2. The Things We Don’t Say #2
Trevor stood in the doorway long after the front door shut, water still running down the tile, wondering when love had started feeling like loss.
He didn’t want to lose the life he worked so hard for, but every day it felt like Katelyn was drifting past the point of no return.
She said that bruise was a burn mark, but he knew what a fuckin’ hickey looked liked.
It took an additional twenty minutes for Trevor to get out of his head and continue to get dressed for his meeting.
Later that afternoon, Trevor was parked in front of a sleek glass building in downtown Manhattan, a world away from the silence he had left behind. The mirrored doors of Studio 64 swung open, and a different kind of noise rushed him, this was where he was meant to be.
The conference room had floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the river that made the city look like a backdrop.
A row of framed festival posters lined one wall.
Someone had scattered multicolored sticky notes down the table like confetti.
A PA wheeled in a cart of drinks and a bowl of clementines.
Trevor set his camera bag on a chair and breathed.
Jackson already stood near the head of the table with Mackenzie by his side.
He wore paint on his hands like jewelry.
Mackenzie’s curls were even bigger now, coming to her waist; she was constantly checking a live view to see what Matthew and his nanny were up to.
They both looked like the version of happy that got earned.
“Bout time, lil bro,” Jackson said with a grin. “You look like hell.”
Trevor smirked and tugged his chair back, “Appreciate the warm welcome. ”
Jackson’s smile softened, eyes narrowing a little, “You good?”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah. Just a long morning.”
Jackson did not push. He only gave him a small nod that said everything without a word.
After a few moments the producers began to filter in.
Alicia, who handled budgets like a magician and never raised her voice.
Reed, the supervising producer with a documentary pedigree and a faded tattoo of a camera on his wrist. Laila from music supervision, gold hoops and a playlist for every mood.
Callie from locations, who smelled faintly of sunscreen all year and kept a binder of permits thicker than a dictionary.
Once everyone settled, Trevor stood and flipped open his notebook. His energy shifted instantly. The weight he carried at home fell away the second he started talking about the work.
“ Making Love: The Art of Us ,” he began. “This is not just a docuseries about art. It is about intimacy. How Black artists capture love in all its forms; romantic, familial, spiritual and communal.”
He paced slowly, his hands were loose and his eyes bright.
“I want the camera to feel like an extension of the artist. We open on a craft sequence before we hear their voice. I want to be able to hear the sound of brushstrokes, shutter clicks and charcoal dragging across toothy paper. I also want details such as fingertips pressing clay until it takes a breath. The audience should feel their passion before they understand it.”
Heads around the table began to lift. Someone set their pen down. The room grew quiet.
“Conversations happen in motion,” Trevor continued.
“We do not sit the artist in a sterile chair to interview them. We walk and talk in their studios. We will ride in the car to pick up supplies. We will cook dinner while we talk about the first time they fell in love. I want to capture the small things. The way an artist hums to themselves. The pause in thought before they take a risk. How silence can say more than words.”
He turned toward Jackson and Mackenzie, his expression softening.
“For you two, I want to show what collaboration looks like when love and art are the same language. Not a highlight reel. The raw stuff. I want to display the disagreements, the laughter and the parts where you cannot find the shape and then you do.”
He flipped a page, “Visual language. Warm light. Close-ups that humanize the person behind the art. We lean on natural sound and let music rise from the world. The city has music from so many unexpected sources. A saxophone through a window. The radiator ticking in a studio. The whisper of canvas when a hand drags across it..”
He paused and drew an arc in the air, “We need to have structure. Each episode anchors in one artist and the following question: What does devotion look like in your practice? Where do you put grief? How does the body know when a piece is finished? We intercut their answer with a thread from the work of another artist to keep the world connected. This series is a chorus, not a solo. I want to center all Black creatives. Painters, photographers, sculptors, filmmakers, singers, rappers, and poets. There is so much flow in Black love, and I want to show it in all facets and fonts.”
He stopped. He had not noticed how still the room had become. Every producer, every assistant, even Mackenzie sat with eyes fixed on him.
When he finally looked up, the silence caught him off guard.
Jackson broke it first, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Damn, Trev. You just sold me on our own story.”
Laughter rippled around the table, breaking the spell, but the energy lingered. Reed leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “We can schedule studio days around natural light to keep that warmth. I can get you a second camera for the walk and talks.”
Alicia nodded. “If we keep our company moves tight, we can afford the extra day with the sculptor and still get the rooftop sequence you spoke on.”
Laila tapped her notebook. “I already have a list of ambient tracks and a newbie drummer who builds soundscapes from breath.”
Callie slid a folder toward him. “Rooftops, loft spaces, a ceramics studio in Bed Stuy, and a Harlem brownstone that still has the original molding. Permits are not a problem if we lock by Friday.”
Trevor took a breath, his shoulders lowering slightly as he realized they had all been hanging on his every word. For the first time that day, the ache in his chest eased.
This was where he belonged. In creation. In vision. In purpose. Here, he could still believe in love.
They moved into logistics. Budget lines, hold dates, insurance. Trevor stayed precise and steady, but a lighter current ran under his voice. He could feel Jackson watching him in the in-betweens, not with worry now, but with pride.
When the meeting wrapped, chairs scraped back and the room dissolved into small knots of conversation. Mackenzie squeezed his arm on her way out. “Thank you for how you see us,” she said quietly.
He smiled. “You make it easy.”
Jackson lingered. “You want to walk out with me?”
They stepped into the hallway. Studio posters glowed in glass frames. A PA hustled past with a coil of cable around his neck. The elevator pinged and opened. Inside, it was just the two of them.
“You do not have to tell me anything,” Jackson said, voice filled with only the intuition an older brother would have. “I just want you to know I’m here. ”
Trevor stared at the brushed metal doors and let the words sit.
“She came home at nine this morning,” he said finally.
“Completely missed Zara’s first day. She apologized saying that the event wrapped so late she ended up staying in one of the company-sponsored hotel rooms. At first, I accepted that explanation.
Then...then while we were having sex, I saw a hickey on her neck.
She said it was a small burn from curling her hair.
Come on J, I’m not an idiot. Fine, I let that go, then she gets a text and starts moving like the house is on fire which pissed me off.
Who the fuck has her moving like this? I said something I should not have.
I don’t know if I meant it or if I’m just tired of pretending.
I just want my wife back, man. It feels like I’m in a losing game. ”
Jackson nodded. “Being fed up will make you say the truth in a way that sounds like a weapon. But it is the truth, nonetheless. I don’t like this Trev.
I’m gonna be honest, this past year, it’s like you’ve been a shell of yourself when it comes to anything outside of dealing with Zara.
You don’t deserve that. You’re a good man who should have a good woman by his side.
I don’t want you getting lost in Katelyn, if it’s the end, it’s the end. ”
Trevor huffed feeling his eyes pool with tears, an emotion that he didn’t want to show.
“That’s the thing, J. I don’t want it to be the end.
I want my little girl to have the mother back that looked at her like she was the moon.
I want the woman back that promised to love me forever.
There is this ache in my chest that won’t go away.
I thought today was going to be a step in the right direction, but then…
I saw that mark…I–I don’t know what to do. ”
Jackson let out a deep sigh in response.
It pained him to see his little brother hurting this way.
Trevor had always had a special place in his heart, being the baby of the family.
The man standing in front of him was broken, and that made him want to go to war.
Unfortunately, this was not a battle he could shield his little brother from, and that shit? Hurt as much as a dagger to the heart.
“You take this one day at a time. You’re not going to have all the answers, Trev.
But I want you to remember that you are a Porter man and that you can and will overcome this.
If Katelyn gets left behind it's because she doesn’t deserve you.
And if she doesn’t get better with Zara, you make sure to make that decision as her father, that she never goes without, okay?
If you need to cry, you know I’m here, Angelou and Dad are too. You are not alone.”