1. What Silence Sounds Like
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT SILENCE SOUNDS LIKE
PRESENT DAY:
T he alarm buzzed at six a.m., stubborn and shrill, dragging Trevor out of the kind of sleep that never really rested him. He slapped at the nightstand until it went quiet and lay still for a moment, eyes on the ceiling.
Automatically, his hand reached across the bed.
Cold sheets.
Her side of the bed was empty. Again.
Trevor sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face.
Katelyn had not come home last night. The silence of their bedroom had become a familiar kind of ache, the kind that dulled over time but never disappeared.
He told himself not to look at the clock, not to imagine what she was doing, or who she was doing it with.
Those thoughts would unravel him, and he could not afford that.
Not today. It was Zara’s first day of second grade.
Trevor had hoped that Katelyn would have enough sense to come home and see their daughter off.
That thought now, in the quiet of their room, seemed stupid.
He did not know when they had gotten to this point.
Katelyn was the love of his life, but as of late, he was questioning whether it was ever truly love.
That thought made his heart drop. That couldn’t be the case.
He had been with Katelyn for so long that this recent distance felt like losing a limb.
They had been together through all their milestones in life: graduating high school, first baby, first job, graduating college.
This newfound distance was tearing him apart.
Some days he wanted to just walk away and start over with Zara but most days—every day—he wanted to convince his wife to come home.
He wanted to convince her to love him again, to be his again.
It couldn’t be too late, but as the silence danced around him—he felt like it was.
Trevor’s gaze continued to drift around the cold room until they landed on his worn leather binder, a gift from his late mother, sitting open on his desk. Pages of scribbled notes, shot lists, and drafts spilled out of it. Proof of how far he had come in his craft.
At twenty-six, Trevor Porter was no longer just Della’s youngest boy, or the cocky kid people thought would coast on his brothers’ shine.
As the youngest, he always felt a need to prove that he had the same grit and talent as his older brothers, so he worked extremely hard to achieve his goals.
Even as a teen parent, he made sure not to slack off when it came to learning cinematography.
Nearly a decade had passed since he first dreamed of telling stories that looked like his own life.
Black love in all its complicated, beautiful, tender forms. And he had done it.
His debut feature, A Sunday Kind of Love , a romance as delicate and raw as anything he had ever felt, had premiered at Sundance a year prior.
Then at the Martha’s Vineyard African American Film Festival, where he had stood in the back of a packed theater while strangers wiped their eyes and applauded.
The critics compared it to the Netflix hit movie Really Love .
For the first time, Trevor felt seen as an artist, not just the youngest Porter brother.
A Sunday Kind of Love opened doors for him.
Suddenly execs were interested in what he had to say and what other stories he wanted to create.
And thanks to Jackson’s persistence and Mackenzie’s faith, Netflix came knocking.
Making Love: The Art of Us was his now. A docuseries that blended art and intimacy, with Jackson and Mackenzie at its heart.
He would be showcasing the passion of Black creatives across the world and how their work translates into what love means to them.
His name was on contracts that once felt impossible, his seat at the table undeniable.
He could not wait to begin. He was building his future at a fast pace.
But as his career soared, Katelyn had slipped further and further away.
It started two and a half years ago when she landed a position as an executive assistant at Whitmore Global Holdings, one of those slick Manhattan private equity firms that thrived on long hours and endless coffee.
At first, Trevor had been proud. Katelyn wanted something for herself outside of being a mom and wife, and he supported her.
He could tell not having something to call her own was taking a toll on her happiness.
He was the one to suggest she go to work and sent her the link to apply to her current job.
He remembered her excitement and them making love for hours that day in celebration of her fresh start, of their fresh start.
That all seemed like a distant dream. Soon Katelyn was having late nights at work.
Then the late nights turned into missed dinners for client events.
The client events turned into skipped school plays.
Birthdays, teacher conferences and bedtime stories.
Things that once lit her up became obligations she brushed off.
The girl who used to sit across from him quizzing flashcards for film school while he rocked Zara to sleep was now coming home at three in the morning, if at all.
At first, she promised it was temporary.
Just until I prove myself , she had said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek on her way out the door.
Months passed, then a year, and instead of easing up, it got worse.
The job gave her an out. A new world. And Trevor was beginning to realize she did not want to come back from it.
This couldn’t be it because Katelyn was the love of his life, he had to fix it. He had to-
The alarm buzzed again, snapping him from his thoughts and preventing him from spiraling. He sat in the quiet for another long moment, reaching for a woman who no longer came home.
He sent a text to Katelyn with just three question marks. Her response was almost instantaneous:
Long night. Be home soon. Love you.
Trevor wondered when his significance in her life dwindled down to seven word responses. His chest burned at the realization.
A soft knock broke the silence.
“Daddy?”
The door creaked open, and Zara padded in barefoot, bonnet bouncing, her stuffed brown bunny—Lola—dangling from her hand. She climbed onto the bed with all the determination in her little body and landed in his lap .
“Today is the first day of school,” she announced, grinning wide, the gap where her baby tooth had been only making her smile brighter.
Trevor wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Yes it is a big day! You’re going to Kindergarten, right?”
She pulled back, eyes gleaming. “No, Silly! Second grade.”
“That’s right! How could Daddy forget,” he said. “Are you ready for it?”
“I’m always ready, Daddy.” She hesitated, then tilted her head. “Where is Mommy?”
The question cut deeper than any alarm clock ever could. Trevor smoothed a hand over her braids, careful with his words. “Mommy had to work early, baby. She left before we woke up this morning. But I’m here. And I’m walking you in.”
Zara studied him for a moment, then nodded like that was enough. “Okay. But she better come next time.”
Trevor’s throat tightened, but he forced a smile. “Yeah. Next time. Let’s get you ready for your big day!”
An hour later, the kitchen smelled like butter and syrup as Trevor flipped pancakes at the stove, his curls pulled up into a high bun. He moved around the kitchen in sweats and a T-shirt, tattoos brushing the edges of his collar, while Zara sat at the counter in her new uniform.
The white polo was tucked neatly into a navy pleated skirt, her sandy brown braids tied back with pink ribbons that matched the shiny new backpack swinging from the back of her stool.
Her socks were bunched just above her shoes, and despite Trevor’s attempt at neatness, she already had a smear of syrup on her collar, but she did not care.
Zara glowed, cheeks full of pancakes, legs swinging to a rhythm only she knew.
Trevor leaned on the counter and watched her.
The light sneaked through the blinds and cut soft stripes across the room.
In it, the warmth of her skin looked golden.
That was the one thing Zara got from him, her complexion.
Everything else was all Katelyn down to the slightly crooked big toe they had.
Trevor loved that. He glanced over to the floor mirror and took in his reflection.
Almond brown skin, burnished at the cheekbones, golden at the temples.
His beard was lined neat, his mouth framed by the dimples he had been cursed and blessed with since birth.
His neck tattoo showing—Zara, inked along the line of his pulse.
It was his eyes that gave him pause, they looked tired.
He looked tired. He wished that he could say it was due to his busy schedule, but Trevor wouldn’t lie to himself.
It was because he needed his wife and she wanted to be everywhere but with him. That’s what hurt the most.
Snapping out of his haze, he plated more pancakes and slid the maple syrup toward Zara on the counter. He immediately regretted that decision but was going to stand beside it.
“Alright, baby. Syrup responsibility is on you, take it slowly. No more getting it on your clothes”
Zara nodded at his words but then proceeded to pour the syrup like a contractor laying concrete, heavy-handed. “Oops,” she stated when syrup ran on her hand.
“Controlled pour, madam.”
She giggled and licked a spot off her knuckle.
Then she continued humming, a little off-key rendition of whatever song had crawled into her head from a cartoon or a TikTok dance he did not know.
The sound filled the house with something that felt like mercy.
Triggering him to remember a time when life was full of light.