Addicted to Mr Parks (The Parks Series #2)
Lilly James
Chapter One
I didn’t think my life could sink any lower after being exposed as an alcoholic in front of a man I was—for the first time in my life—gaining feelings for. However, it had. Considerably.
It was Tuesday morning, and I was standing outside my parents’ flat with two holdalls and a large broken suitcase. The suitcase had unzipped as I was carrying it up the flights of stairs and tipped out all my clothes and underwear. I screamed at the top of my lungs out of frustration, then told a passerby to f*ck off when he tried to help me.
Steph had kicked me out, and I had nowhere else to go. Sure, I had savings that could get me a deposit for a flat, but how could I look for a place to live in one day? I thought if I stayed at my parents’ for a couple of nights until I got sorted, it wouldn’t be so bad. However, just standing outside the flat drugged me up to the maximum with anxiety. I had to move back into my childhood home that granted me so many bad memories that I wasn’t sure how I was going to cope with it all.
My shoulders sagged before I brought my knuckles up to the door. Several moments passed until I found the courage to knock, then I heard a slight ruckus from inside.
“Who is it?” my dad called aggressively.
I closed my eyes before calling, “It’s me. Evey.” He didn’t reply right away, which instantly caused my stomach to tense and my mind to race with a thousand accusations.
“Evey? Two seconds, kid. Let me get the key.”
I dropped my heavy bags to my sides and wobbled an impatient knee. My parents were doing something behind the door, I could hear as much, so I knocked again to startle them. “Open up, Dad.”
“I’m coming,” he insisted, unlocking and pulling the door open. I was met by sheepish eyes and smile. Then his focus fell straight onto the bags I had beside my feet. “You bringing your ma old clothes, Evey? You’re a good kid.”
He thought I was bringing my mother old clothes of mine? I wouldn’t have even given my mother an old snot rag, never mind my old clothes.
“No, Dad, I…” I couldn’t bring myself to spit out the words. How the f*ck did I end up back at my parents’ house? I hadn’t lived there since I was sixteen, and I didn’t want to ask them for anything, but it looked like I had no other option. “I need a place to crash for a few days. Steph and I had an argument.” My words came out rushed. If I said them quickly, they would soon enough disappear and I could act like I never said them to begin with.
“Sure. You don’t have to ask, kid. Let me help you. Your ma’s asleep, but I bet she’ll be happy to know you’re coming to stay.” He let go of the door, rushed to pick up my bags, and struggled to take them inside. My dad was scrawny, pale, and too skinny, and my bags probably weighed more than him. He dragged them through the worn-out hallway and into the bedroom that used to be mine. I stopped outside the door, staring into the pale pink room with my heart pounding. I used to be terrified of my bedroom but also terrified to leave it. It was where I was most confined to as a child. Where I was told to stay for more than twenty-four hours at a time most days. I saw it as a punishment room, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. My parents only sent me there so they could take drugs in peace and have friends around on benders without me getting in the way. I would go hours without being allowed to use the toilet. I can still feel the pains in my stomach from holding it in for so long because I was terrified of wetting myself in case of a beating. I was scared of my bedroom, then scared to go back into the rest of the house when my parents told me it was okay to do so. There was always a motive to why my mother would ask me to come out of my room, and it scared me. My father had never struck me, never laid a finger on me, but he allowed my mother to treat me that way, so in my eyes he was just as bad.
“Evey?” my dad pressed, studying my demeanour. I straightened out my back, put on one of my brave smiles, and walked into the bedroom. Thousands of images flashed through my mind when I entered, but I scrunched my eyes shut and pleaded for them to go away.
The room smelt of damp and was freezing cold like the rest of the flat. My single bed with a dirty old duvet and no sheets was still in the room with an old wardrobe that was falling apart. That was it. I was mortified by my surroundings. Mortified that I had to sleep in a shithole bed for the next couple of days until I sorted myself out. Suddenly the streets never seemed so welcome.
“I’ve brought my own bedsheets, anyway,” I told my dad, who was scratching his long, shaggy hair and looking at the bed, embarrassed.
“Shall I leave you to unpack?” he said.
“I won’t be unpacking. I won’t be here for long. I just need a minute.”
It took a second for it to sink into my dad’s head that I wanted to be alone. “Do you want to talk?” He knew details and information was something I didn’t do. I shook my head and sank down onto the bed as he nodded and left the room.
Jesus Christ. What the hell am I thinking?
Running my hands through my hair and down my face, I felt worthless. Maybe abandoned? I mean, I get why Steph kicked me out. She had been fighting for me to stay sober most of my life and I constantly threw her efforts back in her face. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though. Because f*ck, it stung that I lost my best friend. But with Parks, I completely failed to understand his struggle. The distress in his eyes slowly turning to disgust. The shock in his voice which evaporated and switched to anger, like I disgraced him. Why?