Page 53 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Thirty-one

Jordan

Even before Harper’s plane took off for Ghana, Jordan had already scheduled a follow-up meeting with Evelyn.

As he was saying the words that she’d heard him say so many other times, that he’s “gotta go”—words he’d said to and about the other women he’d left when things got too intimate—she already knew she’d need something on the other side of the fathomless gulf of his absence.

He’d been in her bed, in her mind, in her skin, in her heart.

She’d foolishly allowed him to have all of her, all of her, and still, she’d passed through his heart like an open net.

Harper didn’t want to be in love. He wanted to be admired.

She’d made it too easy for him, broken her rules, and that was her mistake.

Mistakes could be corrected, however, and while she had given Harper her heart, he had given her one thing in return that he couldn’t take back.

Not his love or his devotion. She didn’t need that.

Harper had helped her understand that she had a story.

And with that story, she had a voice. She was supposed to be the host of her show.

That’s how it would sell. And so, the piece of Harper that she had remaining, the piece of herself that he’d given her, the key to her next chapter, she was going to hold on to that, because she’d never be able to hold on to him.

So who had time to cry, to think, to wallow when she had a new pitch to finalize? Evelyn fortuitously had Los Angeles on her travel calendar, giving Jordan just forty-eight hours to prepare, to turn her focus entirely on herself and make the worker bee she’d been into the queen.

Today, the honeybees were abuzz in the bedroom suite of Jordan’s Malibu home.

Typically by midmorning, her resting quarters and dressing space were a place of relaxation, offering a perfect view out of a wall of glass onto the glory of the ocean’s undulations in the distance.

But today was not a day for rest because Jordan Motherfucking Armstrong was back.

In just hours she would dazzle Evelyn during an otherwise impossible-to-get face-to-face television network meeting.

Over crudités and spinach dip, she’d unlock the door that had been blocking her future.

She was clear on it. Her show idea was brilliant.

She just needed a new way to bring it to life—not behind the camera this time, but in front of it.

That realization was the eureka! moment, from a flood of insight that had crystallized all at once, and Jordan wasted no time in acting uponit.

“How about this option, Jordan?” Reese, her stylist, was holding up a hanging concoction of a draped silk color-block dress and suede boots with a dose of fringe on the side.

“Who’s the designer?” Jordan inquired.

Without hesitation, or looking at a single tag, Reese flipped her ponytail of locs and replied in rapid staccato, “Dress is Gucci, boots Ferragamo. Bag for this look…I’m thinking the Bottega.”

“Hmm…” Jordan contemplated. “I like the dress, but we need something different for the accessories. No boots. Something higher on the heel, sexy. I want all eyes on me, Reese.”

“Ummm, okaaayyy, Miss Jordan,” Kai, Jordan’s hairstylist, purred from behind her.

A tendril of hair was in Kai’s hand, ready to meet the flat iron for a perfect ribbon curl.

That hair was going to walk its own runway when Jordan entered her meeting.

Kai knew exactly how to make sure of that.

And Jordan knew how to command attention, to hit the exact right professional note.

She was suited for this, the queen bee amid a flurry of attention.

She had no time to think, which was perfect, given Harper’s many half-assed attempts to contact her.

A waste of time, she thought, remembering the text messages and the email she’d received.

Or maybe it was emails? She saw them all come in, but read none of them, even though, at moments it was tempting.

But Harper was a man of many words, convincing words, words he shared with the world.

What she wanted was the part of him that was hers and hers alone.

The part of him she didn’t have to share because he wouldn’t leave her when she most needed him to stay.

When she’d asked. Pathetic. She pushed the memory out of her mind.

Jordan felt hands patting around the top of her hair, finger styling the silky curls as they turned into flowing waves almost magically in Kai’s hands. “You betta be going out with somebody’s son after this,” Kai said. “You look like a million dollars, Miss Hunty.”

“A billion dollars, boo,” Tanisha corrected, approaching with a feathered eyelash pinched between tweezers.

“And once I put on this three-comma-red lip, Ms. Jordan Armstrong is going to be in full effect. Watch out, Oprah!” The room broke out in easy laughter, and Jordan let herself relax into the expert finishing touches on her look for the day.

This was comfortable, a foreshadowing of what life would be like, her new life, as a television host of her own show.

So many times she’d created platforms for others, propulsion systems for stars to form and shine, and left behind a legacy of brilliant choices and tastemaking storytelling.

Only now, the story she’d tell would be her own.

And with it, she’d tell the story of millions of other women, millions of her sisters in culture, Black women who needed to truly have it all, and not just by counting their net worth.

She’d usher in a new era of happiness, of health and wholeness, with new definitions.

And she’d start right here, with moving on in epic leveling-up fashion.

“You know I saw you at the Bowl for the Isley Brothers with a bald-headed zaddy who looked expensive, gurl. Tell me you didn’t throw that catch back, because he was foine foine.”

Jordan tried not to move her head, even though it threatened to move on its own, to physically shake the thought of Harper out of her mind. No, hell, no, she thought.

“That…was…just…a friend. A friend from college,” she said very matter-of-factly.

“If you say so, hunty!” Kai shrieked, and the room broke out again in laughs.

Jordan remained tight-lipped and thankful for the makeup application.

She didn’t want to miss a single comma of that so-called three-comma-red lip Tanisha was applying.

And it was good cover. She didn’t want her face to show a thing, especially not letting on to her moment of atypical foolishness, thinking stupidly that an old dog, a fifty-year-old dog, could learn new tricks.

And so what about those calls, and voicemails, and whatever long assed email that was sitting in her inbox?

Distractions, she thought and forced herself to refocus.

That’s right, Jordan, keep your mind clear and centered on the one thing that matters.

This meeting with Evelyn was her real second chance.

Harper’s doing his thing…cool. No hard feelings because I’m gonna do mine.

Not on some silly memoir shit, a book that nobody wants to read.

Think pieces and podcasts are for amateurs.

Shelby was right: I can be a household name overnight.

It’s not hard. Her modest social media presence was deliberate.

Once she ignited the right team, people would know Jordan Motherfucking Armstrong and all her accomplishments in an instant.

I’m going straight to broadcast. My message in millions of homes, my face, my words, my voice.

I’ll leave the books to Harper and leave Harper… alone.

“That’s it, babe. You’re all set.” Tanisha’s voice was Jordan’s cue to open her eyes.

All the hands around her had stopped their flurry.

She looked in the mirror and blinked, seeing the image of perfectly laid ebony beach waves against her shoulders.

Immaculate contouring on flawless brown skin.

The perfect slant to eyes set under a careful fringe of lashes.

And yes, Tanisha had applied a money-making boss-bitch pouty red on her mouth with showstopping expertise.

“Perfect,” Jordan said, pushing herself out of her chair to slip on the dress waiting for her. All Jordan could see was her name on the show marquee while her stomach roiled with an equal mix of excitement and fear.