What the Heart Wants Page 15

  “Come on, baby. This is your chance to use the ‘N’ word again. You want to say it, right? Say it. Call me a nigger.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing is wrong with me.” He laughed mirthlessly, showing his snow-white pretty teeth. “You wanna dig, right? You wanna push my buttons, get off on the show, see the Black man dance and hop around. Or do you want to get to the truth?”

  “I want the truth. You actually teach others about this very thing, so I thought we could discuss it, but it seems that you are—”

  “You wanted to find out why you can’t call me a nigga but my friend can, right? I told you. I want you now to look me in the eye and tell me why your mother was also racist? That’s where you got it from, right? You felt comfortable doing it too until your old, hollow, rotten, diseased, broken and fucked up heart got snatched out of you and replaced with one worth having.”

  “Because she didn’t know any better!” Tears welled up in Emily’s eyes as she shook like a leaf. “Because my mother was raised hearing it, too.”

  Cameron stood straighter and plunged his hands into his black blazer pocket.

  “Feeling emotional? Perhaps angry? It happens. Welcome to the real world. You found my button today, and now, I’ve found yours. We’re even.”

  He walked around the desk and pressed his lips into her forehead. She kept her eyes averted while her emotions went all over the place. He pulled back and jiggled his car keys in his pocket. “We don’t have to hate someone we loved just because they’d taught us the wrong thing. You just have to toss out the bad shit they gave you, but first, you have to acknowledge that it’s bullshit in the first place. That’s your new assignment. See you tomorrow, beautiful.” He kissed her cheek, then headed out the door.

  *

  Emily sat cross-legged on her messy bed with the overhead light on, clutching her phone in silence. The roar of traffic could be heard through the closed windows. The curtains were drawn but a sliver of afternoon light made it through. There had been sleepless nights. Too many to count.

  The nightmares had begun again, though now, they no longer involved a funeral; it was all about her, standing naked in a white room, decked in blackface, laughing. Her reflection showed a stark white face, crying. Blood poured from her mouth as she giggled in the nightmare, and every word she said made the bleeding worse. With every thought she had—the ugly, prickly, nasty things—worms crawled out of her ears and collected around her bare feet.

  She sniffed, blew her nose, and put her phone back to her ear.

  “Yes, I understand that. I don’t want his number, though. I provided you the date of the ride in question. I don’t have to have his number, but he was my Uber driver that morning.”

  “Yes, I see that here. This number is for urgent matters only, Ms. Windsor. This was quite some time ago.”

  “It was, but I just realized it, you see? I fully respect Mr. Chhugani’s privacy. I hope I’m pronouncing his name correctly. This is an urgent matter. I have something of his that I accidentally picked up from his car during the ride.” She cleared her throat. “According to my Uber records and the beautiful one-star review that he left,” she smiled faintly as a wave of embarrassment washed over her, “I see he’s still an active driver. Is there some way that you can leave him my number and he can contact me?”

  “Yes, Ms. Windsor. Since you want to return something of his, I will contact the driver and then he may contact you at his discretion. Can you tell me what it is, please? I’m certain he’ll ask.”

  “Something expensive. Thank you.” Emily left her callback number and disconnected the call.

  She hummed to the tune of “Human” by Daughter as she had a shower. After drying off her body and hair, she slipped into a pair of fitted jeans, a white button-down shirt, and black slides, then picked up some of the paperwork she’d been sorting the night before. Her phone rang then. She hurried to pick up the call, figuring it was her father or perhaps one of her friends, only to see an unusual number.

  Her heart skipped a few million beats. Her eyes watered, and her brain felt as if it were swelling. She cleared her throat and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, I wish to speak to Ms. Emily Windsor, please.” The thick accent clung to the words like a shawl; only this time, instead of feeling annoyance at the sound of his voice, she felt relief. Or dare she say it, peace.

  “Mr. Chhugani, you may not remember me, but I was one of your riders a while back, in your car for Uber.”

  “I remember you,” he stated curtly. “I have had hundreds of riders since then. But I remember you. I’m busy right now. What do you have of mine?”

  “I have your peace of mind. I tried to steal your dignity.”

  He was quiet for a few moments.

  “I do not understand what you are talking about, Ms. Windsor. I am very busy, so—”

  “Please, let me explain. I first want to apologize to you, not only for how I spoke to you, but for my arrogance, ugliness, cruelty toward you, simply because of your race and the way you dress.” Her voice trembled as she leaned against her coffee table, feeling sick to her stomach. Sick because she’d hurled her hurt, prejudices, and dysfunction in his direction. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I deserve nothing from you at all, but before you hang up the phone, I want to tell you…I know how wrong I was that day. How hateful I was. How there was no excuse on this planet that would justify me barking at you as if you were some disobedient child. Worse yet, not even human. I have played that conversation over and over in my head, and instead of it getting easier, it gets worse. I become more and more mortified. More devastated. I went through life shitting on people.”

  She took a deep breath. “Please excuse my language but I was a person who surely didn’t deserve any compassion or forgiveness from anyone I intentionally hurt. My actions were intentional, and that makes them even more horrible. It is one thing to be ignorant, and there was a bit of that, too, but I wanted to crush you. I wanted you to feel badly, simply because somewhere deep inside of me, I did, too. I still struggle with getting to know myself, but I’m trying. Again, Mr. Chhugani, I am very sorry for how I spoke to you and treated you that day, and if there is anything I can do to make up for it, please let me know.”

  She was met with a few moments of silence, though it felt like an eternity.

  “Are you pulling my leg?” He chuckled, causing her to smile and shake her head.

  “No. I am serious. The only joke is the fact I had convinced myself I was a great person, when I was far from it. The joke was clearly on me. Now, is there a charity you’re partial to? Perhaps I can make a donation to it on your behalf or maybe—”

  “I don’t want your money. Money doesn’t solve everything, Ms. Windsor.”

  Her cheeks felt hot.

  “I know. I know it doesn’t. You’re right. I just wanted to, uh, make this right.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I think you just want to make yourself feel better, too. Cross me off some checklist? Maybe you had a wake-up call of some sort and now want a pat on the back.” His harsh words were somehow coated in a kindness, and the contrast was unnerving. Unexpected.

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Like, eh, what do they call it? Like for alcoholics, yes? They make amends first? Confess?”

  “Yes, like the twelve-step program.” She let out a breath. “The difference, though, is that this is more than twelve steps for me and I am not following a program. Maybe I should. Maybe I became addicted to my own entitlement, my own sense of self? It’s getting worse, this feeling in my stomach, as I speak to you. That’s probably a good thing. It means I’m not off the hook. Look,” she plopped down onto the couch and rubbed her forehead, “I have been through Hell these past few months. Without getting into all of the mundane details and to spare you the pity party, trust me, the cake isn’t all that good. It may not make sense to you, but I had to do this, Mr. Chhugani. This is
not just to make me feel better because I actually feel worse as I speak to you, much worse, but in grief, we sometimes do, right? I am grieving the image I had of myself. The lie. I really don’t understand how anyone was able to tolerate me. I will spend my life, in one way or another, trying to correct my wrongs.”

  “Ms. Windsor, in my beliefs, Sikhism, we believe in no hatred, and definitely not seeking revenge. I probably should not have given you a one-star review.”

  “Of course you should have.” She chuckled. “If negative stars existed, I should’ve received that instead. The punishment should fit the crime.”

  “Yes, but we all have committed wrongs. I did it, the one star, because I was angry with your behavior while I tried to take you to your destination. Naturally, that would make sense, but it did not help you in your journey. It did not help me in mine, either. It only confirmed what you were—full of anger and hatred. I became a mirror, instead of a beacon. I should have left you three stars, Ms. Windsor.”

  “Why three?”

  “Three would mean I do not hate you. It would mean I feel sorry for you, and that, perhaps, you have room to grow.” She swallowed hard as tears filled her eyes. “And though your offer regarding a charitable donation was generous, I suspect from your appearance that day that you are well-to-do. This emphasizes the have and have-nots in not only this country, but the world. Somehow, the rich are seen as more favored by the Creator. That maybe the Creator punishes others with hunger and poverty. That is absurd. In my faith, we do not believe in such things. Caste systems exist in India, though America has its own version. We’re all humans, Ms. Windsor. We were all created by the same supreme Creator. There is no greater love for the wealthy than for the poor, for the dark-skinned versus the light. We are one. We are the same. You’ve made mistakes. It doesn’t mean you cannot make good choices now, too.”

  “Thank you for that.” She sniffed. “I don’t deserve how nice you’re being to me. It shocks me, actually.”

  “Kindness is how we change the world. Ugliness changes nothing. It’s human to make mistakes. It’s extraordinary to own them and make changes. It’s not my position in life to try to own the gift of forgiveness. It’s not mine exclusively. It is to be shared. If I cannot forgive, then I am no better than you. I’m no perfect man. No one is. I get angry, I get tired, but I believe you’re truly sorry.”

  “I am.” She pressed a tissue to her nose. “Thank goodness you see that. You are such a wonderful person. I don’t think many would respond like this, but I do mean what I’ve said to you. I am genuine.”

  “Your words feel true in my heart. I have to go now, so—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

  “You didn’t. You’ve simply stopped wasting your own.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Love is Blind

  Sitting on his couch, Cameron rolled the smooth red and white dice between his palms. They clinked together like ice cubes as they warmed to his touch. While he enjoyed the smooth texture of the game pieces, feeling soothed, he let his mind travel. The scent of sky and linen candles filled the place, stoking his senses.

  Brooke had purchased them a few weeks before her death. She had a thing for candles, essential oils, incense, and the like. He’d decided to light them that afternoon. It was an overcast day, so he sought some good vibes, flickering light and warmth. Besides, he’d been curious to see what they smelled like. He loved their smell.

  Brownstone’s “Grapevine” played on his old CD player, making him bob his head to the music. What a classic.

  Setting the dice down, he reached for the old beat-up CD cover featuring the all-female band from the glass coffee table before him and ran his fingers down the front of it, smiling sadly as memories flooded his mind.

  A childhood gone by, a young Black boy growing up in Brooklyn.

  I remember when I first heard this song. I was so young. A kid. My mother used to play this on repeat in her car. She loved it. I guess I should give her a call soon or she might report me missing to the police.

  He smiled at the thought of that. His mother had been complaining that he didn’t call enough lately. It had been difficult. She claimed to understand he needed time and space. Yet, it was deeper than that. He didn’t want to discuss Brooke and she often brought her up, or other times, he did want to discuss her but his mother would try to encourage him to move forward with his life. He knew she was only trying to help, but it didn’t. In fact, it made things worse. He was moving on, that was the problem. That was why he was on edge.

  And at the same time, he was standing still, hanging on to anything and everything to have the memories stay alive and in living color. He didn’t believe anyone would ever come close to Brooke, no matter what. His mother was a great person to speak to usually about affairs of the heart, but this was different. Too many layers, too much sorrow, too much pain. There was a time or two he wanted to tell her about Emily, but changed his mind. Mama wouldn’t understand.

  He placed the CD back down and flopped back on the black leather couch, crushing the blood-red pillow beneath his weight. Closing his eyes and leaning his forehead into his hand, he drifted away to somewhere safe. He could hear Opium’s snappy footsteps approaching and he grinned when the big dog placed his heavy head against his knee. In no time, the big fur ball was whining and begging for a savory morsel.

  “I know…I know,” Cameron said with a slight smile but kept his eyes closed. “You want something else to eat. My grocery bill is high because of you. I might as well have a couple of kids to feed.”

  Getting on his feet, he refilled the dog’s large steel bowl with a few treats he’d picked up from Trader Joe’s. Cameron stood in the kitchen, not quite motivated to get on with his day just yet. Things had been rather strained and crazy lately, to say the least.

  Work was a madhouse. New acts were coming in and needed to be coordinated. He’d hired two new bartenders to help out with the high demand of the weekend crowd and he needed to interview another MC. His beer distributor had a slowdown in production; it was one of his top sellers at the bar, so in the interim he’d had to scramble to secure a new supplier that wouldn’t cost him an arm and a leg. He’d almost listed his property for sale, had met with an agent and everything, but then decided against it, feeling wishy washy, going back and forth.

  He’d even begun to pack his stuff, then put it on pause. He’d gotten the rest of Brooke’s belongings boxed and placed in a closet, with the exception of a few treasures of hers he was keeping for himself. The place still felt like Brooke’s though. Theirs. Shared space where souls had once combined. There was a big hole inside him, and he was concerned because initially, he’d been filling it with booze and anger like he’d never known.

  Now he was filling it with something else…or someone else would be a far better description.

  That someone else had sky-blue eyes—eyes that looked both foreign and familiar.

  He’d been spending more time with Emily, to the point that it was certainly causing heads to turn. She’d been at the club a few times, and he didn’t miss how people looked his way, their glances questioning. They’d gone for walks together, met at Central Park. They’d been to movies, plays, dinner.

  He thought about Emily quite often. He loved her voice, the way she dressed, despite it being so vastly different from Brooke’s style. Her fashion sense was timeless, and she could hold her own. They seemed drawn to one another like moths to a flame. In fact, they were on the phone practically every night for at least an hour or two, chatting so much that it was becoming his routine—a welcomed one. It felt comfortable. It felt right, but it felt wrong, too.

  I don’t wanna let this go, though. I just feel like I might be usin’ her. Am I?

  He was fighting the attraction, the curiosity, the confusion.

  It bothered him that Emily was White, though he was ashamed he didn’t have the guts to just tell her. He never figured himself to be raci
st, but he simply preferred Black women for dating and romance. In fact, he could count on one hand how many times he’d dated a non-Black woman, and all that had happened in his younger years, before he became “enlightened.”

  I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She doesn’t deserve that. It’s obvious she’s interested in me, that’s a no-brainer. This bothers me though. This whole thing is just bizarre. It bothers me because now I’m attracted to her as more than a friend. If she were just a friend, I would happily spend time with her, not even think about it like this, but I know it’s more than that. I really, really dig this woman. This is a mess.

  He sighed, lowering his head for a spell, taking a moment to hear the traffic going by.

  She’s been working so hard to be open-minded and even when we don’t agree, I don’t feel like she’s being, uh, dismissive, I guess I could say.

  He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a gallon of distilled water, and poured it into Opium’s water bowl. Brooke had the dog so spoiled that she rarely fed him from the tap.

  Tap. Emily told me she used to take ballet and tap dance for years. She was good at ballet, showed me some old pictures she had on her social media. But then she said she liked bread and pie too much to continue. He laughed at that memory. She listens to my reading suggestions on topics of culture and race and she’s been a wealth of information to me regarding investing—all free of charge, on the house. This is her bread and butter, and she didn’t even think of sending me an invoice. This is bullshit. Who the hell am I kidding? It wouldn’t matter what she was doing for me. I just like her. Why do I keep going through this? I like the parts of her that aren’t like Brooke, too. So that’s not it. I thought that was just it, but I am seeing we’re beyond that now. Yeah, Brooke is deep inside of this woman. That was our connection, the pull, the lure; I can feel it, smell it, hear it when she sings, but there are still components of her that aren’t like my woman at all.

  She’s snarky, funny sometimes. She thinks fast on her feet. She’s kinda sneaky, too, but not in an unnerving way. She’s calculating, and I can’t knock her hustle. She’s smart as hell too, and though I keep telling myself she isn’t my type, any White guy out here would love to get their hands on her. She is like the epitome of White beauty. Why do I have to say “White” beauty? Isn’t beauty just beauty? Nah, not really. Well, because there are White beauty standards in this country, ones that I don’t agree with. The whole tall, slender, blonde and blue-eyed thing.