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She backed up, taking the step again and again until it felt right.

Not now. Let it go… But what if?

The doorbell rang a third time.

She berated herself after the step finally landed right. Peeking around the corner, she felt her entire being freeze as blue eyes belonging to Diana Carter-Davenport held her captive through the narrow pane of glass.

“You aren’t pretending to not be home, are you, Alina Marie?”

Though muffled by the glass her name was said in a voice only a mother could produce. No choice remained but to open the door and meet her fate. Diana stepped into her dingy apartment with poise and effortless grace.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, eyes scanning Ali’s ratty form before reaching up and patting her shoulder. “I’ll hug you after you have showered. Off you go.”

“But—”

“No buts. You can’t go to brunch in this state. Shower. Now,” Diana commanded, fixing her with a firm glare.

“I have too many things to do!” Ali cried, the stress of it all about to crack her open like an egg.

“And you will achieve all you need to if you properly care for yourself. If however, you run yourself into the ground, you will not,” Diana said, her tone and expression leaving little room for argument. “You’re not the first artist on a tight deadline and you will not be the last. Shower. Then brunch. Chop, chop!”

She clapped her hands together like the words combined with action might spur Ali into motion.

But Ali’s vision blurred. She stood defeated, caving in on herself as she admitted the horrible wretched truth in a wet whisper.

“I can’t leave.”

Diana stilled, processing for a moment before speaking in a calm voice.

“Why not?”

Ali hung her head, too ashamed of her own weakness. “I just can’t.”

Diana tilted her head down, trying to catch Ali’s gaze. “I need a little more than that, sweetheart.”

“Something might happen to Willow,” Ali admitted, beyond frustrated with herself, stomach twisted up in knots as the worst of her whatifs spilled out. The one she couldn’t resist.

Diana stared at her and Ali stared back, eyes bouncing over her, reading every unspoken word her body was saying. She nodded to herself and moved to the couch, sinking into it. “Come sit with me, please.”

Not a question.

A light patting sound drew her across the room where she all but collapsed into the couch beside Diana. The other woman half-turned, resting one arm on the back of the couch behind her, other hand resting on Ali’s knee.

“Talk to me, Sugar. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Ali crossed her arms, pinning her hands beneath to stop the urge to pick at her own skin, or tap and fidget.

“Stuff and things.”

“Let’s start with the stuff, and then we can work our way through the things,” Diana prompted with practiced ease, her hand pressing warm circles into her knee.

Ali took a shuddering breath, ignoring the creeping anxiety across her skin. Her thoughts collided, each one determined to be the loudest so she plucked at random.

“I have OCD. So my mind likes to tell me if I leave, something will happen to Willow,” she whispered, words tumbling out now. “The apartment will catch fire. There could be an earthquake. A sinkhole. A tornado. Disaster.”

The urge to pick at her skin flared into a burning itch beneath her sleeves. She squeezed her arms tighter over her hands, trying to contain it.

“She could chew on a cord and electrocute herself,” Ali went on, voice breaking. “Or that branch hanging over the sidewalk breaks and crushes me. I can’t really cook. Plus, using knives is sometimes difficult because I might get a thought and—” She swallowed hard, “hurt myself. I need both of my hands right now.”