Chapter 2Ethan
Chapter 2
Ethan
“Do something sexy.”
Seriously? That's the seventh time I've been told that tonight, and I still have no idea what it means. Give a smoldering look? Flex? Pretend I'm interested in whatever inane question is about to follow?
“Ethan Roberts! Ethan!”
“Hey, Ethan! Over here!”
“We love you, Rowan Thornheart! ‘Learn to wield the winter's curse!’”
I blink at the crowd like a clichéd deer in headlights, hearing my name, and my character’s name and his famous line hurled at me from the sea of photographers and journalists. I take a breath, my chest tight as I glance down at my black lace-up shoes, so shiny I can almost see my reflection in them, dark against the red of the carpet.
I take a breath. I’ve got this.
You can't be the lead in the smash hit Netflix show, It Came One Winter , without getting this kind of attention on awards night, particularly when the show has a bunch of nominations.
Only this year it all seems so much more intense.
Sure, Season 3 has been a huge success, even rivalling Bridgerton in the ratings—but for a type of audience who’s less into love and more into blood, death, and mindless violence.
You know how these fantasy shows go.
But the thing is, I've never liked these events. The posing, the frivolous questions, the having to be on show.
The being judged.
My date for the evening is no help. Well, I say “date” but even that's just for show. Chelsea Hutchinson, my co-star. On screen, we have a love-hate thing going on, alternating between raging war on one another and hooking up in random places like fur-lined, candle-lit caves and castle turrets during dramatic snow storms while our armies battle it out below.
You know, just your regular relationship stuff.
The network’s publicity team tells me the audience laps up our “relationship,” assuming our on-screen chemistry is replicated in real life.
It's not.
Chelsea is beautiful, but she's so much more interested in Chelsea than anyone else, me included.
The next twenty minutes become a blur of microphones and less than genuine smiles. A journalist, who introduces herself as Karina Wallace, asks about my nomination.
“I’m honored to be in such talented company,” I say.
“Who are you wearing?”
“A suit by Jonathan Lunsford.”
“Oh, look, Ethan. Here’s Pageant Morris. She’s your ex, right?” Karina says, already knowing the answer.
I lift my chin at Pageant. “Hi,” I murmur.
Seeing an ex is always awkward, but on a red carpet? Criminally so. And it's all documented by eager photographers and journalists.
“Ethan Roberts, you look delectable,” she purrs as she air kisses me, her dress almost painted on it’s so tight. “Why did I ever give you up?” she says softly in my ear.
“I think it had more to do with the fact you started sleeping with your co-star than you ‘gave me up’ exactly,” I say under my breath, the banal smile on my face at odds with my words.
“What can I say? You just weren't ambitious enough for me, even though you and I would have had such totally hot babies together,” she replies before she blows me a kiss over her shoulder and shimmies away.
Hot babies?
Paige and Hollywood are made for one another.
I endure the SlowCam, being asked once more to “do something sexy,” before a journalist so skinny her head looks like a lollipop asks, “How amazing is your life now that you’re dating your co-star, Chelsea Hutchinson?”
Yeah, a fake relationship Chelsea’s and my agent has orchestrated is just amazing.
“It’s amazing, as you say,” I reply, moving along the carpet.
But no sooner have I escaped one journalist, when I’m accosted by another—this time a guy in a perfectly cut white suit, pink hair, and no shirt—or chest hair, for that matter. He introduces himself as Timoth ay and then asks, “What tips did your brother, Dan Roberts, famous NHL player, give you about fame?”
A conversation we had back home in Maple Falls, Washington state, flashes into my mind. It was the month the first series was released, and my fame had gone from “total obscurity” to “the hottest name in Hollywood” overnight. I was reeling.
Dan sat me down on our parents’ sofa and told me that all I had to do was be myself and trust that people will like who I am, no matter what character I play on screen.
I know he was trying to help me, but I had no clue what fame was really like. Dan’s the kind of guy who signs autographs with a genuine smile. Me? I'm counting the seconds until I can escape.
“With Dan now retired from the NHL, you're the only currently famous one left in your family. How does that make you feel?” He thrusts his microphone in my face with an expectant look.
How do I answer that ?
I’m struggling on with the help of my fake girlfriend?
I must carry on in the name of fame?
In the end, I go with something sarcastic and entirely made up.
“Actually, my mom just went viral on TikTok with her sourdough bread making, so I'm pretty sure I'm like second famous in the family now? Third, if you count my parents’ cat, who keeps photobombing her videos.”
Timoth ay blinks at me, thrown.
“Cleo really is a very special cat,” I explain.
Landing this role has been the highlight of my career, a career punctuated only occasionally with small roles and ads, bit parts on established TV shows, stage productions so off-Broadway they're practically in New Jersey. Or literally, as the case was for one of the plays I did a couple years back.
But the thing is—and I know I'm going to sound ungrateful when I say this, but that doesn't make it any less true—all I ever wanted to do was act. I wanted to be involved in a cast with talented people who loved doing what they do. I wanted to create something incredible for an audience, embodying my role, giving it all I’ve got.
It's my passion. My reason for being.
Not this.
Not the personal questions and endless photographers and questions as you pose like an idiot on a red carpet, flashing bulbs blinding you as you sweat through the suit a designer lent you so you could help them sell more suits.
Don't get me wrong. Being a part of this show is amazing. I feel like I've grown so much as an actor, and I can honestly say I love what I do. But for every positive there's always a negative, and that negative for me is right here, right now, at an awards show in Hollywood, surrounded by people wanting you to be something you’re not.
Finally, I make it into the auditorium.
I've been hit with more camera flashes than this carpet has faced stilettos, and I've acknowledged my fans, posing for a few selfies. And now I sit through the awards show along with the rest of the team. We get up on stage when the show wins, and I make sure to express the appropriate level of humility when another hot young actor wins my category.
As I'm heading toward the exit after the ceremony, hoping to slip away before the after-party madness begins, a firm hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“There he is,” Dion Chambers, my agent, materializes beside me in one of his trademark suits. His smile is all perfect white teeth, but his eyes are calculating behind designer frames.
“Hey, Dion. Just heading home.”
“To the after-party,” he corrects, steering me toward a quiet corner. “But first, excellent work with the meeting today. Crystal Clear Productions is going to take you places, kid.”
I resist the urge to point out that at twenty-eight I'm hardly a kid. “About that?—”
He lowers his voice, his smile never leaving his face. “I've already got the ball rolling on this. Big things, Ethan. This is going to change the game for you. You’re hot right now. You need to milk it for all it’s worth.”
“What if I don’t want to milk it for all it’s worth? What if all I want to do is my job?”
He laughs as though I’ve said something funny. “Trust me, Ethan, you’re gonna need this. Your show is hot right now, but if you don’t ride that wave, you’re gonna be forgotten once this show is done. I would say you're not exactly in a position to be picky right now.”
Fear grips my belly. “What do you mean? The show's doing great?—”
“Shows end, Ethan. Then what?” His phone buzzes and he checks it, his smile widening. “Interesting. We’re tracking your social media mentions right now, and they're through the freaking roof.”
“You’re tracking how many people are talking about me?”
He gives me a look like I’ve asked whether he breathes oxygen. “Now, listen. This is about building your brand beyond Rowan Thornheart.” He glances over my shoulder, his attention already elsewhere. “We'll talk more next week.” He slaps my back.
As he strides away, I can't shake the feeling that I've just been managed rather than heard. I’ve learned it's a familiar sensation with Dion.
I make my way from the auditorium and when I climb into the sleek black car, I let out a relieved breath of air.
I always thought of myself as sitting somewhere close to the extrovert end of the spectrum before I began working in Hollywood. But, man , these people are “on” all the time. I seriously don't know how they do it. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small town where I was on a first name basis with all the kids in my high school, and the fall festival was the biggest thing to happen each year. I don't know. What I do know is this adulation, this infamy, this whole circus, has never been what I wanted.
Just as I'm closing my eyes, the door flies open, the car instantly filling with people’s chatter, as Chelsea slides in beside me.
“That was amazing !” she exclaims, her eyes bright as she leans back in her seat in a cloud of perfume and pulls a mirror from her clutch. She peers at her reflection. “Oh, my hair! Why didn’t you say something.”
I flip my gaze to her. She looks just as perfectly put together as she always does. “Your hair looks great to me.”
She bats my upper arm. “You're a guy. What would you know about hair? It's a mess. Oh, no!”
“What?”
“My aura has faded.”
“That’s… bad?”
“Ethan, it’s a disaster! I need to see Daphne, like, now .” She taps at her phone. “Daph. Crisis. Come meet me in the car? We're on our way to the party now.”
“How do you fix an aura?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Did you talk to Dion?”
“I listened to him.”
“He’s working on this new project for us and he’s super excited about it.”
“What is it? Did he tell you? All I got was banal platitudes.”
She waves my comment away with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t know. Something amazing . He’s really got his finger on the pulse.”
I harrumph. “Sure.”
As the car begins to crawl away from the curb, joining the stream of silver vehicles, Chelsea chats about all the people she's seen, being her usual hyper self. Only after talking for at least ten minutes does she actually notice I'm not exactly engaged in the conversation.
“You seem a little glum, Eth. Is it because you didn't win? Because you know you usually have to be nominated a bunch of times before you win these things. And you look hot. That’s what really matters.”
Sure.
“Nah, I'm just a little tired,” I reply.
“I know what you need.”
I arch a brow. It’s not likely someone like Chelsea would know what I need.
“You need champagne.”
And there it is.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Ignoring me, she pulls a bottle from the icebox and hands it to me to open. I dutifully do, the pop of the cork punctuating her pearls of wisdom on how to stay relevant even if you don’t win an award.
“I’ve been in the industry much longer than you,” she says, as though the extra six months more than me make all the difference.
I pour out a couple of glasses, although I'm not in the mood for champagne. Despite the 90° outside, I'm in the mood for a cup of hot cocoa in front of a fire at my family’s home in Maple Falls.
Man, does that life feel far away right now.
She takes a sip of her champagne and then sizes me up. “You're no fun tonight, Eth.”
“Sorry about that, Chels,” I reply.
“Do you know what you need?”
I hold up my untouched glass. “Champagne. You already told me.”
“What else you need. You need a vacation. Somewhere fabulous where you can relax and forget about all of this for a while. Then, you can return and be hotter than ever.”
I turn to her, surprised by her uncharacteristically astute observation. “You know you might be right?”
“Of course I am. So go take one. We're not due back on set for a month.”
“I guess I could head home. See my folks. My brother and his wife have just had their first child, who I've not seen a lot of.” The tightness in my chest loosens for the first time this evening.
But then it tightens right back up when I picture having to be locked away inside as paparazzi wait for me or any member of my family to emerge.
I won’t do that to them.
Chelsea makes a face. “Yawn. You could do something way more exciting than that. I've got an idea.” She starts tapping at her phone again and then turns the screen around, showing me a world map.
I raise my eyebrows at her in question.
“Pick a place. Which continent?”
“You want me to just randomly pick a place to go on vacation for a month?”
“Why not? You need your glow back. I don’t want some half-baked version of Rowan Thornheart when we start filming again.” I begin to think she’s generally concerned about me when she adds, “It’ll make me look bad. Like I can’t get a hotter version of you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I don't know. Europe? I've never been.”
“Good start. Now, close your eyes and choose a place.”
“Why?”
“So you can choose a country free from your conscious self, instead tapping into your deeper, spiritual being and allowing it to guide you to where you're meant to be.”
Oh, good grief.
“Trust me, Eth. You need this, like, so bad . Dion told me so.”
“He did?”
“Mm-hm. Just before, at the ceremony.”
Is it weird that he told Chelsea I should take a break and not me?
I close my eyes. I like the idea of escaping to Europe for a while, and Chelsea’s way of choosing where I go could be as effective as any other.
“I'm placing the phone in front of you and all you have to do is point your finger.”
I do as she says, jabbing my finger at the screen. I open my eyes to see the spot I’ve chosen is in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. “Does this mean my spiritual self wants to go for a swim?” I ask with a smile.
“ Duh . It means your aim is off. Here. Take the phone in your other hand, then close your eyes and point.”
I do as she says and when I point, my finger lands on southern France. “France. I could eat French bread and cheese for a while.”
She takes the phone back. “Actually, you chose a small country next to France. Malveaux,” she says, pronouncing it as “Mal-vox.” I might not have been to Europe, but I remember how to pronounce that small country’s name from a news article a while back. A Texan became the queen of the country, I think. Or princess. Something like that.
I don’t exactly follow royalty.
“So, I’m heading to Malveaux?”
She clicks her phone off. “Of course you are. Go. Have an adventure. Do something fun. Your soul will thank you, you know.”
I have no clue how my soul will thank me. Maybe send me an ecard? A fruit basket?
But I do like the idea of going to a small country on the Mediterranean. I can breathe in the sea air, feel the sand between my toes, the sun on my face—and forget about what’s become of my life for a while.
As the car comes to a stop outside the party venue, the hairdresser-slash-aura-fixer Daphne climbs inside, acknowledging me with a nod before she gets to work on Chelsea. She waves her hands like an enthusiastic air traffic controller directing invisible planes, and I get lost in thought.
The idea of escaping solidifies in my brain. Malveaux. A place where the media won't find me, where nobody will ask me to “do something sexy” or care “who” I'm wearing.
A place where I can breathe again.
My mind is made up. By this time tomorrow, I'll be gone from all of this. Anonymous. Free. Just a guy on vacation figuring out what matters to him.
For the first time all night, I feel something like hope.