Page 107 of Treason's Temptation
“Why do you keep gummy bears everywhere?”
“The same reason you keep fuckin’ them up. They taste good.”
Navie mushed my head and hopped down before disappearing so I could finish my speech. Coltrane wasn’t doing it, and neither was Miles Davis. I even leaned on my man Herbiefor inspiration, but my brain was blank. Everything I jotted down sounded incomplete when Navie returned holding a plate.
“Since you won’t come to bed.”
“Is it safe to eat?” I asked, dropping the pen and stretching my arms.
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Navie grinned, setting the sandwich down.
I expected her to let me suffer alone, but she hopped her ass back on the edge of my desk. She looked so happy, legs swinging, brushing against my forearm every so often.
“Why do you like Jazz so much?”
“It’s soothing. After a long day of talking and listening to other people talk, I get tired of hearing words.”
“Why are the vinyls thrown in the corner?”
I peered over my shoulder, eying the crate. “Haven’t gotten around to making a spot for them.”
Navie didn’t make small talk unless it served her. The only thing her random questions aided tonight was her curiosity about me. It was cute watching her neck swivel from side to side, looking for something else to explore between bites.
Watching her was a distraction from my own frustrations. My words weren’t coming together as I wanted, even after Navie’s world-class sandwich.
“You’ve been chewing that pen like it owes you money. What’s wrong?”
I tossed the pen, watching it bounce off a folder and land somewhere near the edge. “I’m trying to make this point about economic mobility, but it’s not landing.”
Navie reached behind her, picking up the pen I’d tossed in frustration.
“Fancy pen,” she observed before craning her neck to read the inscription, “Your words are your legacy.”
“Gift from Gram when I got into law school. Speaking of which, I need to call her soon before she curses me the fuck out.”
“Somebody needs to,” Navie smiled, then cocked her head. “Talk to me like you would them.”
“Them?”
She shrugged. “The people. Your people. I can’t have you out there embarrassing me, so let’s hear it,Jordan.”
“When we talk about Black businesses, people make it about the money or hustle,” I started, my voice lower now, already pulling her in. “But economics isn’t just about dollars. It’s about access, resources, gatekeepers, and most of us are born shut out.”
Her lips parted, unconsciously, but Navie didn’t interrupt.
“Sociology teaches us how systems replicate themselves. You can have all the talent in the world, but if you can’t access a loan or afford to take a risk, then it doesn’t matter how good your product is.”
Navie’s gaze sharpened, leaning forward.
“The myth is that we all start from the same place, but we don’t. If you’re born in a neighborhood where the schools are underfunded, where grocery stores don’t carry fresh food, where jobs are scarce and everything’s survival, then you’re running uphill…”
Her gaze was hazier now, concentrating on my words, their cadence, and body language.
“And when we support Black-owned businesses,” I continued, my tone gentler, more intimate, “we’re doing more than keeping the lights on. We’re creating visibility for people who’ve only ever seen the door locked, and handing them the key.”
Navie bit her bottom lip, eyes still on mine, and something flickered behind her expression. Hunger, maybe—not just for me, but for thewayI saw things.
“I wish you could see yourself when you talk like that,” she muttered.
