What the Heart Wants

by Tiana Laveen

  She nodded and departed the place, leaving him there with only the lingering scent of her intoxicating perfume.

  What an interesting woman.

  The truth of the matter was, he’d had a hard time getting her out of his mind. In fact, he was worried about possibly becoming attached to her, because of her link with Brooke. So much so, he’d forced himself not to call her so he could move forward, release the pain and memories once and for all. That morning, he’d said a little prayer…

  “If I’m not supposed to see or talk to Emily ever again, somebody up there give me a sign. If I am supposed to see or talk to her again, though, let me know that, too.”

  And then, she’d walked through his damn door.

  Chapter Ten

  Making HIStory

  “Yeah, they were in danger of closing, but with the help of the community and some great sponsors, the doors stayed open,” Cameron explained as they walked about in Brooklyn’s Weeksville Heritage Center.

  Emily wrapped her white button-down cardigan snugly around her shoulders, aware of how overdressed she was. Everyone seemed to be in jeans and T-shirts while she had on a black and burgundy pinstriped swing dress paired with pointy-toed black heels.

  “This place is so inspiring to me, Emily.” His dark eyes gleamed with hope. “This is one of those places that teaches so much about the contributions of Black people, my people, in this country.”

  She forced a smile as they moved along. Cameron was rather animated when in his element—so different from her. She’d have found it entertaining, were it not that she felt so much like a fish out of water.

  She’d spent so much time preparing for their date that she hadn’t even looked into what the Weeksville Heritage Center actually was.

  Now she knew.

  Anxiety filled her to the point she felt an annoying earlobe tickle every now and again when her nerves were worked.

  This center was a tribute to the contributions and struggles of African Americans in the United States. A place of upliftment, and the energy was palpable. She was surprised to see people of all colors and ethnicities visiting the establishment. Some of the exhibits were painful to observe.

  Lynchings.

  Beatings.

  Civil Rights Riots.

  Sure, she’d come across similar images before in history books, but somehow, they hadn’t resonated like this. Maybe she’d never truly seen them.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Oh, huh?” She clutched her cardigan, her palms sweaty. “I’m sorry, I was so enthralled by some of the displays, I missed what you were saying. What do I think of what?”

  Cameron crossed his arms, looking remarkably handsome and smelling like a dream come true. The muted autumn sunrays filtered in from a large window, settling on his features.

  “I asked, what do you think of this place? It’s amazing, isn’t it?” He smiled. “It means a lot to me. I worked hard on a fundraiser to raise money for it last year, too.”

  “I can tell it’s important to you. It’s enlightening.” She searched her mind for other words, something that would sound sincere.

  He stopped and frowned at her, dwarfing her with his sheer size. He slipped his hands into his pockets.

  “Did you know even this location has meaning? Crown Point has so much history for Black people, Emily. Right here is where they could move about and work freely post-slavery.”

  He reached for her hand and placed it over his chest. She felt the strong, hard pecs through his long-sleeved black shirt.

  “You have a strong heartbeat.”

  “That’s my soul dancing,” he said with a wink. He released her hand and they continued to walk. “You can admit it to me.”

  “Admit what?” The space had cleared out a bit, and now she could hear her own heels clicking against the floor with each step she took.

  “When I gave my speech earlier today about cultural appreciation and historical legacy, I watched you a few times. Right now, none of this is really hitting home for you. Am I right?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s all amazing but since I’m White, I can’t really—”

  “Nah, see, that has nothing to do with it. You being White doesn’t disqualify you from having at least some curiosity. White people are part of our history, too. Like the White abolitionists, for example, and those who marched with Dr. King. See,” he said, “I know people can change, Emily. I’ve studied it. I am the change. We are all in this together.”

  He smiled. “Now there is still a way to go, and allies are needed, so saying you’re White is no excuse.” Her face flushed with heat. “In fact,” he looked about the place, “White people come here all the time. Some leave crying or full of appreciation. We have a shared history, we’re Americans, but my history is so different from yours, and many of the chapters are not pretty. Right now, I see something in your eyes, kinda like that look a child gives her mother when she’s trying to explain why taking out the trash or treating people kindly is so important.”

  She briefly lowered her gaze. “I’ve struggled with these issues.” Her heart exploded. Cameron had such an enormous presence. Not only was he good-looking, sexy, fun, and intelligent, but he had an aura about him she couldn’t ignore.

  No wonder Brooke fell in love with him.

  “What issues?”

  “Race issues.” As they stared at one another, her heart beat so hard, she feared she may need to sit somewhere and rest. Cameron was incredibly hard to read.

  He tapped his finger against his chin, his eyes narrowed.

  “Emily, I am going to ask you a series of questions.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t like the sound of this.

  “I’m going to first ask you one that is the basis for many jokes. Do you have any Black friends besides me?”

  “Currently?”

  He nodded.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever?”

  “One.”

  “Don’t make excuses for these next questions I am about to ask you. A yes or no will do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you empathize with the struggle of Black Americans in this country?”

  Sweat broke out on her forehead and her chest felt tight.

  “I…I can’t really answer that with a yes or no.”

  “Yes, you can. This is a black and white question, pun intended. Again, do you empathize with the struggle of Black Americans in this country?”

  “No.”

  “As a whole, do you believe we’re problematic?”

  Her eyes began to water. “Yes.” She caught a wayward tear before it slipped down her face.

  “Do you think most Black registered voters supported Barack Obama because he’s Black?”

  “Yes.” Another tear fell. Then another.

  “Do you want affirmative action done away with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it helps White woman more than any other minority group in this country? That’s something many don’t know.”

  Shame started to rear its head.

  “Next question. Would you be afraid of me if I were a stranger passing you by at three a.m. in slouchy jeans that exposed my boxers, a snapback, a gold chain, hoodie, and my Timberland boots?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Answer, please.”

  “Yes. YES. YES.” She buried her forehead in her palms and sobbed her eyes out.

  He continued on, never raising his voice, never pausing.

  “Do you think that housing discrimination against people of color exists, and if so, are there ever valid reasons to discriminate against someone based on their race or ethnic makeup?”

  “Yes to both questions.” She started to shake and kept her gaze averted.

  “As someone who works in finance, have you ever discriminated against a non-White client?”

  “No.” She slowly lifted her face, certain her mascara was smeared and her complexion splotchy. Cameron’s
brow rose. “I’m serious, I’m telling the truth. I never have. Money is green.” He nodded and smiled. “Wait? You’re not pissed at me for my responses?”

  Taking her hand, he tugged gently and they resumed walking.

  “Emily, I’m almost thirty-five damn years old. Now, to many, that’s still considered fairly young, but I’ve seen and heard a lot, okay? It takes a hell of a lot more than what you said to get me all riled up.” He shrugged. “I’d only have been pissed if you lied to me. So, my next question is simple. Do you want to change?”

  He stopped walking. She swallowed, hesitating.

  “Yes,” she said with a nod. “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like who I am anymore.” More tears fell as her face warmed with embarrassment. “I’m so ashamed.” She sobbed, attracting some attention. This was so unlike her. “Ever since the transplant, I feel so much humiliation and I look at things a lot more closely. I mean everything. I dissect my life now. Everything I do, I think about the why, you know? I’m constantly looking at myself in the mirror and it’s wearing me down. Everything is changing, Cameron. Some of it is out of my control. I have to keep digging, searching, or I’ll never be satisfied. I have to keep up with my heart.”

  She placed her hand over her chest and smiled sadly.

  “Feeling fearful is a good acknowledgement because that’s what racism is somewhat about, Emily. Fear of not being the top dog. Fear of not being in charge, not the majority. You think the powers that be want a bunch of niggers, wetbacks, chinks, and spics thinkin’ we are on the same level as them?” Her eyes widened at his word usage. “That’s right, I said those words I’ve heard so many times. That’s how they see us.”

  “So, how do you believe this is being controlled and implemented?” She crossed her arms, fully intrigued.

  “Religion.” He began to count off his fingers. “Authority figures, the prison system, and destruction of our culture through our music and other artistic expression. They know Black people are real religious folks. You’d be hard pressed to find a Black person raised in a majority Black community who doesn’t believe in God, including myself, and yet, our crime rates are through the roof. Now, our crime is a multi-tiered issue but again, that’s too complex to get into now. We can discuss it later.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He smiled. “Here’s the problem, Emily.” His deep voice vibrated through her soul. Taking her hand in his, he sat her down on a nearby bench.

  “We’ve got a church every half mile, a liquor store on every corner, a drug dealer runnin’ every block, a sex trade business in every damn hotel, and a Black ass preacher that looks like the father who wasn’t in our home, the husband we never had. We want him tellin’ us prayer is gonna make it all right, and to put our hard-earned cash in that collection plate while he ignores our plights and drives off in his new Benz. That’s not a coincidence. That’s by design. The true men of God who try to help the community get ignored and devalued because they’re not flashy enough. They don’t have a big following online, aren’t as slick with the vernacular. It’s an uphill battle. You just can’t win for losing. Faith without works is dead, but somehow, that scripture got buried. When God is used as a political and manipulative tool, you sully the beauty of God. When it’s not God that’s the problem, it’s the greedy hearts of mankind.”

  “You also mentioned authority. How does that play into it?”

  “Why in the hell do you think we’ve still got cops beatin’ our asses and getting off scot free? It’s not because the government loves police officers so damn much and wants us all to be law-abiding citizens. It’s because as long as you have a symbol of influence still terrorizing you, giving you PTSD, then you will always remain on that plantation, at least, mentally.” He pointed to his temple. “Slave masters didn’t die or relinquish their power. They just traded in their whips for a badge.”

  “Can I ask you something about that?”

  “Of course. You can ask me whatever you want.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “I understand what you’re saying, but what about Black-on-Black crime, Cameron? That’s a horrible reality, too, but it seems that whenever a White person brings up this topic, we’re silenced, told we cannot understand.”

  “Well, you’re right, and it’s not just White people. Some Black people, including celebrities, have also complained about perceived hypocrisy. Look, here’s the difference, Emily. Yes, Black-on-Black crime is a huge problem and it’s not being addressed the way it should be. But as a society, we are supposed to be able to trust the police. When you have a demographic of people who’ve been alienated, profiled, subjugated, and abused, who are afraid to even call the police for a breaking and entering crime in progress in their own damn home, or a rape, mugging, whatever, you’ve created a cocktail for disaster. You know you can get beaten or killed because you had the audacity to question why you’re being stopped. Being shot in the back when there’s no reason to. This is not the Black person’s or White person’s problem; it becomes a problem for all of us. A societal setback.”

  “Are you speaking from experience regarding the police?”

  “What do you think?” He grimaced.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “I have been followed by the police numerous times. I have never mugged anyone, Emily. I have never sold drugs, either. I’ve never pimped a woman out, did nothing that society says I, as a Black man, would likely do twenty-four seven. I have never physically attacked anybody unless it was in self-defense, either. And yet, I’ve been pulled over for no damn legit reason. When it happens, I’ve been asked a bunch of personal questions that had nothing to do with the reason I was pulled over in the first place and I’ve been asked how I could afford my car. When they look at my address, they question how I can afford to live there.

  “Also, when I’m dressed in a manner that you may think is intimidating, like a ball cap or baggy clothes, I get it ten times worse. Hell, I may have just gotten back from the gym. I’ve seen White people cross the street to put distance between us when I and my friends are not even paying any damn attention to them, just minding our own business. I’ve waited for what felt like an eternity for a cab to pull over and get me. Meanwhile, people who look like you would barely be standing there for one minute and they’re lining up to get that fare. There are small aggravations in life,” he said, animated, “and things that make your life a living hell when you’re Black in America. I’ve said a lot, probably too much for you to ingest in one sitting.”

  “But I’m enjoying this.”

  His eyes hooded as he took his sweet time studying her.

  “We can talk about the rest later.” He released her hand and cleared his throat.

  They got up from the bench and continued on. He slowed as they approached a display showcasing an old newspaper that read, “The Freedman’s Torchlight.”

  “Check that out,” he instructed.

  Emily read every word on the page, Cameron standing quietly beside her. Then, he intertwined their fingers and brought her hand up to his lips, kissing it. Shivers ran down her spine.

  “If you have any questions, let me know.” She nodded. “Education is the key to unlock hope, as my father says. It cures ignorance. Remaining willfully hateful, steeped in racism after being given opportunities to learn and do better, is not ignorance; it’s mental and emotional suicide.”

  She slowly turned in his direction.

  “I didn’t know what this place was before I got here. Can you believe that?”

  “You knew. On some level, you knew what it was from the name of the establishment and uh, maybe even from Brooke. You came here because you needed this. Don’t kid yourself. The best gift you can give yourself, besides a new heart, is a new heart, if you catch my drift.”

  He slowly released her hand and walked off, leaving her there. She watched him for a bit, then turned back toward the display. A
fter that, she walked to the next, and the next, and the next.

  Her mind filled up with information—fascinating facts, interesting tidbits, and the like. Cameron was no longer two-dimensional in her eyes; he was flesh and bone. He was real.

  He laughed. He learned. He loved.

  She reached for her cardigan once again and bunched the material in her grip.

  I like him too much. I could get hurt. He’s so passionate about his culture, there’s no way he’d entertain being with me. I can’t even believe I am still thinking about him like this, but I am. I want him.

  I want his knowledge.

  I want his company.

  I want his kiss.

  Chapter Eleven

  Making Amends

  “I wasn’t planning on staying long. These are for you.” Cameron handed her the beautiful, high-end bouquet he was holding. “I was in the area and thought of you.”

  Emily sniffed the flowers, smiling. “Thank you, Cameron. These are beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome. Glad you like them.”

  Placing them down upon her desk, she gestured for him to sit in the leather chair in front of her.

  “But I don’t want to hold you up or—”

  “Sit down, Cameron. I can spare at least fifteen minutes for an amazing man who, I might add, is allowing me to handle his portfolio for the next twelve months. That’s an honor.”

  She looked deep into his rich cocoa eyes. Cameron pulled out the chair and sat down. She noticed a striking diamond ring in a platinum setting.

  He definitely seems to enjoy his jewelry. I mean, it’s not over the top or anything, but he’s borderline flashy.

  “Nice ring.”

  “Thank you. You look great, too, by the way. That outfit suits you.” He pointed at her white blazer and matching knee-length skirt, which felt a little tighter than usual. She’d certainly been enjoying herself too much these days, going on dinner dates and such with Cameron.

  “Oh, thank you. I hadn’t worn this in a while. Saw it in the back of my closet this morning. I was going to actually—” She was cut off by the sudden ringing of his phone.