Page 10 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Tension thickened the air in the room. Jordan could feel it herself but made no sign to show it.

She wanted them to know that she meant business and didn’t need to be babied.

She’d been on the other side of that table.

Even held the position of each person who sat across from her.

Hell, she’d even been the executive that these executives would need to seek approval from if they did decide they were interested.

Evelyn looked unsure, and the others shifted uncomfortably.

Surely they hadn’t expected confrontation, and maybe thought that she, like everyone else they saw daily, would simply accept their soft-balled rejection and slink out of the room just glad to have had an audience.

But she was Jordan Motherfucking Armstrong, and that wasn’t what time it was. So, she decided to turn up the heat.

“I’ve given you all the reasons for why this show and why now.

You know me and you know my reputation. So I can’t imagine what your hesitation could be.

Or, actually, I can. You’re probably thinking, Is there a market for this?

And let me answer that question for you again, in numbers.

Black women are the rocket fuel driving the growth of a $1.

8 trillion power base of Black consumer spending.

Our hair alone makes billionaires. We aren’t just an economy, we are the economy, the fastest growing segment of entrepreneurs, degree holders, and the biggest opportunity this country has to increase its GDP, and that’s according to Goldman Sachs. ”

Jordan was getting her wind now, but Evelyn cleared her throat and spoke up.

Haltingly, she said, “Um…Jordan, it’s not about the numbers.

To be frank, and I think I can speak for all of us on the network side…

” Evelyn turned to her left and to her right, indicating her own power in the room, and then continued, “What you haven’t told us is why should we care ? Why will our viewer care?”

Jordan’s voice caught in her throat. On the one hand, it was the most substantive feedback she’d received all day.

On the other, it was a swift jab to the gut that she hadn’t expected.

A weakness in her armor for sure. Care? Why should they care?

If this had come from the white male executive, she would have gone off twenty ways from Sunday.

They would be peeling him off the conference room paneling for weeks to come.

What? You don’t care about Black women? The saviors of democracy?

The keepers of culture? The purveyors of style, the titans of industry, the champions of education?

The hardest-working, baddest bitches to have ever had to hold a country up by their carefully manicured fingertips?

You ought to give ALL the FUCKS, she thought.

But across from her, the person speaking wasn’t a white person; it was Evelyn, someone she’d mentored and helped put in position, a sistah who was smart as fuck.

Okay, Ev, I see you, you’re speaking for them.

Jordan took a sharp breath in through her nose.

She straightened her shoulders and made sure the waves of her hair were cascading as they should across the shoulders of her tailored blazer. And then she chose her response.

“You know what? Since the answer to that question isn’t already crystal clear, I understand that this is not the right home for this project. But thank you for the time today.”

Jordan stood and began to gather her personal items. She slid her tablet into her Hermès bag and her phone next to it.

By the time the others stood up, she was already across the room, ready to shake their hands.

Jordan held Evelyn’s gaze for just one beat longer than she usually would before continuing.

“It was fantastic to see you all again.”

She delivered her cordial goodbyes, with special effort, and with that, Jordan Motherfucking Armstrong left the building.

At least, she’d intended to, as quickly as possible. But as she pressed the elevator button down once again, she heard her name being called. She turned to see Evelyn walking as quickly as her stilettos would allow, scuttling down the carpeted hallway.

“Jordan,” she called out, waving. “I’m so glad I caught you,” Evelyn said, pulling her to the side.

Jordan allowed herself to be led, even as the elevator door opened for the trip she would have taken down for the quickest escape.

“Jordan, I didn’t want you to leave thinking I’m not on your side here. I am,” she said, touching her arm.

“Then what was that?” Jordan asked.

Evelyn shifted and met her eyes. “Look, I know I don’t need to tell you what it’s like.

But it’s gotten so much worse since you left.

I go in to get a budget and I’m asked about social media numbers, platforms, existing audience, all kinds of things we never had to think about.

But now it’s all the higher-ups care about.

I was just asking you to give me some ammo, Jordan, something to take up a level and make this undeniable on their terms. Give me a host, a story, something that I can tie this to.

That makes it clear that if we miss this, we’re missing a moment.

I miss you, J. I’d love to be working with you on something like this.

But just give me something I can work with?

” She looked like she was pleading, sincere for sure.

At least they’d gotten down to real talk and not that empty humoring that had been a waste of her afternoon.

“I got you, Ev,” Jordan replied. “Let me think on it and I’ll get back to you.”

“It’s a great idea, Jordan. If anyone can make this happen, you can.”

As the two women hugged, Jordan wondered just how true that was.

Just minutes later, stuck in afternoon city traffic, Jordan sat in the back of a black Surbarban thinking back over the day.

The last meeting hadn’t gone as expected, which was only a minimalperturbation relative to now, however.

Horns were already blaring, and she could feel the tension of her driver radiating throughout the vehicle, reaching her all the way in the back seat.

A sprinkling of light rain started, creating tiny halos of fog around each drop that hit the window.

Reminding herself of better weather at home, she whispered a tiny prayer of quiet thanks to be heading back to Los Angeles on the next flight out that same day.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Armstrong,” the driver said, turning slightly toward her while stopped on Second Avenue. “We should be in good timing for your flight.” And then without waiting for her response, he went back to quietly cursing to himself at the other drivers.

Jordan eased back into the crinkling polished leather of her seat and let her eyes close, thinking back to the day’s events.

She’d arrived with so much excitement and a perfected pitch, ready to deliver her idea into the hands of the ideal broadcast partner.

She’d come armed with the research, the stats, the well-rehearsed responses to anticipated questions.

But it hadn’t landed. She sighed. This was a stupid idea, right?

What was she thinking trying to pitch a new show idea with a new format, a new concept for a decidedly Black female audience, to a mainstream network? She knew better.

Evelyn felt it would be too tough of a sell and was trying to make Jordan focus on things that were low concept but tended to create confidence for the higher-ups.

A social media influencer host with five million followers.

A disgraced celebrity who needed a comeback opportunity.

Or another Oprah. That was how they thought: just point me in the direction of what’s already working, what’s been done but give me different wrapping.

That wasn’t this idea. I just need to stay in my lane …

Jordan thought. It had been Harper who’d convinced her in the first place to try something new.

“You started leaning into your creativity with From the Culture, ” he’d said, referencing the show centering four Black women chopping it up about the news.

It had been her brainchild and her idea to feature Shelby.

The memory brought a smile to her face and Harper’s voice floating back to her.

“This is your lane,” he’d said. “Lean into your creativity.” That was how the idea for this show started.

Yes, the original purity of it. Jordan believed in this new idea the same way she’d believed in From the Culture.

Wellness was a long time coming. Over many conversations, Harper encouraged her, feeding into her creativity.

They were bouncing ideas off each other, dreaming like the college kids they were when they met at Westmore.

That’s how she knew it was real—the ease, free flowing, no pressure.

Maybe it was just the comfort of having Harper back in her life, even from three thousand miles away.