My key slides in to the lock easily, the door swinging open, warm air inviting me into the hallway. All the lights in the house are on and the entryway is crowded with snowshoes and jackets hung up on hooks. The puppy my dad got for my mum circles my feet begging for me to pet it. As I bend over to rub behind his ears my father crosses the catwalk on the upper floor, stopping to look down at me. His eyebrows scrunch together, the vein in his neck popping out ever so slightly. He looks like he's been holding his breath since breakfast two weeks ago.

"And just were do you think you've been?" he questions, coming down the stairs. He almost slips on the marble due to his sock clad feet. "Not coming home is not an option, young lady."

"Dad I'm 23. I don't think I need to let you know where I am all the time," I respond as Charles, our butler, takes me coat and hangs it on one of the many hooks in the hall.

"Annabelle, your mother needs you. After what happened with Caroline…well she just worries so much. Besides, while you're still living here you must follow our rules."

I move to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove for tea. "I've asked for a flat. I'd be able to do more work if I didn't have to listen to her screaming all the time. It isn't good for my art."

"We agreed, when you get a real job you can get a real place to live."

I pour hot water into my mug, letting the tea leaves begin to seep, "It is a real job. I make real money from it."

My dad says more but I don't stay around to listen. Instead I head towards the back of the house towards my bedroom. The bed is made but besides that nothing has moved. My big canvas is still sitting in the corner, half a city scene painted on it. I plug my phone into the in-ceiling speakers and blast Die Slow by Health. Somewhere in the house my dad yells for me to turn it down but I ignore him.

Lighting a cigarette I begin to work on my canvas. The paint moves across the material, bringing color to what once was black and white. I try not to think of Cook. Every time his face flashes across my vision anger and sadness bubble up inside. I don't want those emotions in the painting…I don't want those emotions at all. He shouldn't have a right to make me feel that way.

The Cook of my imagination crawls out of the walls, filling my room with his presence. His lips graze my neck, fingers running up and down my arms. I breathe him in. He sits and watches me paint until its dark outside. This Cook never says too much. He doesn't upset me or tell me I'm fucked up.

"This can't keep going on Anna," I mumble to myself as I fall in to bed. I know that holding on to this pretend version of Cook is going to cause me nothing but trouble. I can't base my feelings for real life Cook off of this, and I definitely can't set my standards based on this.

I swallow my pills and fall into an uneasy sleep.

I haven't seen Cook in almost a month. Somehow he found out my phone number but I refuse to take any of this calls. He isn't good for me and I'm not someone he should want to spend his time with. I'll just fuck him up.

I wake up every morning foggy from the drugs. I can't paint until the fog wears off. Instead I spend time with mum. She never gets out of bed. Instead Charles brings her food and books that he picks up from the store in town. Mostly she just sleeps. The lumps in her arms and legs have grown. The doctors don't come by anymore. They say she's a lost cause. They've given her three more months. Most times I'm not even sure she'll last till the end of the week. Ever since Caroline she's lost the will the live. It's like she doesn't care about anyone else in the family.

I sit in bed a lot. I guess I think if I stare at the wall enough something about it will change. Maybe if I stay in bed long enough I can take whatever mum has and give it to myself. Maybe if I stay in bed and think about Caroline enough she'll come back…maybe whoever took her will change their minds and take me instead.

The scale says I've lost five more pounds. I keep drinking tea. I keep giving my breakfast to the puppy. I keep working through lunch and dinner. I keep flushing my afternoon pill down the loo.

I told the imaginary Cook to go away.

"Miss Annabelle, there's a Mr. James Cook here to see you," Charles says through the door. It's the first week of February.

I fall off my stool. "Tell him to go away."

"He's insisting on seeing you…says its an emergency."

"Tell him I don't care."

"Annabelle," I hear a familiar voice from the other side of the door. "Annabelle…please? I'm sorry."

I pull my door open just wide enough for me to look at him. He's got on a red jacket; the knee of his jeans is torn out. He gives me a weak smile. His hands are shoved deep in his pants pockets and he rocks back and forth on his heels; a nervous habit.

"What do you want Cook?"

"Can I please come in?"

"I don't have any clothes on."

"It's four in the afternoon."

I can't help but smile a little, "I'm still naked."

Cook sighs, "You might as well let me in. I'm not leaving till we talk."

"Fine," I pull the door open and let him in. Cook sits down on the bed while I pull a dress over my head.

"I thought you said your dad had a graphic thing. This isn't the house of someone who does graphics. Also you definitely cannot walk from my place to your house."

"So I lied a little. How did you find out where I live?"

"It isn't hard. I just asked around. A house like this is hard to miss. Your dad is a pretty important guy Annabelle. That's not what I came here to talk about though. I miss you."

I sit down on the wooden floor, my head resting on my knees, eyes fixed on Cook. I don't really know what to say back to him. Of course I've missed him as well but I don't want him to know that. I don't even know if I want myself to know that. Feelings don't work very well for me.

"Will you come back to my place? Just for the night. If you don't want to talk to me ever again after that I'll accept it."

"Why is this so important to you?"

"I've lost too many people. I don't want to lose another one because I was a prick."

"You have to promise to talk to me Cook and not be afraid to share stuff. I'm not going to run away just because you don't have a good past."

Cook nods, picking at a string coming off of his shirt. He looks nervous but I can't really say I blame him. I've not given him any kind of hint that I'm happy he's here.

I have half a mind to throw him out and tell him to never come visit again but I can't get the words past my throat. An invisible barrier is holding them down, forcing me to reconsider. My heart wants me to give him another chance. My heart wants me to learn to love and trust again. My brain is screaming for me to push him away.

"One night James Cook. Do not fuck it up."