What the Heart Wants

by Tiana Laveen

  “Happy in your ignorance?”

  Several seconds passed before she was able to fall back into her line of thought, get back on board.

  “I guess, but is it really ignorance? Why would I want the heart of someone who could’ve been a bad person? I never even thought about that before. I just made assumptions, bad ones.”

  “So her being Black automatically makes her a bad person?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” She pressed her eyes shut so hard it hurt, running her hand across her forehead. Slowly opening her lids, she focused on her father, though she couldn’t ignore how incredibly hot she was becoming. The anxiety was climbing and climbing. “Not too long ago, I was at the record store and spoke to the manager there. He let me know about some deals they were offering.” Her father listened intently, his blue eyes sharp yet kind. “I found him interesting to look at, but at the same time, I was disgusted with his hair. Strangely enough, I didn’t feel the same way about the White cashier who also had dreadlocks. For the first time in my life,” she said, waving her hand, “I began to think about my responses to these people. I mean, really think about it. Why? I can’t seem to break free from it. And then I met…” Images of Cameron flooded her mind, taking her asunder.

  When she’d laid eyes on him, she’d been shocked at her response. The man was striking. Right off the bat, she was physically attracted to him. Emily couldn’t recall ever finding a Black man attractive, seeing one that actually made her do a double take. They just were not her speed. She much preferred the European guys—fair skin, dark hair, and gorgeous light eyes. Black men embodied the worst in humanity. Overly aggressive. She didn’t like the loose way they walked, their pants sagging down, and definitely not the way they spoke in that urban, silly vernacular and calling each other, “nigga” every chance they got.

  She hated how so many of them would stare at her or whistle, as though she was a piece of meat. Ogling. When White men did it, it didn’t seem as assertive, but of course, she never fancied herself attracted to Black men in the first place. It disgusted her, caused her to hate them on a level that perhaps was unreasonable. What made Cameron different? She had no clue as of yet. He was definitely Black. Cameron stood about six foot two, had a deep caramel complexion and wavy, jet-black hair trimmed short in a Caesar-type cut, tapered at the sides and back. His eyebrows were equally dark and thick, but well groomed. He kept a low-cut beard—typically not her thing, but it looked good on this guy. Real good.

  Her stomach had flipped with instant attraction when they’d begun a conversation. A lustful volcano erupted from her core each time he uttered a syllable. His voice was so fucking deep, it rippled through her soul. He spoke as if he were singing, and yet, he wasn’t. Cameron’s eyes were slightly upturned at the ends, and one side of his mouth was tilted, which made him look like he was smirking at times. He smelled amazing—fresh, with a healthy dose of bravado and rich cologne. He had such a handsome smile and adorable laugh, and yet, there was sadness in his warm, brown eyes. She knew that expression, the look one was saddled with when they’d lost someone they loved with all of their heart and didn’t know how they’d carry on.

  “You met who? You were in mid-sentence but now you’re not speaking. Are you okay?” Her father jerked her out of her thoughts.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” She forced a smile as she resituated herself in the chair then stroked her chin. “It doesn’t matter what I was talking about before.” She waved him off. “But I do want to get back to work and—”

  “Now hold on, this is important, Emily. You said you found out who your donor was and it surprised you because she was Black. I can understand that surprise, but you being upset about it is, well, strange. I’ll try to help you understand it, if I can. Did something happen that I’m not aware of? Did you have some bad interactions with African Americans that kind of, what’s the word…spoiled it for you?”

  She looked into her father’s blue eyes, seeing bits and pieces of her fractured reflection in them.

  “I want to say no, but honestly…” She shrugged. “I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s like one part of me is upset about it, wishing it would have been someone else, and another part of me is grateful.” She lowered her gaze. “I spent the better part of the morning asking myself tough questions, Dad. Questions I don’t have answers to but I’m sure of one thing. I’m a racist.”

  “No way.” The older man grinned and chuckled in disbelief. “You’re not a racist, honey. You’re just—”

  “No, it’s true. I honestly believe so.” She stretched her legs and briefly shut her eyes. “I looked up the definition.” She reached for her purse, pulled out her phone and looked at it again. “Says here, a racist is a person who believes in racism, the doctrine that one’s own racial group is superior or that a particular racial group is inferior to the others.” She flippantly tossed her phone back in her purse and scowled at her father. “I do think we’re superior. I have always believed that White people are intellectually better than Blacks, Hispanics, most other races.

  “I deemed the articles I’ve read regarding brain size that cosign this theory as factual. Asians, particularly the Chinese, are pretty comparable to us as far as acumen goes, but I have always believed that as a whole, we have a firmer grasp on discernment and judgment. There are exceptions of course, some brilliant Black people sprinkled in society here and there, but they aren’t the rule of thumb. I look at the news and more times than not, you see a Black person yelling and cursing on the screen, robbing someone, then going off about police brutality and injustice. It just became so annoying. Because in my heart, I felt…I feel, hell, I don’t know anymore, past tense or present, who knows?” She swallowed. “I believe these things to be true. That makes me a racist.”

  She spoke without emotion, yet deep inside, she was bleeding badly. Her father cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed now.

  “Well, let’s look at this closely, okay? There’s some truth in some of your beliefs. For instance, the lack of accountability you described with your example of robbing someone and then blaming the authorities once they are confronted and apprehended. I wish African Americans as a whole would spend less time blaming others for their downfalls and more time finding solutions that would benefit them. Legal ones, of course. I don’t think that’s such a crazy idea.” He smiled ever so slightly. “I don’t think it’s a matter of intelligence. I think it may be ingrained in their culture and the ones who break free from that are successful. They seem to have a mob, all-or-nothing mentality at times. I have a few Black associates who are quite intelligent and definitely a prize to their community. In fact, I—”

  “First of all, much of what you just said is based in ignorance or debatable, the rest is completely inaccurate. Regardless, from what I’ve been discovering, there are plenty of Black Americans who share your views, right or wrong, but I’ve discovered it’s not being shared in the media as much as polarizing views. You can make of that what you will. Secondly, if that’s the case, then why have you never hired any for the company?” She cocked her head to the side and glared at her father.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. Why have you never hired a Black person to work for you?”

  Dad’s complexion deepened and he began to stutter, stumble over his words as he tossed his hands up.

  “Well, hell, Emily, it wasn’t a conscious choice, if that’s what you’re implying. I don’t believe any have ever applied for a job posting or if they had, they obviously weren’t qualified or someone else was a bit more qualified who was competing for the same position.”

  “That’s not true. I saw many of them come in and hand in their resumes from everything to cleaning the floors, working at the front desk, doorman, accountant positions, security, actuary, attorney, I.R. associate and credit analyst, you name it, and I don’t recall seeing any of them return for an interview. You said it yourself, I’m a workaholic. Anyone who came through
that door I at least got a glimpse of. And my memory is quite good, especially in regard to faces. The receptionist would take their information, hand it over to Maggie, our HR aficionado,” she rolled her eyes, “and it would disappear into trash can heaven. If they emailed their resumes, the delete button was hit so much that I’m surprised it didn’t burn up.”

  “You’re being ridiculous and making outlandish assumptions. How would any of us know someone was Black by an emailed resume?”

  “Simple. An ethnic name would be a dead giveaway. Or if they went to any historically Black colleges. If they mentioned any organizations that had liberal or left-wing views, we sometimes assumed from that, too, that it may be a person of color. Then of course, a simple search online sometimes rendered quick results for those still in question. God forbid they had any social media pages. They’d be busted like a balloon falling toward a field of razor blades.”

  “Are you accusing me of being a racist too, Emily?” Dad’s voice boomed. “How dare you. Now if you’re having an issue or are examining your own life, that’s fine by me—in fact, I encourage it—but don’t try to throw me in the middle of this shit. This mess you are concocting in your head. I have never not hired anyone because of their race.” He pressed his finger into his desk, his expression blazing with anger. “Not one damn time. I believe that Black people are as capable as us when it comes to doing the same work. Yes, I am a conservative. I am a proud Republican, as was your mother, but that in no way is synonymous with racism, intolerance, and prejudice.”

  She looked at him long and hard before turning away, casting her gaze toward a window which gave a clear view of the city.

  “Did you know that historically, the Democrats were the ones throwing Blacks under the bus?” he continued. “Welfare was the worst thing to ever happen to this country. It helped put them in a position of powerlessness and the Democrats have done so much damage to the Black community under the guise of assistance just to get a damn vote, that they may never recover.” Dad continued to rant and rave, but her thoughts became watery as she faded away within herself, then snapped out of it when he hurled another curse word. So unlike him.

  The guilty yell the loudest. This is an intelligent man sitting before me, and yet, he is saying these foolish things. He has no idea how foolish he sounds. These statements are prevalent, rampant inaccuracies. Worst of all, my father thinks these are rational thoughts. Accurate. The truth. It’s skewed logic that has been passed down for decades.

  She scanned the room, studying his trappings.

  Her father’s estate, a beautiful condo in Tribeca, New York, on Barclay Street, boasted twenty-five-hundred square feet of sumptuousness. Crystal chandeliers and custom-made furniture adorned the place, screaming money. She’d grown up there, though it had received extensive remodeling over the years and barely looked the same. This was where she normally was most comfortable, under that roof, but right then, she felt out of place, as if she didn’t fit, didn’t belong there.

  “I don’t regret what I said,” she stated, then pursed her lips, interrupting his rant regarding his political views.

  “About me being racist?”

  “About me being racist. I am just trying to find out, Dad, how I got these thoughts. That’s it.” She raised her hands as if in surrender. “You became highly defensive, and all I did was ask a question.”

  “Bull. You know what you were doing, Emily. You’ve always struggled with the same thing you’ve accused Blacks of—accountability. I’ve known you your entire life. I am fully aware of the slick verbal games you play. I will not tolerate you twisting and turning this, being manipulative. It’s absurd.” He scowled as his brows dipped.

  “I’m not trying to blame you, though I fully understand that it may sound that way.” After a few brief moments of silence, she got to her feet and grabbed her purse. “I better be going. Anyway, again, I’d like to come back to work next week, please.”

  “I’d rather you wait a bit longer. Let’s see in about a month.” Her father abruptly ended the conversation by snatching up his landline phone and calling a colleague, his expression colored with raw resentment. Emily hesitated, but he avoided eye contact. She’d ignited rage within him. Fact of the matter was, she wasn’t actually certain that her father was racist at all, but she knew that he was prejudice. He simply hadn’t faced it yet. He was like most people in the world, believing they were somehow better, more evolved and knowledgeable than they actually were.

  She left his office then, pausing when she heard him burst out laughing at something the person he’d called must have said. She was soon outside the condo waiting for her father’s driver to come around the block with the black Lincoln town car. She tried to bury her resentment that he would not let her return to her office just yet, but she detested him for being so damn stubborn. She needed that distraction. She needed to work like she needed air. The car pulled up and she got inside, then went over the tapes within her mind.

  As she sat in the back seat battling with herself, her thoughts a tangled mess, her cell phone rang. Not recognizing the number, she allowed it to go to voicemail.

  Not in the mood to hear an automated message from some robo-caller. You get on the DO NOT CALL list, and they still fucking call.

  Once home, she slipped out of her clothing, took a cool shower, and slid on an ivory silk robe. After that, she proceeded to fix a nice salad for an early dinner. As she washed a cucumber in the sink, debating on peeling the skin, she peeked at her television, taking in bits and pieces of the news. Just then, her cell phone chimed, notifying her of a voicemail she hadn’t checked. Cutting off the running faucet water, she dried her hands on a towel and played it back.

  “Hey, this is Cameron Davis.” She swallowed. Hard. “You might remember me. I’m Brooke Coleman’s boyfriend. Well, your donor’s boyfriend, I should say. I uh, I still had the business card you gave me and I’m glad, because I’ve decided to call you about something. Look, it’s been a few weeks and I’ve had some time to calm down, some time to think. I wanna first apologize to you for biting your head off. You popping up at my house just threw me off guard. There was no warnin’, no call, or anything. You were just there, ya know? Anyway, regardless, I imagine this hasn’t been easy for you, either, so if I had been thinking straight, I would’ve responded differently.

  “Secondly, when you were leavin’, you said that uh, you said she makes you sing, dance, made you come there to see me, some shit like that.” She smiled at his words. “I wanted to talk to you about that. So, if you can, let’s meet up for dinner in the next day or two and sit down and talk. My treat. You’re curious about Brooke, and honestly, I’m curious about what you said—all of it, as wacky as it sounded. Call me when you can, aight? Thanks.”

  And that was that. She played the message back once more, then set her phone down. Her chest tightened, her heart beating so fast, she needed to lean against the counter to catch her breath. Excitement filled her, and she warmed up like dark, hot coffee, the kind spilled on a soft white rug.

  *

  Cameron tapped his foot nervously on the barstool footrest as he sipped on some Sprite with a wedge of lemon. He wished it were something stronger, that was for damn sure. He sat hunched over, half listening to the loud conversations around him, his black leather jacket feeling hot as hell. Still, he refused to take it off; it felt like a cape of sorts, some type of protection or shield from any danger that may come. Checking the time, he hissed.

  Where the hell is she? I didn’t think White people were on Colored People time, he joked to himself as he recalled all the times he would wait for Brooke to get ready for their outings, sometimes causing them to be late.

  Emily had called him back less than an hour after his request and they’d agreed to meet up at the Ocean Prime restaurant on 52nd Street.

  When he was starting to think it had been a bad idea to set this meeting up, he saw the tall blonde coming his way, wearing a black parka and a black V-ne
ck satiny shirt beneath it, paired with a white skirt and black stilettos. Emily walked like a model, as if she were commanding a runway. She drew closer and smiled at him with ruby-red lips, and before he knew it, he was on his feet, wrapping his arm loosely around her tiny waist and giving her a friendly hug.

  “It’s raining,” she said as she sat down next to him, her purse speckled with raindrops.

  “Yeah, it was sprinklin’ a bit when I came, too. You get here all right, though?”

  “Yes, everything was fine.” She turned toward the bar and he caught her reflection in the mirror.

  “All right, so uh, they should be clearing a table for us. I made a reservation.” He snuck a quick glance at his watch.

  “Good thinking. I haven’t been here in a while. It’s nice. I’d almost forgotten about this place.” Her pronounced cheekbones developed an instant ruddy hue as she grinned. “Have you ever been here before?” She seemed a bit nervous, more so than when they’d first met.

  “Yeah, many times. Come on, they are calling us over.” He helped her down from her seat and before long, they were sitting at a table perusing the menu.

  “This is a nice place. I already said that. Damn it.” Emily placed her menu down on the table and ran her fingers through the light wheat-colored strands of her hair, briefly closing her eyes. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” She smiled sadly as she peered at him through a curtain of blonde tresses.

  “Nah.” He set his menu down, too. Honestly, he wasn’t quite sure. That’s what he was there to find out. “I think this whole thing is strange, you know? But that’s out of our control. Brooke made this decision to be a donor. You’re just going through some things it seems. God knows I am, too.”

  More awkward silence stretched between them. The waiter came for their drink order and they both ordered a glass of wine.