Chapter Text
12. THROUGH THE GATES
Emma almost said no. For two days, she kept replaying the invitation in her head.
Hayvenhurst Drive. Not the address itself, but everything attached to it. Michael.
Because the problem wasn’t visiting him, because somewhere inside her, another life still existed.
A different apartment. Different years. Different memories. And in those memories, she knew things she shouldn’t know.
She knew headlines. She knew television specials. She knew the strange heaviness people carried when his name came up years later. She knew endings.
Not all of them. Not clearly. Enough to remember the sadness attached to him before she’d ever met him.
Enough to remember sitting somewhere in another life, watching a screen and thinking:
That’s awful. That’s unfair. That’s lonely.
And now he wasn’t a distant face on television. Now he was Michael, the one who forgot how conversations ended. The one who called late because he didn’t like quiet places full of people.
The one who asked strange questions about seasons. The one who had said:
“I think I found a friend.”
Emma sat on the edge of her bed that morning, staring at the sunlight moving slowly across the floor. Outside, Los Angeles already looked hot, not warm, summer-hot.
The kind that made air shimmer over pavement. The kind that made the city feel slower.
She stared at the wall for another minute. Then sighed.
“…oh, this is a terrible idea.”
Vanessa looked up from the kitchen table.
“You’re dressed.”
Emma narrowed her eyes.
“…I wear clothes every day.”
“No.” Vanessa pointed at her dramatically. “You’re dressed dressed.”
Clara lowered her book slightly.
“…you’re going.”
Emma stared at both of them. Traitors.
“No one asked for commentary.”
Vanessa grinned.
“You said yes?”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“…Emma.”
“…I implied yes.”
Vanessa seemed delighted.
“Oh, my God.”
Emma grabbed her keys.
“I already regret this.”
The little convertible belonged to all three of them in the complicated way shared things often did.
Mostly Emma used it for work. Vanessa claimed she contributed emotional support. Clara claimed ownership of exactly one cassette tape inside the car. Emma rolled her eyes as she slid into the driver’s seat, warm air immediately wrapped around her.
The engine started with a soft vibration beneath her hands,She switched on the radio-KROQ, maybe, or KIIS-FM-and the opening synths of “When Doves Cry” filled the warm air, already in heavy rotation that summer.
A moment later, she pulled away.
Los Angeles unfolded around her. Palm trees, sunlight reflecting off windows. People walking on sidewalks with cold drinks in their hands. Music drifting from open stores. Heat rising from the roads in soft waves. The city looked golden today, too beautiful to feel entirely real.
Emma drove with the roof down, warm wind pulled through her hair.
For a while, she stopped thinking. Just driving. Just moving. Until gradually neighborhoods changed.
Houses grew larger. Gates taller. Trees thicker. Then something changed.
People, not scattered, gathered.
Emma slowed. Fans. Dozens, maybe more, lined along the street in uneven clusters.
Some sat on curbs, some leaned against fences. Some held handwritten signs pressed close to their chests like fragile things.One girl had a Polaroid camera around her neck, the SX-70 model, ready to capture any glimpse that might develop into proof she'd been there.
Cameras.
Waiting. Always waiting.
The air here felt different. Charged.
Emma’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Whispers followed her car. Not about her, about what might come.
She wasn’t the story they were waiting for.
A gate appeared ahead. Tall, metal, controlled.
Hayvenhurst Drive.
She stopped the car, engine still running.
A guard approached. Professional. Neutral.He spoke into a walkie-talkie, the sound crackling with that particular analog distortion, before waving her through with a gesture that felt borrowed from a movie set.
“Emma Collins,” she said automatically.
A pause, the guard checked a list. A nod.
The gate opened.
Slowly.
Like, permission itself had weight.
For a moment, Emma stared at the metal and realized it was never just a gate. It was everything between her and what waited on the other side, a barrier, a threshold, a dare. The line between safe distance and what happens if she steps through. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was a possibility. Or maybe it was both, pressing against her chest, heavy as the gate itself.
The moment she crossed the threshold, everything changed quietly, not dramatically, quietly.
Like sound being turned down in a room without anyone announcing it.
The driveway curved inward, lined with deep greenery and shade. Sunlight broke through leaves in scattered patterns across the gravel.
Emma slowed instinctively, her breathing changed before she noticed.
Because Hayvenhurst wasn’t what she expected, it wasn’t a palace.
It wasn’t cold, it felt lived in.
Old trees bent slightly over paths like they had been there longer than anyone had asked permission for. Birds moved without hesitation.
Somewhere deeper in the property, she heard movement. It was life, not performance.
And then she saw him. Michael stood near the entrance of the driveway.
Not framed. Not staged. Just there.
One hand resting on a fence post, the other in his pocket.
Red shirt. Dark trousers. Sleeves slightly rolled.
No entourage. Just stillness.
As if he had been waiting too long to pretend he wasn’t waiting.
Emma parked. Turned off the engine.
For a moment, she didn’t move, then she stepped out.
The air felt warmer here. Closer.
Michael looked up immediately, their eyes met.
A second passed, then he smiled.
Small. Careful. Real.
“You came.”
Emma closed the car door.
“…you invited me.”
A beat.
“…right.”
He nodded once.
“…right.”
Then, quieter:
“Oh.”
Emma laughed softly.
And right away, he looked embarrassed.
“Stop laughing,” he said.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You are.”
“I’m laughing near you.”
“That’s worse.”
Now he grinned too. Relieved.
They walked. Slowly, side by side. Not ahead. Not behind.
Just existing in the same rhythm without deciding it yet, the estate unfolded softly.
Trees. Gardens. Wide paths. A place that had grown rather than been staged.
Emma looked around.
“…there’s a lot of space.”
Michael shrugged.
“I like space.”
A pause.
“…it’s quieter.”
That word stayed with her.
Quieter.
Not empty.
Quieter.
Animals appeared without announcement. Birds first, then, movement in the trees.
And then something else happened. Emma stopped.
“…Michael.”
He turned.
“…yeah?”
“…is that a llama?”
He blinked.
“…yeah.”
Another one wandered into view. Then another. Emma stared.
“…why do you have llamas?”
He hesitated.
“…I like them.”
Emma looked at him.
“…that’s not an explanation.”
“It is for me.”
She laughed, he did too.
She crouched beside one of them later, careful at first, then relaxed.
It leaned into her hand immediately. Michael watched, properly watched.
“…they usually don’t do that.”
Emma glanced up.
“…it has better judgment than people.”
That made him laugh more softly, like he didn’t want to break the moment.
They moved again.
Music, small talk, silences that didn’t feel empty.
Then Michael, more carefully:
“I’m working on ideas.”
“Songs?”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t really stop thinking about it.”
A pause.
“…it’s just noise sometimes. Then suddenly it’s something.”
Emma nodded.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“…yeah.”
“But also not.”
By the time they reached the pool, the house had already filled in around them.
Laughter. Voices. Family.
It wasn’t a unit. It was weather. Unpredictable. Loud. Alive.
Someone noticed Emma.
“Oh—”
A grin.
“Michael brought a guest.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly.
“…please don’t.”
A brother leaned forward.
“You never said your friends were this pretty.”
A pause. Then laughter exploded. Michael went red instantly.
“…stop talking.”
Emma laughed despite herself.
And then, suddenly,
“Come sit with us,” one of his sisters said warmly.
Before Emma could answer, someone added:
“You’re not allowed to say no.”
Laughter, Emma hesitated.
“I don’t have anything for swimming.”
A pause.
Then a woman, smiling and already deciding for her, held something up. A red bikini, polka dots.
“Problem solved.”
Emma stared.
“…you’re joking.”
“No,” the sister said. “We are very serious about pool policy here.”
More laughter.
Emma looked at Michael instinctively. He looked away almost immediately.
Too fast. Too obvious. His ears are slightly red.
Emma felt something drop inside her. Not dramatic, quiet.
A misinterpretation formed before she could stop it.
Oh. He’s uncomfortable. Michael shifts slightly, glancing away, his hand tightening around the edge of his chair. For a split second, something unsure flickers in his eyes, like he wants to say anything but can’t find the right words.
Of course he is.
She nodded slowly.
“…okay.”
And went inside.
The bathroom was bright. Too bright.
Emma stood in front of the mirror holding the bikini.
For a long moment, she didn’t move, her reflection looked unfamiliar again.
Not wrong, just exposed.
She changed slowly, too aware of every movement.
Of her body. Of space. Of the idea of being seen.
When she finally stepped out, the world felt louder, even though it wasn’t.
Michael saw her first.
He had been talking, then stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes flicked up — and away again.
Too quickly.
Emma pulled the towel tighter around herself before she could stop the movement.
Oh.
The thought landed hot and small beneath her ribs.
He’s uncomfortable.
Someone called her name before she could decide what to do with the shame of it, and the pool swallowed the moment whole.
The pool area swallowed the awkwardness quickly.
Water light. Noise. Movement. Heat.
Someone splashed her within seconds.
“Hey—welcome to initiation!”
Emma let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now!”
Michael was still there, but not close, not looking.
Or at least trying not to.
Talking to someone, nodding. Too controlled.
Emma told herself it didn’t matter. And failed. Because it did.
At some point, she ended up sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water.
Trying not to think about anything too specific, the heat made everything softer.
Less sharp. More survivable.
Michael passed behind her once, slower than necessary, then stopped.
“…you okay?”
Small voice, careful.
Emma looked up slightly.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, in a quieter voice:
“…are you?”
He hesitated, long enough that it said more than words.
Then:
“Yeah.”
But it didn’t sound like yes, just like effort.
“Michael, phone!”
The shift was immediate, his posture changed before he even moved.
“Sorry,” he said automatically.
Then he was gone. Inside. Fast, too practiced.
Emma watched him disappear through the door, didn’t follow.
But something in the atmosphere changed with him gone.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Emma stayed outside, listening. Music, laughter, water.
But beneath it all, absence.
She stood up slowly and walked toward the house.
Inside was cooler, quieter.
A hallway. A half-open door. Voices.
She stopped, not meaning to listen, just close enough that she couldn’t hear.
Michael’s voice.
“…I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Silence pressed in, heavier than before. Emma felt a flash of recognition, a memory of Michael glancing at the floor instead of her eyes whenever conversations edged too close, or of the way he would change the subject so fast it was like hiding. Her heart caught. Somewhere underneath the words, she understood that flicker of fear: the moment things grew honest, Michael seemed to vanish, retreating before anyone could see too much. She wondered if it was easier for him to abandon a moment than to risk letting someone stay.
Emma stepped back.
Left.
Without being seen.
By the time Michael returned outside, Emma was already gathering her things. He stopped.
“…you’re leaving?”
Emma forced a smile.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“…it’s getting late.”
Something shifted in his face, confusion first, then something else.
“…oh.”
Emma avoided his eyes.
Because suddenly staying felt harder than arriving.
The drive back felt different, not dramatic, just distant.
She kept both hands on the wheel, but her thoughts stayed behind, with something she couldn’t name anymore. Maybe it was that quiet hope she barely let herself feel, the wish that this day could mean more than a memory she’d leave behind. Or maybe it was fear, the worry that getting close only made it easier to lose something she never quite had.
Something that felt like it had almost become real, and then slipped just slightly out of reach again.
And she wasn’t sure whether that was relief. Or loss.