Page 26 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Jordan took a slow sip of her pistachio latte, savoring the warm nutty flavor as she considered the words of her note.

Thank you for your time this week and your interest. If I can answer anything else that can help you make your decision I’m on the other end of the phone…

. She typed out each of the words knowing she’d delete them later.

Her mind wasn’t as focused as usual; her appointments with Dr. Clark were always provocative, but this last one had opened a door she couldn’t seem to shut.

She still felt raw and exposed and unfinished.

Don’t sound desperate or needy, Jordan, she thought as she deleted each of the words she’d just entered into the white body of an email.

You hated seeing emails like that unless there was a true connection.

These days, she was avoiding feeling like she had to be busy.

And she really needed to think through her next steps on this show idea before she sent any kind of follow-ups.

Evelyn had given her the strongest feedback she’d received out of all her meetings—that she needed to find on-camera talent with a story in order to package the show.

Who else had her story and was still in front of the camera?

She’d been the one to walk away, to leave it all behind in the name of self-care.

Who was available who’d both maintained their brand in front of the camera and also walked away? Wasn’t that a contradiction?

Taking another sip of her drink, she decided to shift focus to her bread-and-butter clients, the projects that were easy for her, consulting work that she’d accepted just because they’d practically begged her to give a few hours out of her schedule.

She weighed in on what Horizon Pictures needed for their marketing rollout.

She sent her notes on KTLA’s new midmorning format and their new anchor.

She also scheduled her panel appearance at the Aspen Institute.

They were paying for all arrangements and offering a ten-thousand-dollar honorarium.

Ten grand for a forty-five-minute panel and an opportunity to ski?

Hell yeah. Way to use other people’s money, J, she thought.

It would be nice to take a trip like that with somebody.

The girls’ trips had been fun, a good silly time in the Caribbean and Mediterranean.

A group of good-looking, successful Black women always turned heads on vacation.

Lots of photos in expensive sunglasses and thirst trap social media posts.

Ass shaking and twerking under a waterfall or against a railing over the ocean somewhere.

That female love and energy was great, but sometimes a sistah needed some consistent male companionship, something real.

Some good dick with good credit and emotional intelligence.

It was exactly that kind of male companionship that was in short supply in Los Angeles.

Especially the Black kind. Jordan had met men online leading to a couple dates, and met a few dudes in yoga class and at the gym, but they were mostly full of shit.

She kept her options open, and needed to.

And the sex? The sex she’d been having ran the gamut from great to terrible.

None warranted an encore. Thank goodness for toys and online porn.

Those would have to suffice until she found someone in flesh and blood who stimulated her mind and spirit as well as her clitoris.

Who even knew to stimulate her clitoris.

Sigh. Today’s discussion with Dr. Clark was forcing her to think about companionship.

Was that her answer to What do you want?

It’d be nice to travel with someone, hold hands, snuggle, laugh, wake up with coffee and morning sex.

Was that too much to ask? Jordan stretched.

The combination of the direct sunlight and the caffeine was having canceling effects on her productivity, so it was time to stand and head into the next part of her day.

And just as Jordan was pulling out some tip money, a nice-looking brother passed by with a smile and a “Morning, sis” greeting.

“Hey,” Jordan returned succinctly with a measured smile of her own behind her sunglasses.

She’d spotted him walking up from a distance when he parked his Lexus coupe at a meter on Main Street.

He was probably in his forties, easily six foot four, dark chocolate with a head of curly hair that was tapered on the sides and back.

He was definitely cute. Eligible brothers were a rarity in LA so Jordan took a beat to scrutinize him further.

There was no ring on his finger, and his tall and athletic frame was dressed nicely in some close-fitting joggers and a half-zip top.

Probably coming from working out, Jordan thought, peeping him over the top of her shades.

Does he live out here in Santa Monica? Is he in the entertainment space?

Does he work for the Rams? Or the Dodgers?

Clippers? Maybe he’s in tech…It’s possible.

It was automatic, trying to figure out who this Black man was, trying to place him, just like white folks did to her and her girlfriends.

It’s different when we do it, Jordan rationalized.

But how different was it? Blackness in white spaces did conjure up thoughts of “Who are they?” and “They must be exceptional Negroes.” Sigh.

I hate that about us. Why can’t we be normal AND exceptional and not the exception, Jordan wondered.

Jordan decided to extend her stay a little longer and adjusted her seat to subtly get a better look at dude.

Nice ass, she thought, starting to imagine how they might strike up a conversation when he returned to the table he’d scoped out.

He stepped inside to the order line, snaked his way toward the front, right behind a white girl with a fake ass.

She turned around, thrilled to see him, as he pinched the sides of her waist. And as the woman preened and swayed her dark flowing hair with all the privilege it conveyed along the pronounced ridge of her ballooned backside, Jordan’s hope deflated.

“Aww hell,” Jordan said loud enough that her neighbors looked up at her with concern.

“Nothing, I—nothing…” Jordan shook her head quickly to assuage any fear.

It would take another Black woman to understand that shit, and these people weren’t that, not sitting midday in Santa Monica.

She added one folded dollar to the three singles under her coffee cup and raised herself up from the wrought iron metal seat.

She took a final look at the brotha, who by then had turned his girl into a mess of giggles in cute cuddle mode.

And she was eating it up. With twisted lips and a head shake, Jordan did a one-eighty and headed down Main Street. Niggas …

Jordan shook her head as she approached her BMW. They can have them bitches. In fairness Jordan had no clue whether the white woman the brother chose was cool or not. Hell, she might be. And?! Fuck that. Fuck her. Fuck him. She let the top of her convertible down and pressed start on the ignition.

Jordan pulled onto Ocean Avenue and rode down to merge with the flow of traffic emptying onto the coastline-hugging Pacific Coast Highway.

Eager beachgoers and sightseers sped up the coast trying to take advantage of the picturesque stretch of road.

The view was beautiful and would always be, even now with the scars on the land serving as a constant reminder of how fortunate she’d been.

All Jordan wanted to do was get back to Malibu, to her place.

She checked her reflection from behind her designer sunglasses in the rearview.

She was still looking good—hair flowing in the wind, great skin, no lines.

And how could she not? She hiked three days a week, did Pilates, strength training with a personal trainer, drank nearly a gallon of water daily, and got regular massages—everything was paying dividends.

Her skin was clear, she slept well, and she was in the best shape of her life.

Self-care …Jordan shook her head. “Bitch, you have come a long way,” she said into the wind.

But who was Jordan fooling? This life of self-care and leisure was nice, but her industry still owed her.

And if she wanted to move her show forward, she’d need to figure out the missing puzzle piece, a host…

someone to sell her story. Dr. Clark intimated that she’d possibly be the right fit, as if she’d even considered hosting…

with no experience? “Hah!” Jordan exclaimed as Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us” cranked through her Beemer’s sound system.

“I can’t do that shit. That’s not for me.

” But neither was therapy or self-care or edibles the one time she tried them.

At the end of a gorgeous twenty-minute drive, Jordan approached her fabulous beachfront Malibu home.

If Jordan Armstrong was going to do LA, she was for sure going to do it right.

She had earned it (and a whole lot more).

She pulled into her side of the two-car garage, leaving the other side unoccupied, as it always was.

She put her car in park, grabbed her phone, and looked again at Harper’s “carefully crafted” text message.

Still unanswered. If you’re free… it said.

Really? Still nope. Jordan looked at her reflection again in the rearview.

She wanted to be chosen, just like she’d said to Dr. Clark.