What the Heart Wants

By Tiana Laveen

Can one heart change the lives of many?

Ambitious financial planner Emily Windsor is the golden child of an elite New York family. Proud of her family roots, she disdains those who are different from her and embraces her entitled, wealthy lifestyle. Emily feels her life is perfect until her congenital heart condition is pronounced terminal and she’s given just months to live.

Cameron Davis is an outspoken, mixed-race social activist. His greatest joy is his soulmate, Brooke Coleman, an up-and-coming New York City jazz singer who's as talented as she is kind. But his life and heart are shattered when Brooke is killed. As her heart gives its last beat, it is quickly readied for transplant—her final act of selflessness.

As one life ends, another begins. After Emily receives Brooke’s heart, her worldview begins to change—almost as if Brooke has also given Emily a piece of her soul. As Emily struggles to understand her new thoughts and feelings, she turns to Cameron for guidance. Can love shine its light once more on two broken hearts?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Apr 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953647450

Book preview

Letter To My Readers

Greetings to each and every person who has decided to pick up, download, and/or read this book. You are about to embark on a journey about love. This story is a voyage to redemption and all this entails. I’ve written over fifty novels, and this is by far one of those that has required much research, the need to speak to people from all walks of life, and even be honest with myself regarding various beliefs and outlooks on life. That withstanding, it is a romance that delves deep into who we are as a people and as a society, and how that ties into love of oneself and others.

We have here a tale about honesty, transformational love, and the realization that no metamorphosis of emotion occurs in a bubble. It takes a village to help each and every one of us reach our true potential. Whether this helps comes from supportive friends, educators, medical professionals, self-help books, inspirational videos, or articles on self-improvement, we are tasked to grow and find the sunlight and replenishment required to ensure that we manifest all that we can become. Growth is different for each individual. So it is that the characters in this book are forced to evolve and endure some painful truths, and then, make a hefty call to action. This is not a cuddly romance novel.

You won’t feel warm and fuzzy feelings all throughout this book. This story is not politically correct, nor was it meant to be. It’s an unapologetic look at actual beliefs woven inside fictitious individuals who very well could be your neighbor, close friend, or relative. Perhaps you. The goal is not to assign blame but to admit truth and trigger forgiveness. This includes forgiving ourselves so we may attract a love like we’ve never known.

What the Heart Wants is a book from the heart, about a heart, given in the most selfless act of love. Now, this book is in your hands.

Thank you in advance for reading and going along this trip with me, Cameron, and Emily.

Now, our journey together begins.

Chapter One

A Song and Dance for the Ancestors

"He’s gotta gun!" someone yelled. Pure pandemonium broke out as the crowd screamed and ran in all directions. Someone shot their weapon.

Brooke Coleman froze mid-song, clutching the mic, and looked frantically in all directions. The mood had definitely changed. She sang another line, but her voice broke as angry voices got louder. From her vantage point on the stage, all she saw was chaos. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. The music stopped as bright white flashlights lit up the area, showing a few police officers moving toward the scene of a fight.

Hey, let’s not do this! she screamed out into the microphone, her voice drowned out by the yelling, curses, and screams all around her. Opium, her trusty black and tan Rottweiler, stood at the edge of the stage, his fur raised, growling. Not normal behavior for the dog. Just moments earlier, he’d been resting peacefully out back. Something was wrong…very wrong. We’re all here for a good time.

More gunfire rang out and her heart practically jumped out of her chest. She took several steps back. People started to run all over the place, as fast as their legs could carry them.

Panic rose inside her and formed a lump in her throat as the fear of someone being hurt, trampled, or worse yet, killed, hit her. Opium barked, snarled, and growled some more, going berserk. He now stood by her side while the gunshots amplified, all over the place, turning everything into a living nightmare—a horror movie being played out right before her eyes. Some terrible, rotten seed had been planted, buried into the soil, and was growing some hideous monstrosity in a matter of seconds. Bloodcurdling screams rang out.

Brooke, Viktor, her close friend and right hand, yelled as he crawled across the stage toward her, his dark wash baggy jeans and black leather jacket gathering dust. She’d known Viktor for years, and his sharp skills at talent promoting had proved instrumental in launching her career as a jazz artist. His platinum-blond hair was the only thing in place, combed in an old-fashioned pompadour and gelled from roots to tips. The look of terror in his eyes broke her heart. Brooke…get down.

She dropped down onto her stomach and placed her hands over her head. Police car sirens blared as more of the vehicles approached, then she felt a tug around her waist as Minx grabbed her and helped her down the side steps of the stage.

Opium? Where’s Opium? she yelled out as they raced ahead, people swishing past them like streamers.

He’s in back. We’ve got him, James yelled, standing off to her side.

In the near distance she could see Viktor’s car, a white Ford Explorer. The back opened and two of her band members got Opium inside while they all began to pile in the SUV. A police officer was chasing someone on foot. They drew closer and closer. Suddenly, more gunfire rang out, and then once again, this time closer, much closer. Opium barked louder than she’d ever heard him do. He was going crazy, scratching and pacing in the back of the vehicle.

I busted yo ass. I’ll die for this shit, mothafucka! some man yelled, panting as he raced past.

The officer kept after him and yelled, Stop running, you Black motherfucker, while the sound of sirens burst through her eardrums. She got into the car, her chest heaving up and down—and then pain, a terrible ache flowed from her neck, then her chest.

Something’s not right…

How fast the world could change. One minute she was singing her heart out, swaying to the beat of the beautiful music played by her band. And the next…here she was. Running for her life. Terrified—for herself and her loved ones.

As she sat in the back of the car while it pulled away from the curb, she looked down at her sheer white peasant blouse. It was soaked in blood, all along the right side. James wrapped his arm around her, then his expression changed. His eyes grew big and he yelled in horror.

Viktor, go to the hospital. NOW. Brooke’s been shot. Her neck. Shit.

She began to shake, her temple going from hot to cold, over and over again. She fought the urge to vomit. Her head throbbed and she wasn’t certain she recalled how to breathe.

Everything became glassy, as though she was seeing through the windows of an old church. No, a Catholic cathedral. The kind with the gorgeous stained glass in vibrant colors depicting the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. Pretty colors filled her mind, spreading out like stretched cotton candy in combinations she’d never seen before. She could taste them, hear them, smell them. Opium’s barking faded, like footprints in melting snow. Streetlights blended. The colors blurred…the red, yellow, and green transformed to cherry Astro Pop lollipops.

She placed her hand on the car window, then rested her forehead against it, smiling as she looked out. She could feel and hear her own heartbeat, practically touch it as it slowed down. So slow…like African drums. She saw the ancestors dancing around a fire, the flames wild. Their rich, dark skin glowed under the vibrant setting sun.

I want that warmth. Let me stand by that fire. Let me dance under the sun, too.

Brooke. Stay with me, Viktor yelled, but his voice sounded as if he were underwater, swimming beside her. Was she drowning?

Make sure she doesn’t fall asleep, someone shouted out.

More barking. Opium’s voice rang out like an alarm. Then came the whimpers.

I’m so sleepy…

Brooke. Fuck. Brooke. Wake up.

I’m so…so…tired…

Someone grabbed her chin and shook it. Her eyes flickered, but then the ancestors’ flames competed with that pull and sparkled brighter, faster, hotter…Such a pretty white light.

Song lyrics sounded as if they were in 3-D, the musical notes forming into humans made of beautiful yellow flames. You told me, it was forever, but forever never came…

Come to me, forever, forever, forever. Here’s your heart, here’s my soul, they’ll be together, forever. The sweet song played in her own voice, but it sounded so foreign, like someone else was singing the melody she’d written. So lovely—angelic, really. The music was smooth and inviting, like nothing she’d ever heard.

She could feel moisture around her eyes, but she smiled as she gripped the limb of someone holding her. A masculine grasp. Strong. In need. Whoever it was held her tight; they didn’t want to let go. She could no longer hear the people around her, but she could feel their spirits…

They’re so sad, so angry, so hurt.

She began to slip out of herself, bit by bit, as if freeing herself from an all-familiar cocoon, a costume she’d worn for years.

The ancestors grabbed onto her light limbs, and she undressed from a gown made of bloodied and weak flesh, now completely free from the physical confines and pain. She floated away, but as she looked back down, she felt terrible sorrow. Something had happened that should not have, but she could not quite figure out what.

There, on that seat in the car, sat a young woman with smooth, milky-brown skin, her head of soft black curls looking like a halo of half-moons spun from the blackest love lyrics against the whitest of sheet music she’d ever seen. Her soul looked down at her core. Her spirit was coiled against the flames of Heaven and the dusky clouds of Hell.

What is she doing? What am I doing?

The woman’s face rested against a cold glass window. A man yelled at her, tears streaming down his face, his arm wrapped around her. He pressed his head against her shoulder and rocked against her. The driver of the car gripped the steering wheel so tightly, it might break in two any minute.

The woman with the halo of ebony curls didn’t move, didn’t speak. She was a mere shell, and as each second passed, her body grew colder and colder. They looked at one another one final time, and she watched as that shell released its very last tear. The bead of liquid spilled from her eye like overturned coffee and ran down her face like rain, staining the entire world around her as if her existence were nothing more than white fibers. That tear was leaving an imprint upon the canvas of life that would never dry. The pain would remain forever and a day…

* *

As Girls Like You by Maroon 5 played through Emily’s earbuds, she bobbed her head to the music, drowning out the loud car honking and boisterous curses that burst from the bumper-to-bumper traffic in Manhattan’s morning rush hour. She gripped her iPhone in her right hand and her Starbucks vanilla latte in the other, keeping a keen eye on her surroundings.

No. What are you doing? I told you not to get in this lane. Don’t you understand English? We’ve already been over this.

I was just—

"I said, go over there. She forcefully pointed across the street, her body jeering forward so her long blonde hair, which she’d just had cut in stylish long layers, fell out of place. Tucking it behind her ear, she continued to yell as her angst took over. You people don’t listen." She sneered at the deeply tanned man with a jet-black, wooly beard who smelled of turmeric and curry, a taupe turban piled atop his head.

Looks like a damn beehive. I hope he’s not another fucking terrorist.

The man stared at her through his rearview mirror, from under bushy brows set over black eyes so glossy, she could practically make herself out in them. His pockmarked cheeks seemed to have turned a shade darker as she snapped at him. She sighed in frustration. This was her third foreign Uber driver in one week.

‘You people don’t listen’? He repeated her words with a thick Indian accent. I’m Sikh. You have a problem with me? He pointed to himself as his forehead wrinkled in irritation, yet his tone remained calm. I don’t understand what you—

Yeah, yeah. Look, listen up. Word to the wise. I was born and raised here, unlike some. She sucked her teeth. "I know my way around. Never, and I mean never, get in this lane this time of morning trying to get to Fifth Avenue, okay? We’ll be stuck here forever and I can’t afford to be late today. Too late now, huh? What was the point of even telling you?"

Not expecting any answer except the loud huff he emitted, she flopped back down into the seat, happy to have made her point, and swiped a perfectly manicured thumbnail across her phone screen. Her anger melted like butter when she scrolled over an incredible table setting from one of her favorite designers posted on Instagram.

Nice. Chic. I think I’ll order it.

Next she read a hilarious joke posted by one of her favorite local comedians, which featured an illustration of a little Black boy wearing a kippa, speaking with a White man who looked like a rabbi: A Black Jewish boy runs home from school one day and asks his father, Daddy, am I more Jewish or more Black?

The dad replies, Why do you want to know, son?

Because a kid at school is selling a bike for $50 and I want to know if I should talk him down to $40 or just steal it!

Emily burst out laughing, slapping her knee as she fell back onto the seat. Damn, it felt good to chuckle after such a shitty morning. She kept scrolling, checking out political posts from her favorite channels and media outlets.

There’s no fucking collusion with the Russians. How pathetic. The snowflake liberals lost the election and still, after all of this time, they can’t deal with it. Trump has done more for Black people than Obama ever did, and he had two terms. Brainless sheep.

Several minutes later, before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop, she opened the back door, grabbed her computer bag and purse, and leapt out, her red Louboutin heels beating the pavement among a sea of people walking with purpose, a good number with their faces in their phones, or frantically hailing a taxi. Racing into Rockefeller Center, she made her way past several storefronts to Windsor Financial Group, a company started by her grandfather that she’d worked at for years.

Hi, Danielle, Emily called out.

Hello, Ms. Windsor. Cathy wants you to—

Cathy’s issues can wait. Do you have my papers from Marconian International and Mr. Smith? She snapped her fingers at the receptionist, who shoved a manila folder in her direction.

Here it is.

Emily snatched it off the front desk. Thank you, she muttered before disappearing down the short hall to her office. She walked inside, closing the door with a bump of her hip. Making her way to her desk, she navigated around a plant, then sat down in her chair at an angle that afforded her a wondrous city view of Fifth Avenue. It was eerily quiet that morning, just as she liked it.

She opened the folder and began to read through it to prepare for her appointment. Mr. Andrew Smith was an important client. She’d been wooing the wealthy YouTube influencer for weeks. He’d made millions creating gaming and exploration videos; a young twenty-four-year-old who’d moved from Iowa to New York in desperate need of someone to take his wet-behind-the-ears ass by the hand and lead him to money-green pastures. Finally, she was getting her chance to impress the young man.

Emily prided herself on the courting process she used to get clients, the way she made them feel special and wowed them with her expertise and charm. Her father, now CEO of the company since the death of her grandfather, had encouraged her to use her natural-born gifts to garner more business, and that’s what she excelled at. She was more than capable; after all, it was in her blood. She followed a perfect plan, and it worked like a charm.

Looking good was the first order of each and every day. Her personal stylist helped ensure she wore the most flattering and expensive suits paired with simple yet elegant jewelry. Her nails and hair were always professionally done, and she used red lipstick as a color enhancement on her porcelain face, framed by blonde tresses. The perfect pop of platinum highlights had taken her six months to fully achieve to her satisfaction.

Not only was she in control of her appearance, she had a steel grip on her own destiny and wouldn’t allow anything to stand in her way. She’d graduated at the top of her class from Fordham University, proving she could hold her own in a male-dominated field. She’d then worked her butt off in the family business, earning her way to becoming a top financial analyst. The Windsor Financial Group happened to be one of the best firms in the entire state of New York, and she had a high standard to attain to deserve her role in the company. She took great pride in her work, and she’d even appeared on NBC several times to discuss stock market news, investment advice, and the like.

Flipping to another page, she read for a while, then suddenly paused, wrinkling her nose.

Smells like an old, rotten banana in here. Where’s that coming from?

She grimaced as she looked about the place, left to right, ahead and behind herself, then took a peek below her desk to ensure the trash had been dumped from the day prior. It wouldn’t have been out of the question for the presumably Asian-run cleaning service to purposefully skip her office—trying to save time, get paid for nothing, and game the system. The plastic liner within the small, Pottery Barn can was intact and empty, clean as a whistle. After one more cursory look as she reached for her coffee and took a sip, she shrugged it off.

Must’ve been something stale in the air that has come and went. It looks good in here. Good thing I removed that whiteboard. Far more tasteful now.

Emily’s office was spotless, a minimalist haven much like her apartment in the coveted area of Gramercy Park.

Great investments, she whispered as she set her coffee down and flipped to another page.

Just then, her desk phone rang. She smiled when she looked at the number and recognized it immediately.

Laura, she squealed. How was Prague?

Beautiful as always. She could hear her best friend practically grinning through the phone. Just as Laura began to get into the small, at times less interesting, details of her two-week vacation with her latest fuck buddy, a throbbing pain began from Emily’s head and seemed to spread within seconds to her chest. She blinked several times, feeling a bit dizzy. Perhaps she’d moved too quickly, throwing off her equilibrium. And then we visited St. Vitus Cathedral, the woman continued.

Mmm hmmm…that’s nice… Emily ran her hand along her face. Her body felt loose, as if all the bones were melting, leaving behind only a pile of flesh. She attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs failed her. Intense pain radiated in the core of her chest now. She grimaced and clutched her white silk blouse beneath her blazer. Blinking more times, she flailed her arms in a fit of panic, soon knocking the coffee onto the floor. She watched in a daze as the light-brown liquid seeped into the plush white carpeting.

Ruining it.

We always see Charles Bridge, but this time, we noticed far less people. Isn’t that wild?

Emily’s vision began to blur and she could barely speak. Her tongue felt heavy, her mind a blur, like the watercolors of her best friend’s daughter’s picture depicting a sunset rising along the beach in Cancun.

Luh…Laura…He…help.

And then we—Huh? What did you say?

H…Help…me…

"Emily? Help you what?"

She let the phone drop to the desk, and the sound seemed to echo through her entire body as she slid out of her chair, hitting her head on the way to the floor. Things soon grew fuzzy around the edges and darkness fell all around her. She pressed her fingers into the soft carpet, her eyes once again fixating on the brown coffee in the white fibers, soaking into it, merging…

She could now hear her friend screaming her name at the top of her lungs through the phone that rested on the desk above her.

Emily? Are you there? EMILY?

* *

No, Ms. Windsor, I don’t think you understand me. Dr. Giannopoulos leaned forward as he sat on the side of her hospital bed. His salt-and-pepper hair caught the light from the window quite attractively.

I’ve told you a dozen times or more. Please call me Emily. She smiled.

He’s so handsome. I wonder if he’s ready to date again. He should be. That divorce happened at least two years ago.

Fine. Emily, this isn’t one of your little episodes, as you call it. We’re not going to look at your medications and change things up. This was different, it’s beyond all of that. We’re at the point of no return. Your congenital heart disease was manageable up to a while ago, but now the oxygen is not flowing properly and twenty-five percent of the valves of your heart are barely functioning at all. You need that heart transplant.

Well. She rolled her eyes. I know that. I’ve been on the list for several years now, but I’ve always been able to make do. The other doctor said before that it was controllable and—

It doesn’t matter what was previously said. That diagnosis was made when you were a teenager. Right now you’re thirty-one, and your heart is failing. It is giving out. No amount of treatment, medications, or wishful thinking will change this prognosis. Look at this.

He opened a folder, the same damn one he’d shown her before, which featured a heart that looked more like a shriveled piece of sausage—only it was no butcher cut. The thing resided within her.

Look at it, Emily, he said sternly. She turned and glanced at it, then fought tears. Do you see the progression of deterioration from even three years ago? He snatched out an old X-ray, placing them side by side.

Yes. She barely coughed the word out.

This is it. He slowly closed the folder and stood to his feet. We have to proceed with the transplant. I will look at the list and ask the board to expedite your situation. It’s dire. Now, will you please allow your father to come inside? He should know about this, too. You need a good support system, and it must be made clear that you cannot return to work right now.

No. I mean— She clasped her hands together and looked down at her lap. No. I, uh, I’ll talk to him myself. Thank you.

He nodded and offered a sad smile before patting her hands and walking to the door.

It’s not like I’m going to die tomorrow. She laughed nervously. I can—I’ll still be able to do a lot. I mean, this will take years. I’m healthy. I do yoga three times a week. I have a few glasses of wine on the weekends. She shrugged. I eat right, I exercise. I’m fine. We’ll handle this.

Emily, listen to me. He shook his head. "Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not productive. You were born with this. You’ve always had it, you’ve always known about it. None of what you mentioned matters right now regarding the yoga, exercise, and all the rest. This isn’t your fault."

I know it’s not my fault, and between myself and my father, we can afford any specialist I need. Let’s get on the phone and get a second opinion. I demand it. Her voice rattled as she struggled to not fall apart. Any doctor worth their salt wouldn’t just give up. They’d—

I haven’t given up. That’s the whole point. You can’t tell me how to do my job, Emily, just as I can’t tell you how to do yours. Now look, I need you to be realistic about this. You can’t escape or talk your way out of it. Tossing money at the issue won’t make you any less sick. Feel free to get a second opinion. They’ll tell you the same thing. Time is not on your side. Right now, your character and approach to life will do wonders. This attitude of yours is hurting you, in more ways than one. Purchasing a new Chanel bag won’t make this problem go away, either, Emily.

How dare you. So much for bedside manner.

I’ve been your doctor for three years, and you are one of the most difficult patients I have ever had. When you come in here, I’ve had nurses tell me they refuse to work with you. You can be abrasive, condescending, and rude.

She crossed her arms, vexed.

Regardless, he continued, you’ve always thanked me for my honesty. You never wanted anything sugar coated, so that’s what I’m presenting to you. The pure, unadulterated truth. These are the facts: You have an extremely stressful job. Your family’s reputation and pedigree are of the utmost importance to you, and you’re highly competitive. You’ve admitted this many times. Hell, the first thing you said once you became conscious today was, ‘I am missing my appointment.’ Not ‘How am I doing?’ This has to stop, Emily. This is your life, and it’s hanging in the balance.

She hung her head, shame filling her, though she’d never admit it.

You will not live another six months if you don’t have this heart transplant.

Her breath hitched as her world crumbled right before her eyes. Running her hand along her arm, she squeezed, needing to feel alive, to feel pain, to remember what it felt like to live before it was far too late.

What if, what if no viable candidate shows up? I know it’s not done by who is first on the list, but by priority.

Well, your situation is critical now, so all we can do is be proactive and hope for the best. It may be a long shot, but I hope we can get a viable candidate in the next few days if not sooner.

She nodded and looked at the clouds passing by outside the window.

How does this happen? I haven’t cried about this in years, ya know? She shifted her attention to one of the many monitors she was hooked up to and shook her head. Why is it that people that piss their lives away by taking a bunch of harmful drugs, complaining, and making excuses about their lives get to live until a hundred years old and here I am, working hard, living my life, loving it, and my existence is threatened? I’m not on crack. I am not out here living some wild, crazy life. I’m not a thief or murderer. It’s not right. It’s not fair.

Tears streamed down her face, born from unadulterated rage. Dr. Giannopoulos remained silent, his gaze on her. Then, he crossed his arms and took a deep breath.

"Emily, not everyone’s definition of quality of life is the same. What you may consider squandered, they may feel is decent, perhaps even happiness. Answer this question, and be truly honest with yourself: If your health were fine and with this removed as a problem in your life, would you consider yourself really happy? She stared blankly a long spell, then turned away. What I want you to focus on is not what everyone else is doing, okay? Don’t worry about the choices that someone else made…Instead, I want you to focus on what you need to be doing."

And what’s that? Waiting to die? She picked up a flower vase from the table next to her and tossed it across the room. Glass shattered everywhere when the damn thing hit the wall. Her tears flowed faster and her heart pumped violently in her chest, the pain excruciating, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about any of it at all. Dr. Giannopoulos casually looked at the broken vase, the fragments of glass scattered about the floor like the broken pieces of her life. Everything was dark against white fibers. Everything ugly and horrid was soaking into the last shred of dignity she had, soiling her hopes and dreams with the sooty, dark filth she didn’t deserve. The doctor glared at her, and then at her heart monitor, before reaching for the door and opening it. Before he stepped out, he threw her one last look from over his shoulder.

No Emily, you need not focus on waiting to die. Rather, how about racing to live?

Chapter Two

A Cry for Help

"The United Network for Organ Sharing called." Those were the last words Emily heard before she began to frantically sign papers from her seat on the hospital bed. She went through the motions, barely reading what was written. A viable candidate had fallen out the sky, materialized from thin air like some answered prayer—the kind she seldom believed in.

According to her doctor, the donor lived in the area, had a similar body type, shared the same blood type, and had just passed away two hours earlier. She asked few questions as her anxiety rose to a level she’d not felt since her college days, particularly the week of final exams. Taking a sip of water, she glanced down at her wrist, reading her hospital bracelet. She itched to be out of there, living her life. The staff, the smell of the place had begun to drive her crazy.

Her father stood in a corner of the room, shrouded in darkness, but his smile could be seen as he crossed his arms along his broad chest and nodded a time or two. Dad remained strong, encouraging her to move forward with what needed to be done. When she was all finished with the paperwork, she answered a few questions and was once again alone with her father.

He took a seat next to her bed. Pulling up close, he grasped her hands and held them. She closed her eyes, her body suddenly feeling cold, clammy. She shook as the tears fell down her cheeks.

"There’s no need to be

Reviews for What the Heart Wants

[Sisanda Dudumashe · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful emotionally charged book. Very authentic in its projection of the characters