid that I can’t—that I won’t be able to look my mom in the eye and tell her I’m leaving, because she needs me to take care of her kids so she can do whatever the hell the Wheelers will want next.”
Charlie stares at me, his expression full of distress. “Millie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Did I want your dad to use me as a symbol, as an inspiring story? No, but because he did, people know who I am. And if those people find out we’re dating, things will get a thousand times worse for me and for my family. So I can’t talk to Mr. Smith, because I need to keep my family safe. And you don’t get that.”
“Okay, Millie. I’m sorry I said anything. Just please stop crying.” He reaches out to take my hand, but I don’t let him.
“Oh, sure. Tears stop at the Wheelers’ command. Everything stops or goes at the Wheelers’ command, including my family. Well, I won’t stop crying just because you want me to. I should have known this would never work out.”
Without even looking back at Sebastian Smith, I take off in the opposite direction and wipe at my eyes furiously. But the tears don’t stop. I don’t even know where I’m walking to, as long as it’s away from where I am.
From the corner of my eye, I see Charlie walk over to Sebastian Smith for a minute before he races to catch up with me. “Millie, wait,” he says.
I slow my pace, but I don’t wait for him.
“Can we please talk?” he asks. This time he doesn’t reach out to touch me.
I wipe at my face one more time before facing him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I really like you, but I don’t think we can be together.”
“Because I suggested that you talk to Mr. Smith?” Charlie asks, sounding baffled.
“No. It’s not even about that,” I say as I keep walking. I know where I’m going now: toward the parking garage where Charlie left his car. “It’s just that I don’t think we can get past our differences.”
“We’re not that different.”
“Charlie, yes we are. How can you say that?”
“Because you and I, if you set aside our backgrounds and family situations, have a lot in common.”
“We can’t separate ourselves from our background and our families. And I wouldn’t want to. That’s a huge part of who I am, who I’ll always be.” I reach the elevator that takes us to the parking garage and press the button to go up. I press it two more times.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Charlie insists. “I just meant, none of our differences change how I feel about you. What’s important are our feelings for each other.”
“It’s just not that simple. Not for me.”
Charlie sighs behind me. “Millie, I wish you weren’t so mad right now.”
“Well, you won’t get your wish tonight because I am mad. I’m mad that you and your family have kept pushing me on this all along. It’s like you don
’t even care how I feel about it. You wanted me to agree to more publicity, and you wouldn’t listen to me saying no. Your dad wants to force people into doing what he wants, and I don’t know if you’re any different.”
“I’m not my dad,” Charlie says.
“No, but you’ll always be connected to him. And he’s going to win his election, and become a senator, and then even more people will know about him and you and me and my family. Including people who hate us. Us, Charlie, not you. People will never hate you the same way they hate me, which means I will always have to live in fear in a way you don’t, and that’s just the ugly truth.”
The elevator doors finally open, and we both walk inside.
“It’s just better this way. At least we had the summer, but it’s better if we end it now before we get in too deep.”
Charlie leans against the back of the elevator. “So you would reduce us to some summer fling? Like I don’t even matter that much to you?”
“You do, Charlie. And that’s why I think it’s best if we just end it now before these feelings intensify.”
The elevator doors open, and we walk past several rows of cars to Charlie’s Volvo. He opens the door for me, and I wish we didn’t have a two-hour drive ahead of us.
≈
Charlie pulls into the busy downtown traffic, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. “Help me understand how we got exactly to this point. We’re finally able to be together, we had a great time, and one misstep, and we’re what? Broken up? Did we just break up?”
I turn toward the window and lean my forehead against the cool glass. “I don’t think we were officially together yet.”
We come to a stoplight, and the car jerks back. Charlie lets out a long, quiet breath. I stare at his hands, his kind, gentle hands. Those hands made me a half panini. Those hands bought me three shirts just because he knew purple was my favorite color. Those hands wrapped around my fingers tonight and made me feel loved, secure, and happy.
“I want to be with you, Charlie, but this isn’t about one misstep. This is about you being the son of a high-profile rich white guy, and me being a working-class Latina who doesn’t want her every move to get turned into a political debate.”
Where I Belong Page 19