1. Planting seeds #2
Her blouse may have been working overtime to hide the sweat, but Spring herself? Calm, settled in a way that made her feel almost untouchable. Almost .
Today’s board meeting wasn’t routine, it was evaluative.
Official on paper, but charged beneath the surface.
TLC operated under a larger distribution umbrella, and when talent started to break through, their parent company paid attention.
Whispers on the floor suggested that Universal Pictures had been quietly watching her films, possibly to poach.
There were other murmurs, too – about a high-profile production company founded by a former First Family building its next documentary slate. Nothing had been confirmed, but her name was being mentioned in rooms it hadn’t before.
Now, with Universal Pictures in quiet orbit, the stakes were higher, but the signal was the same.
After a spell, she exhaled, decision settling in. “Damn it. You’re right, this ain’t it. I need another version of this,” she muttered. “With less performance. Less self-mythology. Just... truth.”
Rae crossed her legs, like judgment was spiritual. “Spring, you’re literally producing a documentary about the legacy of the Black voice and you want it without self-mythology?”
“I want it without staged pain. I want raw, but sacred. Not market-tested trauma porn.”
Rae nodded, faux-sincere. “Oh, like a shot of James Baldwin in a rented shotgun house, lit like an Apple ad. Got it.”
Spring turned, finally grinning. “You get on my damn nerves.”
“And yet I’m still here.”
“Yeah, like a fibroid.”
Before Rae could respond, the door to the conference room swung open like bad news. In walked a man in a blue shirt, badge on the hip, manila envelope in hand. Not the worst outfit in the building, but close.
“Nairobi Greene?” he asked.
Confused, she glanced at him to respond. Her entire bloodstream stiffened. “That’s me, how can I help you?”
He handed her the envelope as if it weighed nothing. “You’ve been served. Have a good one.”
He walked out as casually as he came in, leaving behind the scent of photocopied disappointment and government authority.
The room was quiet.
Rae blinked. “Tell me that was a meter maid with an attitude and you just got a shit ton of unpaid parking tickets.”
Spring took a deep sigh, already knowing what she would see in the envelope. “Nope, divorce papers.”
“Oh, baby,” Rae sighed.
Spring sat down too hard, her bones betraying her cool. She looked at the envelope as if it had whispered something disrespectful to her.
Rae folded her arms but her hands kept moving, shaping air like she could rewrite the moment if she tried hard enough. Spring knew what she wanted to say but didn’t. I told you to file last month.
Picking up on her best friend’s energy, Spring preemptively cut to the chase. “I know what you’re gonna say, and I was gonna file this week,” Spring said. “I was literally planning to walk in to Legal and–”
“Well, now you don’t have to worry about any of it,” Rae said gently.
“Fuck, I don’t have time for this now.”
“I know, baby, but you’re gonna have to make time, because avoiding it is what got that man up at your job right now. And one thing you definitely don’t have time for is these people all in your business.”
Spring stared at the paused documentary frame on her laptop, at the boy's eyes. She knew her friend was right, about everything. “Fuck!” she muttered as she pulled out her phone and dialed Julian Greene.
The phone rang twice to no avail. On the third ring, a familiar voice picked up the phone. “She lives and breathes.”
“You sent a processor to my job, Julian?”
“Hello, my bride, good to hear from you too. So you are alive.”
“Cut the shit, J. Did you or did you not send these papers to my job?”
“I did not. I sent papers to your apartment. Twice. Texted you both times to let you know in advance they were coming. The last time we talked on the phone I told you that I was going to send them.”
“And I said I would get back to you after I was done with this presentation.”
“You said those same words six weeks ago. In fact, you’ve been saying it for the past six months.
After a couple of months, it starts to look like avoidance, which is odd considering we haven’t been together in over a year.
My lawyer decided to send them to the place we should have sent them in the first place: your real home. ”
“That is so messed up, J. I have the most critical meeting I’ve had in my entire career in the next conference room, and five minutes before, a processor is in my office. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?”
“I can imagine, luckily, that’s not my problem anymore, but I can promise you it’s not as embarrassing as your date asking if you’re married because she’s seen your wife on social media, and you’re explaining that you still being married is a technicality because your would-be ex-wife is in Honduras shooting a documentary on Afro-Latin Calypso dancing and doesn’t have time to sign the damn paperwork. ”
“That’s not fair, J, this meeting is extremely important?—”
“Every meeting is important, Nairobi. You always have the ‘most critical meeting you’ve ever had’.
That’s kind of the point – you’re so busy at work you don’t have time for a husband.
And that’s fine. I’m not gonna stop you.
But you don’t get to hold my life hostage while you make time for every little aspect of work. ”
“J, you’re being an ass. I was about to file?—”
“You said that six months ago. Three months before that you couldn't because were doing a documentary on the unsung heroes of jazz and for some reason had to travel to Brazil. I sit here with my life on hold, waiting like a puppy dog for you, because somewhere in the back of my mind I thought maybe there was a sliver of something in this marriage you wanted to fight for. It took a while to realize you just didn’t have time to sign the damn paperwork. I’m not doing that anymore,” he said, his voice rising just enough to push her shoulders back.
The phone went silent for a minute. Finally, Julian said, “Look, Nairobi, we both agreed divorce was best, and for a year I’ve been patient. That patience is gone. You didn’t answer the first two notices, so your sacred job is fair play before you ghost again.”
Spring blinked, heat rushing up her spine. “So that’s what you see me as? A ghost?”
“You’re motherfucking Casper. There is no question that you are a smart, beautiful, ambitious woman. But you’re gone all the time. For every conversation, every dinner, every 'how was your day, babe?' You don’t get to be mad that I made your absence legal.”
“Oh, I get to be mad, Julian. I get to be mad that you made a private thing public in the middle of my damn workday.”
He laughed, bitter. “This is exactly why we didn’t work. Every moment of inconvenience to your schedule is a tragedy, but living inside the fallout of your dreams? That was supposed to be love.”
Spring stood up so fast her chair squealed. He was right and she knew it.
Even holding the paperwork while on the phone with a man she knew still loved her, she felt none of the anger or rage of the marriage – her mind was back to figuring out how to tweak the documentary.
Across the room, Rae looked up, then discreetly reached over to put the projector on standby before heading over to the coffee pot, bringing Spring back to reality.
Somberly, she exhaled a breath. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Julian,” Spring said, her voice tight with angst.
“And I wasn’t trying to be somebody else’s placeholder, but here we are. Look, I’m not mad. I’m not bitter. But I am done waiting for you to process what we both already know.”
“And what’s that?”
“We don’t work, Nairobi. Not as lovers. Not as partners. Not even as paperwork.”
She was about to respond when someone knocked on the glass door. One of the producers. Her cue.
She held the phone tighter. “J, I have to go.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“No need.” He sounded tired now, too tired to fight. “We’re back to square one, right? Just sign and I’ll send a courier over. Goodbye, Nairobi.”
Click .
Spring sat down hard, feeling the weight of her broken marriage, but it was not nearly as heavy as the burden of the project she needed to be locked in for.
Rae stood and walked over, silently, placing a chai latte in front of her, an upgrade from the Ethiopian blend they’d been nursing. “Emergency ration,” she said softly.
This wasn’t the first time Rae had watched Spring be gutted in real-time.
The last time was over a failed grant, and the one before after a big fight with her father.
Spring trusted Rae the way you trust someone who’s seen your inbox, your breakdown, and your bank account – unflinchingly.
She was glad Rae was there, and they both knew she wasn’t in the mood for coffee anymore, so she didn’t drink it.
She just stared at the still image on the projector.
The boy’s face.
Her own reflection in the glass.
The envelope on the table. Then finally at the chai latte.
"I don’t have time for this shit," she whispered, pushing her chair back like it had betrayed her. She pointlessly smoothed the front of her blouse, since it was already wrinkled with stress, and walked toward the conference room doors with the posture of someone heading into war.
Rae didn’t speak. Just handed her a flash drive and murmured, “Don’t let them smell blood.”
Spring nodded. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“No, but I have to be.”
Rae stopped dead, looked her up and down, then sucked her teeth. “Oh no. Baby. That blouse is sweatier than a virgin on prom night. We not doing this.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded blouse like a magician revealing a trick.
“Here. Backup. Because I knew you were gonna be out here fighting for your life.”
Spring laughed, breathy, already taking it.
“And before you start walking away,” Rae said, blocking her path with a finger. “Do you need a tampon? Because history says yes. History says you forget every single time.”
“I’m good,” Spring said. “It hasn’t started yet.”
Rae froze. Slowly tilted her head. “‘Yet’ is not the comfort you think it is. It’s sad that I have to track your cycle better than my credit score. I’m putting one in your purse.”
Spring snorted despite herself and slipped down the hallway.
The thought of better times with Julian slipped in without warning. She wondered how something solid could fall apart without a single dramatic moment. Why she wasn’t more upset. Why relief had arrived before grief.
So why hadn’t she signed the papers?
That answer would have to wait. Her board meeting was about to begin.