Page 24 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Eleven

Jordan

Facing Dr. Clark, Jordan took her usual seat by the window.

The sheers were drawn, keeping out the heat of the Southern California sun but leaving downtown Santa Monica in view from her therapist’s second story office.

A scented white candle sat on the coffee table, nestled between the two of them, Jordan on one side and Dr. Clark on the other, seated in her cushiony cream-colored oversized chair.

As usual, the latterwoman’s posture was erect, and she was attentive, her face largely expressionless behind glasses so stylish it made Jordan wish for readers even though she didn’t need them (or bigger fonts…

yet). Dr. Clark’s dark hair was evenly streaked with gray and strategically short.

The precise lines of her haircut complimented her high cheekbones and caramel skin.

She dressed like her office looked—in neutral colors—grays, blacks, whites, and creams—and today was no exception.

She wore an off-white sleeveless cashmere sweater and looked pretty, flawless, calm, and professional.

Jordan always assumed Dr. Clark was ten to twelve years her senior.

The kind of woman that Jordan hoped to morph into when she got north of sixty or seventy.

That’s probably why she chose her. In this sea of white male and female therapists, Dr. Clark was like an oasis in the desert.

A Black woman who had lived some life. Jordan felt comfortable with her.

At least, as comfortable as Jordan Armstrong could feel in such a situation.

Therapy? Me? she’d thought when she first contemplated it.

Therapy isn’t for me. Shelby, on the other hand?

Yeah. HELLO. The woman ran through therapists like she ran through husbands.

Not Jordan, though. Jordan was a “strong Black woman.” The very idea that she’d need to speak to a stranger about her so-called mental health had been a foreign concept to Jordan Motherfucking Armstrong.

It was a miracle she’d found Dr. Clark and even more so that she kept coming.

“Strong Black women don’t need therapy?” Dr. Clark had posed the question early in their sessions.

Answering that in the affirmative made Jordan feel really stupid.

Particularly the way Dr. Clark had posed it—confidently, rhetorically.

Softly challenging Jordan’s notions. It was particularly jarring because Jordan was a strong Black woman who’d left a high-paying, powerful job at the height of her career because she was feeling anything but that.

However, she’d since been reconciling the notion that she’d needed help processing all the thoughts and feelings she’d been having, not just in the past two and a half years since she quit, but perhaps for her entire adult, professional life.

At the start of every session, Dr. Clark had Jordan light a white scented candle of her choosing.

Neroli calmed her and relieved the anxiety she felt with being untethered from a job and arising from telling a stranger her innermost thoughts.

When each session was over, Jordan blew out the candle and felt better.

It served as a ritual to close the open wound they’d just explored.

In fact, every time she saw Dr. Clark, she enjoyed working on herself, like going to the gym.

It was hard to get there, but she was always happy she went.

Soon enough, being vulnerable in a safe space became freeing.

So, yes, Jordan concluded. Strong Black women do need therapy.

In this session, her neroli candle burned slowly. The wick was strong and unwavering. That’s an expensive candle, Jordan thought. Probably why her prices were so high. Plus, the rent in the area was astronomical. But, Jordan concluded, her mental health was worthit.

“Do you think she was being rhetorical?” Dr. Clark asked of Evelyn’s response to Jordan’s pitch during her New York trip’s final meeting. She inquired flatly, without blinking.

“No…not completely,” Jordan said after a moment of consideration.

“She has to find a way to sell it to the top floor. I get it. I did the job. Evelyn is doing the same thing I would have done. Like, ‘Come on, sis. Give me a little more ammo for the white boys.’?” Jordan looked away.

Why should we care? she remembered hearing.

She recalled the moment perfectly. It had been on constant replay in her mind since she’d returned.

“Why do you want them to care, Jordan?”

Jordan’s face scrunched up involuntarily. “Are you being rhetorical?”

“No. I’m asking you to articulate why you want them to care.”

“Because…I know how it feels—the stress, the anxiety, the taking on of others’ expectations of what they know or think a strong Black woman is.

And having this feeling that you have to overachieve, you have to represent, you have to live up to a standard that no other women in society have to contend with.

We get questioned by everyone, not only from other women, white women, white men, Black men.

But nobody cares?” She paused to recalibrate; she hadn’t expected to get so emotional.

“When I went temporarily blind three years ago, I brushed it off,” Jordan said with a sniffle.

“I didn’t prioritize my health because I had to be the one.

I could not fail. If I did, someone else would take my place and I’d be out and labeled weak.

Weak…is the antithesis of a strong Black woman.

So, who is asking what this costs us?” After months of experiencing debilitating migraines in her last job, at the peak of her career, Jordan’s eyesight had slowly begun to dwindle over the course of the scariest weeks of her life. She knew then she’d needed a change.

“And when you left?”

“When I left, I was still a strong Black woman. Who put herself first,” Jordan said with the confidence of reciting an affirmation.

“And?”

“ Learn, earn, return, as Denzel Washington said. I’ve done the first two, and now I want to share—with other high-achieving Black women.

Every aspect of wellness. I need to reach people who feel what I’m feeling.

Or at least what I felt. I want to let other Black women know how to get some balance in their life.

As Black women go, so goes the world. When we’re at our best everyone else is, everyone benefits, everyone wins.

That’s facts. Why should anyone care? Well, I just said it, that’s why. ”

“Did you tell your friend this?”

“Ev? No. It’s kind of coming to me right now. You can’t do off the cuff in a meeting unless you’ve already got the answers for everything.”

“Have you thought about inserting yourself into this process?”

Jordan was puzzled by the question. “What do you mean? I already have. I wrote the copy, designed the PowerPoint—”

Dr. Clark delivered a rare interruption.

“I mean the show. It sounds to me like you are the show. It’s so deeply personal to you.

” Jordan still looked puzzled. “Have you considered hosting?” Jordan sincerely laughed.

She finally felt Dr. Clark was out of her depth—she’d been waiting for that temporary comfort.

Jordan was always the smartest person in the room, except this room. “Why is that funny?” Dr. Clark asked.

“Because that’s a bad idea. I’m not a host. I’ve never done that,” Jordan said.

“But why couldn’t you? You’re beautiful, charming, tell it like it is. Why wouldn’t the public trust you?”

“They also have to like me. And I can be a bitch. Plus, with me out front as the face of the show, who would run it?” Dr. Clark cocked her head slightly as Jordan pointed to herself with both thumbs. “This bitch right here. That’s my comfort zone. That’s my expertise.”

Dr. Clark took a beat and then looked down at her pad to jot down a note. “Okay,” she said flatly. Jordan took a swig of water from her bottle. There was too much silence.

“Soooo…” She extended the word, filling the void between them.

Dr. Clark looked up from her writing pad. “Why did you forgo an opportunity to see your friends? Your godchildren?”

Jordan felt a slight pang of regret. “It wasn’t the purpose of the trip,” she explained.

“I wanted to get in and get out.” Jordan took a look at Dr. Clark, examining her face for judgment.

“And we had an appointment.” She gestured to Dr. Clark.

“You charge whether I’m here or not. And you know I don’t play with my money. ” Jordan laughed.

Dr. Clark nodded with a small smile in return before countering. “Strictly business,” Dr. Clark said.

“Yup.”

“Uh-huh.” Dr. Clark jotted something again. “And were you satisfied with the results?”

Not totally satisfied, Jordan thought. “Jury’s still out. I have some things to work out, some questions that need to be answered. Plus, Evelyn left me with an interesting challenge. I’ll find it.”

“Okay, then. And Harper?”

“Harper? What about Harper?”

“You said you received a text from him.”

“I did.” Jordan tried her best to sound nonchalant, but her body had become alert.

“Have you responded to him saying he’d be in town? Are you going to his book signing?”

Jordan frowned. “No, I haven’t responded. And no, I’m not going to his book signing?” She knew she sounded defensive.

“Why not?”

“It’s over at the Grove and I’m not fighting that traffic to and from the west side so I can be on Harper’s time.”

“You don’t want to see him,” Dr. Clark summarized declaratively.

Jordan searched herself for the truth of the answer. “No. I want to see him,” she corrected. “I mean, I don’t want to not see him. I want to. Yes, I want to. I just don’t want to be available…” Jordan tried to explain.

“Did you tell him this?”

“How would I…I mean, no, that would be…I don’t know…poor form?”

“So you’re ignoring him?”

Ignoring him? “I’m going to…I’m gonna respond. When I’m ready.” Jordan straightened up and adjusted her seated position.