Chapter 2: The Uninvited Guest
The silence of the house had become a tangible thing over the past two days. It wasn’t empty; it was thick, a protective layer spun from quiet hours and drawn curtains. Michael had barely left the guest suite, a sprawling room with its own bathroom and a small sitting area that overlooked the canyon. He’d asked Rami for a notebook. The piano in the den remained untouched, but sometimes, in the deep of the night, Rami would hear the faint, frustrated scribble of a pen, pages being torn, then more scribbling.
On the third evening, Rami knocked lightly on the doorframe. Michael was perched on the edge of an armchair, staring at a blank page. A cold cup of tea sat beside him.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a theorem,” Rami said, leaning against the doorjamb.
Michael glanced up, a faint smile touching his lips. “Trying to remember what quiet feels like in my bones. So I can write about it. It’s harder than it sounds.”
“Come eat. I made pasta. It’s basically the only thing I can make that doesn’t constitute a biohazard.”
The simple domesticity of it—steam rising from a bowl of fettuccine, the clink of forks, the mundane debate over whether there was enough Parmesan—was a strange, healing balm. They were in the kitchen, the lights low, when the first knock came.
It wasn’t timid. It was a solid, demanding bang bang bang on the front door.
Michael froze, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. His eyes, which had begun to lose their hunted look, instantly widened, reflecting the overhead pendant light like an animal caught in a beam.
Rami stood slowly, placing his napkin on the counter. “It’s probably a delivery. I’ll get it.”
“At nine-thirty?” Michael’s voice was a thin wire.
Bang bang BANG.
“Rami! I know you’re in there, man. Open up. We need to talk.” The voice from the other side of the door was male, strained, slurring just enough to signal it was fueled by something stronger than courage.
Rami’s blood went cold. He knew that voice. He shot a look at Michael, whose face had drained of all color. He put a finger to his lips and pointed sharply toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Michael didn’t need telling twice. He moved with a sudden, soundless grace, vanishing from the kitchen stool and into the shadowed corridor, his meal abandoned.
The pounding resumed. “Come on, don’t be like that!”
Rami walked to the door, his mind racing. He didn’t open it. He spoke through the solid wood. “Jacob. It’s late. You need to go.”
A bitter laugh. “Yeah, it’s late. Funny how things come to light late at night, isn’t it? Open the door, Rami. I’m not asking again.”
“You’re drunk. Go home.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m enlightened.” The handle jiggled violently. “A little birdie at the gates told me they saw a very distinctive car slipping through last night. A car I helped pick out. Now, why would Michael be visiting you, Rami? Why wouldn’t he call me?”
Rami leaned his forehead against the cool door. This was the breach. The one thing he hadn’t fully accounted for—the human, petty, jealous variable named Jacob Elordi. Michael had mentioned the breakup months ago, called it “complicated, but necessary.” Jacob had not agreed with the assessment.
“He’s not here, Jacob. You’re causing a scene.”
“I’ll cause a bigger one on TMZ tomorrow! You think I’m playing? Open. The. Door.”
The threat hung in the air, ugly and real. Rami calculated. A shouting match on the doorstep was more visible than letting him in. He disengaged the lock and opened the door a foot, blocking the gap with his body.
Jacob looked like charm that had been left out in the rain. He was still handsome in a rough-hewn way, but his eyes were red-rimmed and his shirt was untucked. He reeked of bourbon and cigars.
“See?” Jacob said, trying to peer past Rami’s shoulder. “Civil.”
“You have thirty seconds.”
“Where is he?” Jacob’s voice dropped, losing its performative anger for something more pathetic and raw. “I just need to see him. I need to talk to him.”
“He’s not here. And even if he was, after this? You think this is the way?”
“The way?” Jacob snorted, leaning in. “You don’t get it. He needs me. Not you. You’re just… hiding him. I understand him. I love him. And he’s in my blood, Rami.” He pressed a hand to his own chest. “This isn’t some actorly solidarity thing for you. This is real for me.”
“What’s real is you showing up drunk at my home, threatening to go to the press. That’s not love. That’s possession. And it’s toxic as hell.” Rami kept his voice low, even. “You need to leave. Now.”
Jacob’s face crumpled, then hardened again. He shoved against the door, but Rami held firm. “You tell him,” Jacob hissed, spittle catching the light. “You tell him I came. You tell him this isn’t over. He doesn’t get to just disappear into your fancy hidey-hole. The world’s looking for him. And maybe,” he took a staggering step back, his voice rising to a shout meant to carry, “maybe I’ll just tell them where to look!”
He turned and stumbled down the pathway towards his car, a sleek, angry thing parked haphazardly at the curb.
Rami shut the door, locked it, and rested his back against it. His heart hammered against his ribs. The sanctuary had been violated. The quiet was now just a pause.
He found Michael in the den, not hiding, but standing in the dark before the out-of-tune piano, his hands resting on the closed lid. He was staring out the black glass, which now reflected the room’s interior like a dark mirror.
“You heard,” Rami said. It wasn’t a question.
“He’s in pain,” Michael whispered, still looking at the reflection.
“He’s dangerous.”
“I know.” Michael finally turned. In the dim light, he looked more resolved than afraid. The initial shock had metabolized into something colder. “He won’t go to the press. Not really. It would hurt him, too. He’d be the villain in his own story. But he’ll do something else. Something to force contact.”
“We need to move you.”
“Where?” A helpless gesture of his hands, pale in the darkness. “Another friend’s house? A hotel? He’ll find a way. He always does. He has that… relentless energy.” He walked away from the piano, toward Rami. “I’m sorry. I brought this to your door.”
“Don’t,” Rami said sharply. “That’s not on you. This is his choice.”
They stood in the quiet living room, the ghost of Jacob’s anger still vibrating in the air. The city lights below seemed brighter now, more intrusive. Each one felt like a potential eye.
“I jumped,” Michael said quietly, echoing his words from the first night. “At the sound. I jumped right off the chair.”
Rami managed a thin smile. “Yeah. So did I.”
Michael hugged his arms around himself. The fragile calm of the pasta dinner was gone, replaced by a new, more familiar tension. It wasn’t the diffuse fear of the world anymore. It was specific, personal, and currently speeding down the hill in a German sports car.
“He’ll be back,” Michael said, stating it as the simple, terrible fact it was.
Rami nodded, already thinking ahead, mapping the vulnerabilities of his own home. The locks were good. The gate was strong. But Jacob wasn’t a paparazzo. He was a man with a key to the past, and he knew how to pick emotional locks Rami couldn’t even see.
“Then we’ll be ready,” Rami said, and the words sounded less like a comfort and more like a vow made in the deepening dark.