Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2)

by Marlow, Francesca

  Sitting up, I lean over and grab a crisp, casually talking as I munch. "Which reminds me, did you see the new boy that moved in down the road? He looks just like Ronan Keating, I swear." I see her physically shudder at the mention of his name.

  As she lies down next to me on the bed, stealing a nacho, she retorts, "You know I hate Ronan Keating. I don't trust his eyes. They scream wannabe playboy. Give me Gary Barlow any day. Or Mark Owen."

  I roll my eyes. "I still say Mark Owen is gay. He talks like a girl and seriously, what is with Gary Barlow’s barnet?"

  We regularly jest about our difference in opinion on boy bands – actually, music in general. Even though we are similar in many ways, we are equally different. I think that’s why we’ve always worked well together. We're like salt and pepper. Completely opposite, but when mixed together, we are an explosive combination.

  As her breathing returns to normal, I offer her the bag and a small, sympathetic smile. "Want to chat about it?"

  She continues to stare back at the television, taking a handful of nachos, sighing back, "Not really. It’s just the usual. My father is a dickhead.” I can tell the smallest of sentences is a struggle. I can hear her try to clear the painful lump from her throat while attempting to shrug it off. Her soft, sad voice croaking out, "You're so lucky to have the dad you have."

  She’s right. I feel truly blessed to have the father I do, but considering what she’s going through, I decide now is not the time to voice my thoughts. I just smile in agreement, eating another crisp.

  "I thought I was until he tried to have the ‘birds and bees’ talk with me the other day. I was like, ‘Eww, dad, please, no.’"

  Bingo! She laughs out loud. I've made her smile, and that warms my heart.

  "Yeah, your dad tried to have that chat with me last week, too. I ran home quicker than I ever have done."

  Her revelation comes as no surprise. He would do that. Not only is she like the sister I never had, but she's also my dad's adopted second daughter. He adores her just as much as I do.

  "Seriously?” I scoff. “He needs to chill out."

  My hand shoots to my mouth as I gasp. "He didn't try and give you any condoms, did he?"

  She pulls something out of her back pocket and tosses it across the room, coupled with a mumble. "You mean this? I didn't dare tell him I've not even started my period yet. I'm, like, the oldest teenager ever to not have got it by now."

  I groan, my eyes wandering attentively as I watch the condom slide across the floor. I can't help but think I might keep it, just in case. A flurry of nervous butterflies flutter in my tummy at the thought of having sex. I’m often curious as to what it will be like after hearing some of the girls at school’s victory stories, but I’m distracted from my thoughts when I hear her quiet ramblings.

  “Still? What is with that?” I mutter before changing the subject, quickly redirecting the conversation to quiz her instead. "Have you still not got anywhere with Matt?"

  “What is with your obsession with me and Matt? And no," she sneers. "Not since he last tried to be funny, grabbed my boob in PE and it hurt so much that I punched him in the face. I’m not his type, and he’s so not mine.”

  I see her wince at the memory, and it makes me chuckle. She's clearly uncomfortable with the thought of going any further with a boy.

  “It was just a boob squeeze, Moffy,” I tease, playfully nudging her as I reach over for the remote to turn the television off. In an attempt to steer us both from this god awful, awkward conversation, I eagerly suggest, “Let’s put some music on.” Jumping up from the bed, I switch the stereo on and hit play on a mix tape we compiled together.

  Moffy has a passion for music. She always has headphones attached to her ears. I think it helps her escape from the real world. I soon find myself bouncing up and down with my hand in the air, as ‘Everybody Get Up’ by Five, blasts out.

  “Oh my god, I love this song!”

  “Me, too. I would so let Jay grab my boob.” She swoons as she sits up on the bed, crossing her legs, singing along before she suddenly snaps her fingers at me. "Hey, I meant to ask you how things went when you met up with Karl at the back of the corner shop last night."

  Just the sound of his name has me blushing. I stop dancing, pushing my hair behind my ears while awkwardly biting my lip.

  "Erm... not a lot, really."

  I stand, pulling at the bottom of my top while she bursts into jazz hands, making siren noises, seizing the opportunity to tease me back.

  "Waaa... Waaa... Waaa... Lie detector’s blaring over here. You so made out with him."

  Shoving her shoulder, I find myself growling.

  "Shut up, Moffy,” I snap, placing my hand on my hip. "At least I'm not scared by a little boob grope."

  She shrugs. "I don't mind saying I'm scared. I don't get why anyone would want to have anything to do with a man’s penis, they are so ugly and big. I'm never having sex. Ever."

  Holding my hands out in front of me, I suppress a giggle and mimic a voice from a recent film I watched, squealing, "It looks like a frozen sausage!” We both laugh before I quickly drop the joke act and find myself slouching down next to her. I can’t seem to stop myself from fidgeting with my fingers as I try to ignore the audible swallow of the awkward lump in my throat. "But I think I want to, you know, do it with him."

  Her eyes go wide, her face scrunching up as she whispers, "Are you serious?"

  I keep looking down, shrugging. "Well, yeah, I think so," I admit, quickly casting a sideways glance in her direction. "He said he loves me."

  I see her roll her eyes and soon detect a shift in her mood. Her snipey side is about to come out. This should be fun…

  "Well, that's okay then. Spread ‘em open and lay like butter, baby. Paris, come on."

  Nudging her arm, I try to keep my sarcasm in check. "Oh, fuck off, Moffy. Loosen up once in a while, would you?” She can be a pain in my arse at times. We hold each other’s gaze for just a while before I decide I’m not going to let this direction in the conversation ruin our good mood and find myself gently slapping her leg to distract her. "Come on. I have an idea."

  She's protective, as usual. While I understand how important it is for her to be ready, I can’t seem to find a way to explain to her that maybe I'm at that point before her. I don’t want to upset her anymore than she already is tonight. Leaping to my feet, I choose to ignore the muttering of, ‘sounds like you're about to be loose enough for the both of us,’ and turn my attention to the task in hand.

  "What idea?" she asks with a small frown upon her face.

  "Let’s go raid my dad’s cabinet and get totally wasted. We can get all dressed up and try get into that club in town," I say excitedly.

  Her expression swiftly changes, and I start to panic, wondering what I just said to make her gulp so loudly.

  "I-I'm not sure. I... What club?"

  "I think it's called Foxy's."

  Sensing her nerves, I move across to pull her up and make the decision to backtrack on my idea. As much as I want to have some fun, I’m not happy to do anything she doesn't feel comfortable doing. Too many people do that to her in her life already.

  "We don't have to do the club. We could just get drunk and crash here instead if you want? I could get my dad to tell yours that you are staying here?"

  She closes her eyes, taking a moment to think about my suggestion before sighing softly in defeat.

  "Let's do it. Go get me the vodka... Quick."

  Judging by her quick change of heart, I'm guessing she's opted for the ‘drowning her sorrows in the hope of forgetting all about it’ option. Going along with her decision, I jump up as spritely as I can and clap my hands together.

  "Yay. This is going to be wicked. Wait here. I'll sneak down and steal a bottle."

  Creeping out of the door on my tiptoes and quietly stepping down the stairs towards the cabinet, I peek around the door, only to spot my mum and dad out in the garden. The strange look on Mum’s fa
ce doesn’t go unnoticed and for a brief moment, I wonder if she's been crying. But I shake off the urge to go investigate and instead choose to turn on my heels and swiftly grab a bottle of spirits from the cupboard. Before I know it, I’m running back upstairs, bursting back into my room and shaking the bottle in the air in victory.

  "I got it," I pant, a little out of breath from the sudden burst of activity.

  Moffy bolts off the bed, snatches it from my hand and unscrews the cap. I stand and watch in complete amazement as she knocks some back far too quickly and soon starts to choke.

  "Holy... Fuck..."

  Rushing over, I pat her back as she coughs."Jesus, Isabella. Go easy on that shit.” Pinching it from her in one swift motion, I take a sip and wince. "Fuck, this is rank."

  She straightens up, her spine stiffening instantly before she snaps back in a pissed off tone, "Do not call me that. That’s… That’s not my name anymore."

  She grabs the bottle back, staring at me through narrowed eyes as she gulps it down. Reminded of the fact she hates to be called by her birth name – another kick in the teeth from her father – I scrunch my eyes together and silently cringe as she begins to consume far more than she could ever hope to handle. I can’t say I blame her for wanting to numb the pain. Her father named her after the woman he had an affair with for fourteen years, and when she found out, just a few weeks ago, we made a pact that we would never refer to her by that name again. It’s why I now call her Moffy. It’s why everybody does.

  Standing back with my arms folded, I snort. "Who's proving a point now?"

  "Just shut up and drink,” she snaps as she shoves the bottle back against my chest.

  Clutching at the bottle, I watch her slump onto my stool at the dresser and look at herself in the mirror. Wracked with guilt, knowing how much she despises that name, I pick up the brush in front of her and start to play with her hair. I didn't purposely call her that. It just slipped out, and now I feel like shit.

  "You're pretty, you know?" I take a quick swig from the bottle before placing it back down next to us both.

  She continues to stare at herself, lost in a trance. "I'm not. That's your department. I'm the best friend with a fat nose," she whispers.

  "Don't be silly. You are. You're beautiful,” I huff, hitting her gently with the brush in my hand.

  "Ouch!" She winces, rubs her head and reaches for the bottle. "That’s not what my dad says. He says I must be someone else's child."

  Disgusted by his actions, I glare at her in the mirror. "Your dad’s a prick," I snap. Noticing a small quiver of her lip, I kiss her head and try to remain calm so I can reassure her. "He has no idea how amazing you are and how lucky he is."

  The tears begin to flow as she looks down and plays with the sleeve of her sweater. "I hate him. I hate that I'm his. I hate that somewhere inside of me there may be a part of me that is exactly like him… Evil."

  I can't stand him. My blood boils knowing the things he does and says to my best friend. I can tend to her wounds, wipe her tears, pick her up whenever she hits rock bottom, but I know there isn’t a thing I can do to stop him because of one simple promise I made to her years ago.

  No one in the Hemsworth household would ever call the police.

  She's petrified of the repercussions to her mother if we did. I soon move down to kneel by her side, passing her a tissue from the box. "Please don't talk like that. You're nothing like him."

  "Yet. Not like him yet," she mutters.

  He has her believing she's worthless. Nothing. Standing up, I turn the stool around, cupping her face tightly in my hands. "Not ever, do you hear me?"

  Her face appears helpless as she whimpers. "It's in my DNA. I'm part arsehole no matter what I do."

  Opening my mouth to speak, I end up shutting it just as fast when I hear a knock at the door, my eyes instantly widening back at Moffy.

  "Shit! Hide the bottle."

  She stuffs it into a drawer, swivelling on the stool and leaning back against the dresser while I jump back onto the bed. My heart is suddenly pounding so hard, I have take a second before I force out a casual reply.

  "Yeah, come in."

  The door gently pushes open before a familiar head peers around.

  "Where's my girl?" Dad says casually, nodding at Moffy as he continues to enter. "Oh, hello, Isabe-, I mean Moffy. I didn't know you were here."

  She gives him a feeble wave and smiles flatly so as not to look like she’s just been up to something she really shouldn’t have been. "Hey, Mr. H. Sorry, I snuck in the window."

  I see her out of the corner of my eye giving me a nervous look. One thing about my dad - he knows more about what we get up to than he lets on. One of the reasons why I love him so much is that he allows me to explore being a typical teenager. Besides, he's probably just here for another birds and the bees talk, so I lazily roll over on the bed and try to act nonchalant.

  "Moffy just came over to hang out, Dad. What's up?"

  He takes a deep breath, making me instantly feel uneasy. Noting the expression on his face, I can see that he doesn't look that great either. "I needed to have a talk with you, angel. But…" His words trail off as he looks over in Moffy's direction.

  "Oh, I can go, Mr. H. I'm sorry. I'll just…" she says awkwardly and starts to stand up.

  "Does she really have to go, Dad? I'll probably tell her anyway.” I frown, desperately trying to scramble off the bed to stop her leaving. I suddenly have a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I'm going to need her.

  Dad drops his head down and just from that one move alone; I’m grateful that she is here. Something tells me this isn't good. Recollecting Mum’s expression in the garden soon makes my stomach sink.

  "Yes, I suppose you will," he replies as he moves over to sit on the bed next to me, his eyes constantly flickering between the two of us.

  "What I'm about to say to you both isn't going to be easy for any of us." As he places his big, warm hand on my knee, instinct kicks in. It's definitely bad. Judging by the change in Moffy's face, she's thinking the same, too. He stares into my eyes, lightly squeezing my leg. Leaning forward, placing my small, dainty hand on his, my heart starts to sink.

  "What is it, Dad? What's wrong?"

  "There's no easy way for me to say this, baby girl." He pauses, his voice breaking the moment his eyes meet mine and stay there. "But, I’m… I’m a little bit sick."

  I hear Moffy's raspy voice float somewhere in the background. “Sick?" But I can’t tear my gaze away from my father. Watching the man who has brought me up for the last sixteen years turn pale, I move up onto my knees, shift into his side and carefully place both my hands on his arm while fighting back the tears.

  "How sick, Daddy?"

  A tear drops down from his eye as he attempts to clear his throat. "Well, the doctor tells me…" Stopping once again as though the words are physically painful to get out, he glances at Moffy, closes his eyes and breathes out in desperation. "I'm so sorry, angel, but I have cancer."

  *******

  This last week, my emotions have been on a wicked roller coaster ride. The first forty-eight hours were spent in total shock, a complete haze of disbelief. The man I’ve loved and admired for sixteen years has just found out he has cancer. My dad. My hero.

  After the first two days, I tried to shut it out. I kept pretending to myself, over and over again. This can’t be happening... Not to us… Not to my family. They have it wrong. I even found myself begging him to get a second opinion. Hell… a third, fourth and fifth one. I was not prepared to accept this traumatic news. I just couldn’t.

  By day five, my fight was subsiding, leaving me feeling exhausted. My brain was mash and my heart shattered. Moffy could see it. I know she was hurting, too, but I couldn’t put a hold on my feelings. Call it selfish, but she was the only one I could allow myself to open up to, despite her pain.

  On day seven, I was broken and angry. My rage completely took over, throwing me into a frenzied whirl
wind, directly towards Moffy. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t think straight. I lost control. The last thing I remember is being gripped tightly, held close and not let go. We cried together until we had no tears left. At that moment, I felt relief, because I knew no matter what happened, I had her, and together, we were strong.

  Quite simply…

  Unconditionally unbreakable.

  Two

  February 1999

  It’s been six months since my dad revealed the devastating news about having cancer. I’d like to say over time it’s eased, but it hasn’t. Nothing’s changed, except finally coming to terms with the fact that possibly, one day, he may no longer be with us. I try to force the horrible thought from my mind every time it rears its ugly head and focus on the positives, although that doesn’t help the aching pain inside.

  One major issue I have plenty of time to focus on is my sodding motorbike. Last month, I accidentally caught my shoe heel on the pedal and ended up bunny hopping into the garage door. Needless to say, even though he’s ill, my dad still has his moments of being disappointed in me. This incident was no exception. He reminded me numerous times to wear the correct footwear when riding. However, being the stubborn teenager I am, with a vain sense of fashion, I have a knack for ignoring his advice. Unfortunately, I have ended up paying in more ways than one. I’ve had to plough all my spare money into trying to fix the goddamn thing myself as Dad refused, which in turn means I’m in trouble for not paying my library fines. Who knew you racked up a bill for not taking a book back on time? Stupid library.

  Today I am glad to have the bike as a distraction. Not because of my dad this time, but Moffy. She had a huge fight with her dad, Terry, last night and ended up on my doorstep, battered and bruised. On her seventeenth birthday. That day will now haunt her for the rest of her life. Tinkering with this bike is the one thing stopping me from going round to her parents’ house and laying into her father with this wrench. I’ve always expected it of him. He’s an abuser. It’s what they do. It’s her mother, Cath, which disappoints me more. How could she watch him lay into my best friend the way he did? Her daughter! I’m torn, my feelings switching from anger to sadness. That they would treat their flesh and blood in such a way disgusts me.