Chapter 5Ethan
Chapter 5
Ethan
“Bye,” she says, and then she's gone, walking away down the narrow cobblestone street before I can think of a better response than my own lame “Bye.”
Nice going, Roberts. Real smooth.
I watch Amy—or Amel-whatever-Dutch-name she'd said—disappear around the corner, her goth outfit making her blend into the shadows.
Is it weird that she wanted to wear her costume, too? Of course she looked absolutely stunning in it, but then she looked equally attractive in her jeans and T-shirt.
And there was something oddly familiar about her, though I can't place it. Not her looks so much as something in the way she carried herself. The confidence beneath her wide-eyed enthusiasm, I guess.
I throw on my black wig and walk in the opposite direction, already regretting my purchase despite Amy’s advice to ditch the thing. It’s itchy and uncomfortable, making my head sweat in the warm afternoon sun.
But Amy doesn’t get it. She’s in costume for a party. Me? I need all the disguise I can get. That scrape with paparazzi before I dived into the costume store has made it clear that even in Malveaux, Rowan Thornheart has fans.
The “Maverick Mitchell” alias was a stroke of genius on my part, borrowing from my childhood hero in Top Gun . My parents would always smile when I suggested it for family movie night, despite the fact we’d watched it only the week before. Dan and my kid sister, Emmy, were not so kind. I’m pretty sure they grew to hate that movie because of me, completely missing its genius.
Back then, fame looked so different in my imagination. I pictured creative freedom and respect. Sure, there was some adulation thrown in there, too, but that was never the main objective for me, and I sure as heck didn’t think I’d be hiding behind an itchy wig in a foreign country just to feel human again.
The thing that bothers me the most about fame isn't the cameras or even the invasion of my privacy, even though those are hard enough to stomach. It’s how fame seems to have hollowed out the meaning from my interactions with people. Every conversation seems to have an agenda, everyone wanting something from me.
Somehow, in this new life of mine, I’ve lost that genuine connection to people, the connection that was a given before I reached Hollywood.
Talking with Amy was refreshing for a bunch of reasons, but also because she had no idea who I was. For those brief moments in the costume store, I wasn't Ethan Roberts, TV star, aka heartthrob warlord, Rowan Thornheart. I was just a guy in the wrong section, accidentally plucking a nun’s costume from the rack.
If I’m being totally honest, it also helped that she was cute.
Okay, she was more than cute. She had an uncomplicated beauty to her that’s sorely missing in Hollywood. When she put on her goth costume, she looked so sexy I virtually had to pick my tongue up from the floor, Jim Carrey style in The Mask . Coupled with her easy and positive vibe, I was sorry to have to see her go.
Shame we had to part ways.
But I’m not here to meet a woman. I’m here for a change of scene. Getting involved with someone would only complicate matters, and complication is the last thing on my list.
I look around as I make my way down the boulevard. The picturesque streets of Tleurbonne, with their old stone architecture, manicured hedging and trees lining the sidewalks, couldn't be more different from the wide, traffic-filled, often soulless streets of LA. Here, life seems to move at a more sedate pace, no horns blaring and people in a rush, making demands into their phones as they hurry along.
It's exactly what I'd hoped for when I pointed blindly at Chelsea's phone.
If only the paparazzi hadn't found me here.
Right now, there's no sign of any photographers, but then they’re famous for lurking in the shadows, pouncing when you least expect it. I’ve got to be on high alert, even in my costume, which I know can only go so far in hiding my true identity—there’s not much you can do to disguise your height when you’re 6’4”, let’s face it. But I hope it's enough to put them off the scent and allow me the freedom to move about this city undetected.
I round the corner onto a main thoroughfare and try to blend in as much as a goth can. The aroma of freshly baked bread fills my nostrils, and it strikes me how hungry I am. I’ve not eaten since breakfast, and that was just a croissant and a cup of coffee.
I locate the source of the delicious aroma, and order myself a croque monsieur , which turns out to be a fancy way of referring to a ham and cheese toasted sub.
I munch on it as I make my way back to my small hotel, purposely chosen for the fact it's not part of a big, international chain, and hopefully discreet enough for me to hide away in. I'll retreat to my room to read a book, which is something I don't get to do a lot these days.
As I pass a small park with people sitting in the shade under majestic trees, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out to see a message from Chelsea.
Chelsea:
I thought you wanted to hide.
Accompanying the message is a grainy photo of me, sitting outside the coffeehouse I enjoyed my breakfast at only this morning. My once delicious sub turns to cardboard in my mouth as a cold chill runs down my spine.
What the …? They know where I am?
So they were after me. I wasn't just being paranoid, darting into that costume store. What's more, I know with sickening certainty that they won't let up until I give them a story, something salacious—or worse.
Me:
I’m clearly not very good at this hiding thing.
Chelsea:
Rookie mistake number 1: going to a big city. You need to get out of there. Go where there are less people for a start. Less people equal less photographers. It's basic math.
I stare at her message, a familiar heaviness settling in my chest. Is this what my life has become? Mathematical equations to minimize human contact? Three years ago, I was begging for callbacks and celebrating when I got a commercial for hemorrhoid cream (true story).
Now, I’m reduced to calculating population densities to find somewhere I can breathe.
The worst part is I still love acting. I love becoming Rowan Thornheart and bringing that character to life.
What I don't love is how the show's success has turned me into a commodity, something to be photographed and sold alongside the show’s merchandise.
And yes, they do sell dolls of me.
Me:
I guess I could go camping somewhere?
Chelsea:
Camping? Are you insane?!! People get murdered by serial killers when they go camping, not to mention the shocking toilet arrangements. Ugh.
Despite my current predicament, I smile at my screen. That is so Chelsea. Ever the drama queen. Before I have the chance to reply another message arrives from her.
Chelsea:
I have a friend who has a house in the most beautiful spot just outside a small town not too far from Tleurbonne. It’s close to the sea, I think.
Me:
Do you mean the Mediterranean?
I add the face with rolling eyes emoji because surely even self-absorbed Chelsea has heard of the Med.
Chelsea:
Sure.
It’s called Montelac and it has a population of only 653 people, a large proportion of which are older residents who have lived there their whole lives. It’s one of the last places in Malveaux that isn’t on the tourist map.
I blink at my screen. She knows the town’s population and the average age of the residents. I tap out my reply.
Me:
Did you just swallow a travel brochure?
Chelsea:
It’s called Google. You should get acquainted.
Me:
Noted.
Chelsea:
Let me check with my friend, although he has so many houses, I’m sure he won’t miss it if you stay in this one for a couple weeks.
I sift through the idea. A town of only six hundred or so people could be small enough that, if they do recognize me, they won't care. Either that or I could hide away and forget about the rest of the world for a while.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Chelsea:
Dion says you can have the house!
Me:
Dion? As in our agent Dion?
Why didn’t she just say that it was his house?
Chelsea:
Duh.
Helpful.
Chelsea:
He’s super excited about you visiting. Says it’s on a lake that’s called Lake of Dreams. It sounds amazing! You should def go.
Me:
Are you with him right now or something?
I glance at the time on my phone. It must be the middle of the night in LA.
Chelsea:
We’re hanging out.
Me:
Hanging out?
Chelsea:
You know how it goes.
Me:
Uh, no?
Chelsea:
So, the house?
Me:
Let me think about it.
Chelsea:
Dion says don’t take too long deciding. Love you! xoxoxoxoxo
I may be leaping to conclusions here, but if Chelsea is with our agent at this time… No. She wouldn’t. Would she?
I push the idea from my mind. Whatever Chelsea is up to, I’ve got bigger things on my mind. On edge, I glance around. People seem to be minding their own business, talking on their phones, relaxing in the sun, walking their dogs.
I relax a notch.
So there was one photo of me. Big deal. I won't eat breakfast at that café again. Easy. I don't have to go running away to a house Dion owns in a town filled with the elderly. That's taking things a step too far.
I'll be fine here, particularly now that I have my ingenious disguise.
I take another bite of my sandwich, only now there's not even a hint of cardboard. Finishing it off, I drop the wrapper in a trash can on the street outside my hotel. When I pull open the glass door, I spot a group of men lounging on the lobby sofas. Dressed in dark, practical clothing, heavy camera gear strapped across their bodies, and a disheveled appearance, they're such a paparazzi cliché they look like they'd taken a visit to the costume store.
My heart instantly begins to beat like a drum, the pressure in my chest I felt that night on the red carpet returning and pinching hard.
How do they know I'm staying here? Did someone tip them off?
And, most importantly, will they recognize me in my new disguise?
Without pausing to find the answer to any of my questions, I put my head down and make a beeline for the stairway. I dash up flight after flight until I reach my floor, thankful for Jorge’s cardio drills at my regular PT sessions. Outside my room, my breath labored from exertion, the room card opens my door with a beep , and I step inside, closing and locking it behind me.
I need to get out of this place.
I need to go somewhere else, somewhere that's not a main city. A place less populated, preferably a place that doesn't have TV or streaming services.
Yeah, I might need a time machine for that.
Who knew the show was so big in Malveaux? I knew it had a global audience, but no clue that I was this famous in this little country.
What is clear to me is I can't stay in this city undetected, which means I can't get the break I so desperately need to get my head together.
I blow out a breath. Two days. That's all it took for them to find me. Forty-eight hours.
I stuff my clothes into my backpack, grabbing all my toiletries, and changing my shoes from my comfortable sneakers to the only black shoes I've got: another pair of sneakers. I glance in the mirror and see my pale face staring back.
I collect my phone and do a quick bit of research. That small town Chelsea mentioned, Montelac, sounds perfect right now. A quick google tells me I can get a train to C?te-des-Papillons and then transfer there by bus.
Decision made.
As I sling my backpack over my shoulders, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The dark eye liner Amy applied makes my eyes look huge. Combined with the black of my wig and T-shirt sucking any color from my skin, I don’t look much like me at all. Maybe I can get by the paparazzi in the lobby, and then on to a train station, without being spotted?
Man, this is what my life has become?
My mom asked me only last month if my life was everything I'd hoped for. I lied and said yes because I had no clue how to explain that achieving my dream feels a lot like losing myself.
I rush down the staircase, pausing at the door on the ground floor to peer through the small window into the lobby. The paps are still there, eagerly expecting their prey, like lions lying in the long grass, awaiting their lunch.
It’s now or never, Roberts.
I take a breath, edge the door open, and put my head down as I aim for the exit. As a man pushes through the door to come inside, one of the men says something that sounds a lot like my name. I don’t react. I don’t even look at them. I just keep moving with purpose, as though I’m a random goth who’s got places to go and people to see—all the while hoping against all things holy these guys don’t work out who I really am.
My hope is in vain.
Looking over my shoulder, I see the men rising to their feet, their cameras at the ready. Have they worked out it’s me? Or do they think the poor schmuck I passed as I exited the hotel is someone worthy of documenting?
I’m not about to hang around to find out.
I stride down the street, following the path plotted on Google Maps to get to the train station. As I turn onto a main street, I dodge groups of kids and businesspeople, keeping my head down. After a few minutes, there's no one calling my name. I look over my shoulder.
No sign of the paps.
I slow my pace, letting out a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding.
Eventually, I reach Tleurbonne Central Station, where I line up along with others to buy a ticket to C?te-des-Papillons. When it’s my turn, I fumble my way through, not knowing a word of Malveauxian. Luckily, the woman behind the desk speaks some English, and I learn that the next train departs from Platform 12 in less than twenty minutes.
I climb on board and find my row. The carriage is empty but for a couple of older women in floral dresses who are too busy talking to notice me. I pull off my wig, now damp from my exertion, and stuff it into my bag before I take my seat, hoping to blend into the dark interior.
I pull up the browser on my phone and search for my name. Staring back is the image of me enjoying a cup of coffee this morning. The headline reads Warlord Rowan Thornheart Thaws in Malveaux.
Not exactly original.
What the article doesn't capture is how desperately I just want a cup of coffee without it becoming news. Or how much I miss conversations that don’t involve my career trajectory or relationship status. The last real conversation I had with someone who wasn't trying to get something from me was… well, it was with Amy in that costume store.
Maybe that's why I'd felt that strange pull to keep talking to her. When she looked at me, she really looked at me. She didn’t look through me or past me or wanting to know what I could do for her. She saw Maverick, not Ethan Roberts, not Rowan Thornheart. And somehow that felt more real than anything I’ve experienced in months.
Ironic, I know.
The carriage begins to fill with travelers, some heavy-laden with luggage, some with shopping bags. I slink down further in my seat and concentrate on reading a book on my phone, hoping I look different enough for no one to recognize me.
I take a deep, calming breath, hold it, and then let it out.
The next thing I know, a whistle sounds, and someone calls out something in Malveauxian, which I can only assume is “All aboard!” by the fact a guard dressed in a dark blue uniform and hat steps onto the carriage and the doors begin to close over.
No sooner have they almost shut when they ping back open.
I slide further down in my seat. A woman's voice rings out. The Paparazzi don't appear to be an equal opportunities employer, most of them men, so my bet is she’s not a pap. She’s speaking in rapid Malveauxian, but there’s something familiar about it.
I push myself up in my seat to catch a glimpse of her.
What I see takes me completely by surprise.
Standing there, speaking rapidly to the guard as she thrusts a ticket into his hand, is none other than my fellow goth, Amy.
My heart does a strange little skip. It's her. The one person who sees me as just a person, not a photo opportunity or a celebrity sighting.
For a split second, I consider slinking further down in my seat, avoiding any complications. But something pulls me toward her. Maybe it’s the chance for one more genuine conversation before I disappear into Dion's lake house to lick my wounds in solitude?
Or maybe it's just that in a world where everyone wants a piece of Ethan Roberts, here’s someone who simply wants to debate the merits of goth wigs with Maverick Mitchell.