What the Heart Wants Read online

  “Oh, sorry, Emily. Hold that thought.” Cameron held up his finger. “This is business related.”

  She turned to her computer as he answered the call.

  “Hey, man…Mmm hmmm…Yeah, probably around three or so.” Cameron glanced at his Rolex watch. After placing the phone on the desk, he put it on speaker and stood from the chair to fix a sock that kept rolling down.

  “So, Cam, there’s about a fifth or so of that left and then around four today, Andre will be here to set up. I’ll ask him to bring more if he has any.”

  “He doesn’t. Don’t bother. I will handle it when I get there. I told Andre he couldn’t set up that early, though. Call him and tell him to wait.”

  “Why?”

  “He causes too much of a distraction by engaging everyone in conversation when they’re supposed to be working and then he goofs off instead of making the most of his time. So, when it’s showtime, he is behind schedule. He can’t come before six o’clock p.m. Period. I already told him this and I mean it.”

  “Maaaan, this nigga like already on the way. I can’t call him and tell him to turn around.”

  “I don’t care if he’s inside the damn building saving souls. He doesn’t do what I ask him to do, and then, while customers are coming in, he has his damn boxes, Bubble Wrap and shit all over the place and the backdrop is still not finished. I am tired of jumping in and helping. That’s not my job anymore. What the hell am I even payin’ him for? Look, he’s your friend, not mine. I hired him as a favor to you. Now correct this shit.”

  “Awww, Cam! Nigga, you bein’ too hard on him. He been going through some shit.”

  Cameron stood to his full height, looking vexed. He plopped back down onto the seat, took the phone off speaker, and resumed his conversation. When it was all over, he slid his phone in his pocket. She was responding to an email, but could feel his glare upon her.

  “Sorry about that. It’s always something.” He sighed.

  “Not a problem. I understand. You’re a businessman, after all.” She hit send, closed her laptop, and clasped her hands over her desk. “Cameron?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question? A touchy one?”

  “You always do, and I always answer. What is it?”

  Leaning back in her seat, she crossed her arms over her breasts and pivoted back and forth in her seat. “Why do you and your friends refer to each other with the ‘N’ word? I’ve seen many Black people do it, but White people are not allowed to.”

  Cameron mulled her question for a bit. “A better question would be, why do you want to use it?”

  Wow. I’d never thought about it that way.

  “Well, see, that’s just it. It’s not that I actually want to use it, but if you find it so offensive, why are you using it?”

  “Okay, first of all,” he held up one finger, his tone remaining even, “you’ve never heard me use it except for that one time at the museum, and that was in the context of the discussion. I wasn’t calling anyone that. I’ve never been around you and let that slip from my mouth. You heard my employees use it. You’ve probably heard my friends use it when I’ve been on the phone with them, but never me. Now, have I said it? Yes. Often. I would be lying to you if I said I haven’t. I am trying to strip it from my vocabulary though. This has been an ongoing challenge, but I’ve gotten much better.”

  “And what’s your personal reasoning for trying to eradicate it from your vocabulary?”

  “Because of who I am as a person now. Like you, I’ve changed. We’re always evolving, or should be. If I’m the same person I was five or ten years ago, that would be a problem. Every day, we should be learning something new.”

  “Why do I suspect that’s something Brooke taught you?” she said with a grin.

  “You’d be right.” He smiled back. “And speaking of Brooke, she never used that word, Emily. Not all Black people use it. My mother doesn’t. My father uses it rarely. See, that’s another misconception some White people have. You want to use a word that not even everyone in that demographic is using, it’s crazy to me. Some women call each other bitches, but does that give me the right to a call a woman that just because I suspect she calls her friends the same? Can I walk up to some lady and be like, ‘Hey, bitch, can you tell me what time it is, please?’” She snickered at his words. “I’m serious. Most women would probably be insulted by that. I’m not her female friend; she doesn’t know me. Do you see the difference?” She simply stared at him. “Okay, maybe you’re still confused. Let me break this down in layman’s terms. There’s a difference between ‘nigga’ and ‘nigger.’ All right?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Intent plays a big factor, as well as who is saying it. Nigga is often used as a term of endearment such as a Black woman calling her boyfriend or husband her nigga. Example, ‘That’s my nigga. I love him.’ You don’t hear us using the ‘er’ version. A nigger, by definition, is an ignorant person, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “So that means, Asian, White, Indian people, etcetera, can all be niggers but that doesn’t exclude contextual meaning and definition. The actual meaning of the word bitch is a female dog, but the contextual meaning has altered that, so we have to be careful, see? The word nigger was used to cause harm, not to uplift. The word nigga was used to unite. I feel though, in today’s society, it is no longer uniting us at all. Again, it took me getting a little older to see this. In my youth, I didn’t find anything wrong with it. Most of my friends said it, the music I listened to had it in the lyrics. It was just how things were. The word ‘nigga’ was created to also take the power out of the word ‘nigger,’ so it could no longer be used against us as a people.”

  “Okay. To take ownership away, basically.”

  “Exactly. Now you’re getting it, but that’s backfired, too. What I don’t understand, though, is non-Black people’s desire to use it. This brings us back to my original question: Why do so many White people ask that question? Why do you want to use the word, huh? You need to ask yourself that, because to me, it is far more important than any vernacular that someone is using among their own people. Like me callin’ a gay man a fag is not okay, but they can call themselves that, as it should be. There are probably hundreds of examples of this. Cultural lines that can’t be crossed, and yet, White people like to focus on the word nigga so damn much. It’s like an obsession. So tell me, why?”

  “But I just told you I don’t want to use it. That’s not what my question was about.”

  “I don’t believe that. I think many White people want to do everything we’re doing, and then some. You want to be able to dress up in blackface or wear Indian costumes for Halloween, and think that’s okay. That’s someone’s heritage you’re using for a holiday. You want to call sports teams the Redskins and all this other bullshit, but if someone called a baseball team the White-skins, Saltine Crackers, or Pink-skins, you mothafuckas would have a fit.”

  “Oh, come on, Cameron.” She chuckled. “You’re really stretching it here. Being Indian was seen as being strong, a warrior. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand why you’re saying that and, in this day and time, I’d say no, it’s not an appropriate name for a baseball team. But it’s not the same.”

  “Sure it is. Let me ask you something. Have you ever called someone a nigger before, Emily?”

  She swallowed.

  “Not to their face, but yes.” He shook his head, looking disgusted, then laughed dismally. “I thought I could be honest with you, Cameron?” she snapped.

  “You can, but that doesn’t mean I am not allowed to feel something in regard to your answer. I like you. That would be like me admitting that I slapped some White person upside the head all because they were White. You wouldn’t appreciate that, either, especially since you consider yourself fond of me now. And let’s get something straight. I’ve noticed that when we have these discussions, if I don’t keep my voice real low and quiet like some ch
urch mouse, you get all beside yourself.”

  “Now you’re just lying.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m serious. I’m not a robot. I’m a human being. You are someone I’m interested in, regardless of how we met, and you say you’re interested in me, too, but we have a lot of mental unpacking still to do.”

  “What do you mean by mental unpacking? Oh, did you want something to drink? I have some—”

  “No, I’m straight. By mental unpacking I mean that I need to know who the hell you are. Who is the real you, not the big-time financial analyst, not the part occupied by Brooke, but the true-blue Emily? The part of you that you never let anyone see because you’re too busy showin’ off, tryna look pretty, bust some balls to prove you can hack it in a male-dominated field. And prove to your rich, White daddy that you can do this shit and then some—be the son he never had. That’s who the hell I’m tryna deal with, okay?”

  His words had bite. They hurt.

  “You’re angry.” She shook her head.

  “I’m passionate, Emily. I’m in complete control of myself right now. That’s another issue I have with you.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked dryly as she tossed an empty cardboard cup in the trash can.

  “No person of color can have a serious discussion with you, particularly a Black person, without you thinking they are angry. And by you, I mean many White people I’ve dealt with in business, friendships, whatever.” His face twisted into a frustrated expression. “I am sick and tired of voicing a grievance to a White person, and they stare at me like they want to call security, like I’m King Kong climbing up some building out to get them. It doesn’t matter what I am wearing, how articulate I am, if I even raise my voice one damn octave.” He held up one finger. “They are clutchin’ their pearls.”

  “I believe you, I do…but I do have another question that might piss you off.”

  He laughed and tossed up his hands. “You do that all the time, anyway. That’s part of the reason why I like you, Emily. I know I am getting the real deal. You’re just lost, and I’m here to find you.”

  “Okay, so don’t be mad, but I’d like to know why the race card, the victim mentality, is played so often even in areas where it doesn’t apply.”

  “What do you mean? Explain to me what you’re saying exactly so I can respond accordingly.”

  “Past pain can cause future paranoia. That’s a fact.”

  “You’re speaking like all this pain and all this racism comes from the past alone. No, baby. Black people live this shit daily and to think otherwise is utter bullshit.”

  “You’re using emotion and not logic, Cameron.”

  “I can use both at the same time because I’m a juggler and I’m smart and I’m a Black man in America. I have to use both in order to survive. Do you see how easily I can speak articulately then go back to urban slang with my buddies and family? Black people in this country have to be damn near persona magicians just to survive and get along with you, and you bastards still aren’t happy. I know who I am, though, and I know how I’m viewed and where I stand. You better know who you are, and get in where you fit in.”

  “What does that last bit have to do with this conversation?”

  “Entitled White dudes have talked down to my father, in front of me, Emily. Called him a boy. A grown ass Black man with a degree who had no kids out of wedlock, is married to my mother, and was just trying to live his life in peace, raise his kids. And those same dudes have no respect for women like you, either.”

  “The world’s not fair, Cameron. That doesn’t mean I have to go around acting bitter.”

  “Lying down and taking it never solved a problem. I’m a problem-solver. White men don’t like a guy like me making moves on a woman like you. To them, you’re the crème de la crème, and you know it. You’re tall, blonde, thick, and you have your own money and a rich daddy. That’s a damn dream come true. Yet, they will not think twice about hurting you, cheating on you, though they will scream at the top of their lungs about how Black men are corrupting their women. There are bad men and good men of every color, but these guys will never see that.” His voice boomed throughout her office.

  “Please don’t be angry with me, Cameron. I am just trying to understand. You’ve encouraged me to ask questions.”

  “Emily, baby, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the system. I couldn’t even be with you if I believed you were holding onto a certain mentality. You’re different.” He pointed at her. “You inspire me because you are trying to understand. I can see in your eyes that you care, that you are trying to deconstruct years of beliefs that lie inside your head.”

  “Well, that’s something we both can agree on.”

  “Good. We both can learn from one another. Oh, I almost forgot. You brought up the victim mentality and the race card. Yeah, it happens, and I have no problem talking to you about that—but see, we can’t even get into a full discussion about the race card being played, Emily, until the real race issues are acknowledged and addressed. I can’t walk around debating fake grievances when real grievances are on the table that you and others turn a blind eye to. That’s like when someone gets robbed down the street and no one cares, then, an hour later, someone else says they got robbed in the exact location, but they lied. So all people do is focus on the lie, talk about it all morning, noon and night, rather than discuss the true incident that actually occurred earlier in the day—because this first case didn’t fit their narrative. See, that’s how Black people feel when you all say we use the race card. The point is, there shouldn’t be any cards on the table in the first place because my life isn’t a game.”

  She nodded and sniffed. He was right. She couldn’t deny that.

  “When I’m loud, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m angry, okay?” he continued, his voice calmer.

  She nodded again, her emotions welling within her, leaving her practically speechless. “I’m glad you asked me these things. Everyone has that button though, you know? And this is mine. Sometimes I just offer tough love is all.”

  “I’m glad you understand. I feared our friendship would be ruined if I asked certain questions.” She hung her head, feeling so bleak.

  “I would never end what we’ve got because of something like this. You are so thirsty for this information, and I’m proud of you. I know it’s not easy.” She smiled sadly. “That doesn’t mean it’s easy to talk about, either.”

  “I wish we could all talk peacefully, everyone in this country. We can’t get overly emotional about things.”

  Cameron placed his hands on her desk and leaned forward. He offered a cocky smile, the kind that said, “I know something you don’t.”

  “Hurt people hurt people. That’s what Brooke used to say. Who hurt you, Emily?”

  She frowned.

  “I never tried to hurt anyone.” She scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You have tried to hurt people. You know what you’re doing, and you’d have hurt me, too, if I let you. This is why you ask the tricky questions. The ones that could possibly get a rise out of someone like me.”

  “You said I could ask anything. I cannot believe you—”

  “Your problem with me is that I intimidate you and you don’t like it.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Nah, I’m serious. No man has had the balls to talk to you how I talk to you. Why? Because you’re typically the one doing the intimidating. Not me. I’m an alpha man. A true alpha doesn’t have to tell anyone they’re an alpha. Their actions show it. I’ve never said this to you before, or any woman I’ve been involved with. It was unnecessary. I get it, though. You’re an alpha woman. So was Brooke, but she knew how to keep her femininity and be a listening ear, as well as show emotion. She’s working on you real good and she’s going to break you. She’s going to break you the fuck down from the inside out until you submit.”

  Emily’s nostrils flared. “You don’t intimidate me, Cameron. You intrigue me.”

  “If that
’s what you need to tell yourself, that’s fine.” He shrugged. “But I’m not your father. I’m not going to coddle your ass. You want to be able to tell me your truth, but not always hear mine. It doesn’t work that way. By the way…”

  “Yes?”

  “Speaking of parents, you never talk about your mother. Where is she?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t offer an, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Nothing. “Were you young when she died?”

  “What does any of that matter?”

  “Oh, it matters because you’re hurt and this pain isn’t recent. This is old and festering. She had a major impact on you. Let me guess. You were fifteen?”

  “I was sixteen, almost seventeen when she died.”

  “See, people who hate cling to their warped beliefs because they are hurting. No one just wakes up and decides they hate someone. Children aren’t born racists, Emily. Children don’t daydream of strapping themselves with bombs and blowing up buildings in the name of Allah, or killing somebody because of the color of their skin. No, a hurt adult taught them that, poisoned them.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that my mother poisoned my mind?”

  “Nope. You said that. I didn’t.” He stared at her coldly. “Did your mother like Black people?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “No, come on. Answer.”

  “I don’t know.” She tossed up her hands. “We never discussed it.”

  “Oh, you know. You loved your mother; she was good to you, so you don’t want to say anything bad about her. But let’s come full circle with this conversation. Your mother, probably beautiful like you if not even more so, used the ‘N’ word freely, didn’t she?” He smirked. “You heard her call someone a nigger more than once. Your mother was a racist, just like you. You walked right in her high-heeled footsteps.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Say it. Say your mother called someone a nigger.”

  “Cameron.”