Chapter 7Ethan
Chapter 7
Ethan
Was it a rash decision to offer to go with Amy to meet her date?
What am I saying? Of course it was. I now run the very real risk of being spotted in this town I can’t pronounce right, too.
Smart move on my part? Nope.
More like stupid.
But there's something about Amy, something intangible that makes me want to ... I don't know. Protect her? Yeah, that's what it is. I want to protect her. But not in a she’s some poor, defenseless girl who needs my protection simply because I'm a guy kind of way. This is the 21st century. I know women are perfectly capable of looking after themselves.
In fact, they're probably a whole lot better at it than us guys.
With Amy it’s like she’s new to this world and everything seems so amazing to her because of it. Which is totally ridiculous. She's a grown woman, probably in her early to mid-20s. She knows this country and she speaks fluent English as well as Malveauxian.
Huh . Maybe she should be looking out for me ?
But despite her obvious credentials, there's something in her manners and the way she speaks that tells me she could do with a friend.
A friend. Yeah, that's what I'll be. I’ll just push away those inconvenient feelings I get whenever I look at her. Easy.
Good job, Roberts. Tell yourself that enough times and you might actually start believing it.
Dion would be crying with happiness if he could see me right now. Ethan Roberts, Netflix heartthrob and brooding anti-hero, now moonlighting as a goth bodyguard for mysterious women from costume stores.
Sounds like the logline for a show I would never audition for.
And yet here I am, living it in real time.
I slide my gaze to look at her, sitting beside me, watching the view as the train whizzes through the countryside. Sure, she's beautiful. And sexy. Don't think I haven't noticed. Her black T-shirt is slim fitting enough that it more than hints at a curvaceous figure beneath, and the length of her skirt, hitting her mid-thigh, perfectly straddles the line between classy and sexy.
But she's also smart and funny and looks insanely cute as a goth. Not that I think goths want to look cute, exactly. But Amy sure does with her heavy eye makeup that brings out the chunks of gold in her brown eyes, her dark hair down her back, thick and long.
Black works with Amy’s skin tone, even if she comes across more Disney Princess than a serious goth. She's all wide-eyed and excited about life. I half imagine her living in a tower, gazing out at the world longingly, waiting for her Prince Charming to come and rescue her.
I wonder if she can summon woodland creatures with a song to do her chores for her, too?
I bite back a smile.
Man. Three seasons of playing a cynical warlord must have warped my worldview. Next thing you know, I'll be suspicious of kittens and children's birthday parties. Sorry, kid, but I don't trust that pinata. What's really inside it? What are you hiding?
She's just an enthusiastic person who takes joy in life’s little things.
And I admit, I was skeptical when I saw her climbing onto my train. But then she does have a legitimate reason to be here, even if I’m pretty sure she’s being taken for a ride by this guy. She's meeting a jerk who's pretending he's someone else and has probably strung her along for months.
I glance at her profile, her button nose pointed straight ahead. She's chewing on her lip as though she's deep in thought.
Nah . I'm being paranoid. It's just a coincidence that she was in the same two places as me today. Nothing more than that.
Man, I miss that carefree small-town guy I once was. That guy would never second guess something like a woman turning up in two places in one day. The guy with the happy home, living an uncomplicated life, acting in high school plays with big dreams of making it one day.
Now that I've “made it” it turns out it's not all it's cracked up to be.
She turns to look at me, her face creasing into an easy smile as her eyes land on mine. Yup, I was staring at her and yup, I’ve been totally busted.
If things were different right now—? Nope. I can't think that way. She's on her journey and I’m on mine. End of story.
My phone vibrates and I check it to see a message from Chelsea.
Chelsea:
Dion is sending a helicopter to take you to his house. What time works for you?
“What time are you meeting your mystery guy?” I ask.
“Six o'clock. And he's not a mystery guy. He's Greg.”
“Greg. Sure.”
The name 'Greg' has all the mysterious allure of a beige wallpaper sample. Even serial killers have more interesting names.
Not that I'm hoping he's a serial killer.
I’m just pointing out that if you're going to create a fake persona online, at least give yourself a name with some pizzazz. Lord Darkblade or The Duke of Danger. Anything but Greg .
“Think what you like,” Amy says.
I tap my reply.
Me:
Can he make it 8pm? I've got a couple things to do on the coast before I go.
Two hours will give me plenty of time to accompany Amy to meet this guy and help her make a plan for when he turns out to be some creep. Then I can say my goodbyes and hop on that helicopter to take me to the lake house.
The smalltown kid in me would do a happy dance that this is my life now.
Current me? I'm not so excited about it.
When your childhood dreams come true, but the reality involves paparazzi and pretending to be someone you're not, the whole thing starts to feel a lot like a cosmic practical joke.
Our train slows as it begins to pull into an old station with huge metal pillars holding up a massive glass roof. With its ornate stone arches running along the walls, covered in a mosaic of butterflies, it doesn’t look anything like a train station I've visited before. There’s a sign that says “C?te-des-Papillons” in elegant gold lettering.
“Wow,” I murmur under my breath.
Amy nudges my arm. “You're such a tourist, Mav.”
I turn to see her full lips pulled into a smile, her pretty eyes sparkling. “What? Objectively speaking it's an amazing train station.”
“Are you telling me you don't have amazing train stations in the United States?”
“To be honest I wouldn't know. I don't use trains a whole lot.”
She blinks at me, looking every inch the Disney princess. “Why ever not?”
I mime driving. “’Cos I've got a car. Plus, there's the small fact that this is the 21st century.”
What I don't mention is that I don't use public transport these days because I'd be swarmed by fans before we even reached the first stop. Nothing kills the romance of train travel like being asked to sign someone's forehead with a Sharpie while their friend livestreams the whole thing.
“But what if you want to sit back and see the countryside as you travel between cities?”
“Yeah, I don't do that.”
I know what she's going to ask before the words have even left her lips. “Why ever not?”
Is that her Disney princess catchphrase? I swear, if she bursts into song right now, I'm jumping out the window, emergency procedures be damned.
“Because I'm from a small town in Washington state, and I live and work in Los Angeles, so I fly.”
That’s the sanitized version of the truth. I fly private when the studio's paying, and commercial in disguise when they're not. Either way, there's no staring dreamily out of windows at rolling countryside. There's just me, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who might recognize me while simultaneously looking normal enough that I don't attract attention for being weird.
It's a delicate balance.
“You’re missing out, Mav. Trains are so romantic, so old world and charming. I would travel on them every day if I could. Maybe with a slightly cleaner window, though.” She indicates the smudges on the glass. “Couldn't you catch one between Los Angeles and your hometown?”
“Sure I could, if I had a spare thirty-five hours.” Plus, a desire to be trapped in a metal tube with no escape route when someone inevitably recognizes me.
I'd rather eat glass while getting a root canal.
She does that doe-eyed thing again. “Thirty-five hours? Gosh, America is jolly big.”
It's my turn to smile. “You’re right. America is jolly big.”
“I’ve been to New York before. I’d love to jump in a car and drive across the country someday. Like Thelma and Louise.”
“Without the driving off a cliff part though, I bet.”
Her eyes dance when she replies, “Best not that part.”
The train doors slide open and people begin to disembark, the noise of the busy train station filling the carriage.
I bounce out of my seat to collect Amy's suitcase, noticing as I did when I put it in the overhead rack that it’s made of soft, expensive leather and definitely not the sort of suitcase you would expect a young woman to have.
Maybe she's rich? She hasn't said anything about her family in the time we've been together. Maybe she's Malveauxian old money and lives in some impressive ancient house with a tree-lined driveway?
As I set it on the floor, I notice a sticker that says something in a foreign language, with an image of a peacock. Why would anyone put a sticker on such an expensive leather suitcase? It’s hiding something metal underneath, but I can’t see what.
Amy is becoming more enigmatic by the minute. A multilingual woman with expensive luggage who’s dressed like a goth, speaks like she swallowed an etiquette manual, and has the wide-eyed wonder of someone seeing the world for the first time.
It's like she's playing a character herself.
Takes one to know one, Roberts.
“Thank you ever so much, Mav,” she says as she slides out of the seat.
I grab my backpack—not made of expensive leather, and definitely not from old money—and sling it over my shoulder, standing back for Amy to head down the aisle before me.
“A gentleman goth. How rare,” she comments with a pretty smile.
“We are a dying breed. It’s us and the gentlemen vampires. We formed a club.”
She lets out a giggle. “I suppose you sit around drinking whiskey and smoking cigars, discussing how to best one another in the gentleman stakes.”
“Less that and more trying to dodge having our blood sucked by the vampires,” I quip. I gesture down the aisle. “Shall we? C?te-des-Papillons awaits.”
“Nice pronunciation, Mr. America.”
“What can I say? I learned from the best.”
My comment wins a smile from Amy before we make our way down the aisle and step out onto the platform. Someone is playing the violin, which makes the place seem even more whimsical—and as a guy, that is not a word I ever thought I would use, especially about a train station.
Next thing you know, I'll be describing things as delightful and simply marvelous and my high school hockey coach will revoke my man card on the spot.
Good thing I don’t have to care about his opinion anymore.
We catch the attention of several people, but only briefly. I suspect it’s more because we’re dressed in our goth costumes, which makes us stand out from the otherwise regular looking crowd.
We make our way through the train station and spill out onto the street along with the hordes, where taxis and buses wait and people fill the sidewalk.
“Where are you meeting ‘Greg?’” I make air quotes with my fingers and Amy rolls her eyes.
“You’re going to be proven wrong, you know. And we're meeting at a bar called La Belle Vista overlooking the sea. He's going to be holding a single red rose. Awfully romantic, don't you think?”
More like cheesy.
“Sure.”
“Shall we get a taxicab into town? I don't know about you but I'm rather hungry. Shall we eat before I meet him?” she asks, and my belly rumbles, right on cue.
“Sounds good to me.”
I find us a cab, and we crawl out of the busy station, heading down the hill toward the ocean, deep blue and glistening in the early evening light. The buildings are at least a couple of hundred years old, and unlike in Tleurbonne, they're all painted bright colors, everything from green to blue and yellow. Even the spire of an old church is painted orange.
“This place is magical,” I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else.
“Wait until you see the promenade,” Amy replies, and as though she timed it herself, we turn onto a street that runs parallel to the glistening sea, where palm trees move in the light breeze.
It's the kind of backdrop they'd use for a romantic montage in a movie. Cue the upbeat indie song, two attractive leads laughing in slow motion, perhaps a gelato cone and some meaningful glances.
“Nice place.”
“It's pretty, isn't it? I haven't been here for so long, but I do so love it. Oh, look, there are some restaurants. Driver! Drop us off here, please.”
After a discussion in which Amy offers to pay and I insist that I pay instead, I hand the driver some notes and pull our luggage from the trunk. As I place Amy's case on the sidewalk, I say, “That's a pretty nice looking suitcase you've got there.”
I'm fishing. Sue me.
She looks from her suitcase to my tattered backpack, practical but old, my dad’s from back in the day when he travelled around the country and met and fell in love with my mom while in a small town in Wisconsin.
“This suitcase?” she asks, as though she brought a bunch with her. “It's part of a set my family owns.”
I was right. Family money.
Amy continues to be an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a very cute goth outfit.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks as our taxi is immediately occupied by a couple of middle-aged American tourists, if their stars and stripes T-shirts are anything to go by.
I spot a table for two on the street outside a restaurant beside us and suggest there. After all, we've got our luggage in tow.
The hostess, a woman in a black pencil skirt that hits her mid-calf and a stiff white shirt, purses her lips as her gaze trails over us. It’s clear she’s found us unworthy of her establishment before we’ve even opened our mouths.
She looks us up and down, her top lip curling in the universal language of hospitality snobbery.
Some things, it would see, transcend cultural barriers.
I paste on my best Hollywood smile. “How are you doing tonight?” I ask, but she simply raises her brows at me. I’m not deterred. “I don’t speak Malveauxian, so I hope you understand me.”
A curt nod.
“We would like a table for two, thanks. That one.” I point at the vacant outside table.
“It is not available,” is her heavily accented reply as she continues to look down her nose at us—which is no small feat, considering I'm a good foot taller than her.
“But there’s no one sitting at it and I don't see a reserved sign,” I reply.
“You can have a table inside. At the back by the conveniences.” She collects some menus and turns on her heel, her mind made-up.
“I guess it's reserved?” I say to Amy with a shrug.
If I wasn’t hiding my identity, I could pull the famous actor card out for the first time in my life to get the table, even if it does go against the way I was brought up.
“Leave it to me.”
“Okay, but I don't think she's gonna cave.”
I watch as Amy trails after Ms. Superior and begins to speak in Malveauxian, pointing at the table. A moment later, she returns, a triumphant smile on her face. “Care to join me at the outside table?”
“How did you manage that?” I ask as I follow her, stacking our luggage against the wall.
“I told her that we are here for a convention at the Palais Papillon, and that we will bring all our goth friends here tomorrow to occupy each and every one of their outdoor tables from noon until night unless she allows us to sit where we want tonight.”
I smile at her, impressed. She’s got hidden depths, this one. “So, she’s not a fan of goths.”
“Especially when I told her that we’re the only two who don’t take our ravens with us to dinner.”
I chortle. “Ravens?”
“You can't get much more goth than a raven, Mav.”
I’m struck once more by how competent Amy is, despite her whole Disney princess in the real world vibe.
She's like one of those Russian nesting dolls. Just when you think you've figured her out, you discover a whole other layer underneath.
And the most concerning part? I find myself wanting to discover every single one of those layers.
Which is a complication I definitely do not need.
But as we settle in at our hard-won table with the spectacular view, I can’t help but feel there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Because despite the picture-perfect view, I find my gaze drifting back to Amy. The mesmerizing way the evening sun catches the gold flecks in her eyes, the quirk of her lips when she finds something amusing.
Yeah, I could get used to this.
I lean back in my chair and let out a breath, my shoulders fully relaxing for the first time since I darted into that costume store this morning. It feels good to breathe in the fresh sea air, and to get to sit here unrecognized with a woman who I find so very attractive. I can feel like a normal guy—well, a normal guy wearing eyeliner, that is. But this is Europe. Probably half the guys wear makeup.
The irony isn't lost on me. I spend my professional life in makeup far more elaborate than this—three hours every morning with a team of artists transforming me into Rowan Thornheart, coating my face with prosthetic scars and that ridiculous white wig that makes me look like a heavy metal Santa Claus. And yet somehow this simple black eyeliner feels more like a disguise than all of that production-grade artifice ever did.
On set, I'm being someone else while everyone knows exactly who I am. Here, I'm technically being myself while pretending to be someone else.
The mental gymnastics would make my acting coach’s head explode.
“To adventures,” Amy says, clinking her glass against mine.
“To adventures,” I echo, the chilled Chablis slipping easily down my throat.
Part of me wonders what she'd say if she knew who I really was. Would she be impressed? Starstruck? Disappointed? Most people's behavior changes the moment they discover I'm “somebody.” Their eyes get that glassy, calculating look, their laughter gets a little too enthusiastic, and their questions become thinly veiled attempts to extract something useful, perhaps a story they can tell at parties about the time they met Rowan Thornheart.
I guess I've grown so accustomed to that treatment that normal human interaction now feels strange to me. Case in point: Amy's genuine smiles and unfiltered comments.
Our meals arrive and we eat hungrily. The food is incredible, and with the amount of butter and cream I bet my cholesterol has risen at least a handful of points since we sat down. But what's life if you don't get to enjoy little pleasures?
My nutritionist would be having heart palpitations watching me right now. But then, Jorge would probably just add another set of punishing weighted squats to tomorrow's workout and consider us even.
I've been training so hard in the gym to build muscle for my role, thanks to the fact my character is often shirtless. “It’s integral to your character’s personality,” one of the producers told me when we began filming Season One.
Really? It’s an important character trait that a guy who lives perpetually in winter not throw on a shirt every once in a while?
“Tell me about your family and their fancy luggage,” I ask, swallowing a particularly tender piece of steak. “Is all the food in Malveaux this amazing?”
“Everything but the tea. Don’t touch it.”
“That bad?”
“Terrible. To answer your question, I'm the third of four, with a very bossy older sister who recently got married, an older brother who is also married, and a younger brother. Unmarried.”
“Marriage is a big deal in your family, huh?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Why? Don’t you want to get married someday?”
“Of course I do.”
Ok aaa y.
I’m none the wiser.
“Where do you live?”
“Where do you live?” she retorts.
“I live in Los Angeles these days, but I’m from a small town in Washington state.”
“Los Angeles is very busy and full of very beautiful people.”
Beautiful is one word for them.
“And I live in a country that way.” She points to her left.
Surprised, I ask, “You’re not from Malveaux? But you speak the language so well.”
“I’m from Ledonia, a nearby neighbor.” She takes another sip of her wine. “You know, Mav, we have a saying here on the Continent. There are three types of people: multilingual, bilingual, and American tourists.”
“Do you?” I ask with a laugh. “What can I say when the world speaks English so well? What other languages do you speak?”
“Malveauxian and Ledonian, of course, but also French, Spanish, German, some Italian. And English. Obviously.”
I blink at her. “You speak seven languages?”
“Eight. I forgot Latin.”
I've spent the last three years learning an entirely fictional language for my role as Rowan Thornheart—complete with its own grammar and phonetic structure designed by a linguistics professor employed by the studio—and here’s this woman who casually tosses out that she speaks eight actual languages.
There’s that Russian doll at work again. Layer upon layer.
I'm suddenly aware that my attraction to her isn't just about her obvious beauty, but something more substantial. It’s about her .
“I guess Latin must come in handy for all the times you’re in ancient Rome,” I tease, feeling unsettled by how strong this pull to her is.
She lets out a giggle, her shoulders shaking. “I do so love a good time travel at this time of year.”
“Don't we all?”
We share a smile.
I've spent my career portraying people who don't exist, saying words someone else wrote, feeling emotions that aren't mine. But sitting here, pretending to be Maverick while actually being more myself than I've been in years, I'm not sure what that says about who I really am anymore. The layers of performance have become so intricate that I sometimes lose track of which version of myself I'm supposed to be playing.
Maybe that's why Amy fascinates me so much. She seems to contain these remarkable contradictions—naiveté paired with worldliness, enthusiasm alongside sophistication—yet somehow, they’re all part of this one person.
A clock tower somewhere chimes, and Amy checks the time on her phone.
“Goodness! I have to go!” she exclaims as she springs to her feet, thoroughly flustered. “I’m meant to be meeting Greg right now and I need to wash all this makeup off my face and change before I do. I can't believe I'm going to be late!”
“I'm sure he'll wait for you,” I reply, trying not to feel cynical about this whole thing.
Yup. Fail.
The part of me that’s trained to analyze character motivations already knows exactly how this evening is going to turn out. It's so formulaic I could practically storyboard it.
But still, as Amy returns from changing back into her regular clothes, her eyes no longer ringed in black, I find myself hoping I'm wrong. I’m going to find it hard to see the light dim in her eyes when she realizes she's been deceived by this guy who she seems to have pinned so much on.
Woah! Back up the bus a minute.
When did I become so invested in Amy’s happiness, a woman who I didn’t even know twenty-four hours ago?
I'll take her to the bar, wait for her to meet Greg, hope that he is who he says he is, and then leave.
And if he isn't?
I don't know what I'll do.
We say goodbye to a relieved Ms. Superior, and I take our bags and follow the map on Amy’s phone to the bar. It turns out it’s only about fifty yards away, down some steps in a sort of rustic shack. It’s totally at odds with its elegant clientele, lounging on seats as soft music plays, the view of the sparkling ocean through its large windows breathtakingly beautiful.
“He’s got good taste in bars, I'll give him that,” I say as I take it in.
Amy is too flustered to reply as she scans the guests, searching for her guy. “I can't see him,” she says, her brows pulled together, her lips forming a line. “Do you think he's coming?” She looks up at me with such apprehension in her eyes, I have the urge to reach out and smooth away her worry with the tips of my fingers.
The gesture would be pure Rowan Thornheart—dramatic, intense, borderline inappropriate—yet the impulse comes from somewhere entirely genuine inside.
“I'm sure he'll be here,” I soothe, hoping rather than believing it to be true. “Let's take a seat at the bar and watch the door.”
“Great idea. Oh, I’m so glad you came here with me, Mav. I’m a box of butterflies.”
I order us some drinks at the bar, my mind a battlefield of contradictions.
The trained actor in me is already anticipating the scene about to unfold.
The protective new friend wants to shield Amy from potential disappointment.
The cynical Hollywood veteran expects the worst of people's intentions.
And somewhere beneath all those layers, there's just Ethan Roberts, a smalltown boy who once dreamed of being a famous actor, only to discover that being famous means never getting to be just himself anymore.
Man, I need this break from my life.
When I turn around, drinks in hand, I see a man holding a single red rose, and it’s then I know for sure part of me has been hoping that Greg wouldn't show up tonight all along.