A/N: Welp, I'm back. I had every intention of just writing my little canon story and staying stress-free for the next few weeks/months, but I've been unable to let go of this idea, and I've been super excited about it since it was suggested to me, so now that I've finished Palm Trees, here I am. A quick note: this is based on the story North Country by Roxane Gay. I highly suggest reading it if you haven't already - it's a short read, and it's beautiful and much better than what you're going to read here, lol. But I hope you enjoy this, too! This is pretty much a prologue, so forgive me for the lack of Richonne. -Ash
Chapter 1
Hurt
"Breakfast is ready, babe!"
Michonne inhaled softly and exhaled sharply as her fiancé's deep voice echoed throughout their home. She'd just opened up her laptop to get started on some work for the day, knowing she was unlikely to do much of anything later, but she was well aware he wouldn't rest, or even leave for work himself, if she didn't get some food in her stomach. If it weren't so thoughtful, it would've been weird that he treated her like she was still pregnant. Maybe it was weird anyway. Not that she had room to talk.
"I'm coming," she answered him, her voice barely reaching the hall as she trudged from her office area to their pristine kitchen. There he was, standing at the stove in half of his dark gray suit, a navy apron wrapped around his slim frame. She took a slow seat at the counter in the middle of the open room, waiting for him to serve her. "It smells good," she commented to his back.
"Damn right it does," he returned emphatically. Within seconds, he was placing a square white plate in front of her, hoping she'd be as excited to eat the sausage and peppers as he was to make it. She would've had a pan of biscuits to go with it if he'd had the time or thought she'd actually eat them. "Buon appetito, baby."
She forced a smile at the dish that looked more like dinner than breakast, but she certainly wasn't going to complain. It was 5 o'clock somewhere, she supposed. "Thank you," she replied, accepting the fork and knife that he handed over next.
Negan returned to the stove to clean up after himself, popping a piece of sausage into his mouth as he moved around. "Are you headed to the office today, or is this another 'telework' day?" he wondered. By his count, this was the eighth consecutive day of her padding around the house in her sweats and a robe, her locs flat and messy as they hid her beautiful face. He thought perhaps going outside would do her some good, but never knew exactly how to broach the topic. "I can drop you off on my way in…"
"I'm teleworking," she answered dryly, using her utensils to cut her food into even smaller pieces. Admittedly, it was debatable that what she did these days could be considered work. She often found herself distracted or staring into space within a couple of hours, before inevitably ending up in front of the TV, watching the Hallmark Channel. She and Columbo had a running appointment every morning at this point. Not even her job gave her fulfillment anymore.
"You want coffee?" he asked, his mouth full as he continued to bustle across the kitchen. "Juice?"
"Just water is fine," she shook her head.
He sighed at her frigidness – frustrated by it, even when he knew it wasn't her fault – and went to the refrigerator to retrieve the Brita. "I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies tonight," he suggested. "I've heard good shit about that Dunkirk movie. Or y'know, maybe Girls Trip… something to make you laugh."
She appreciated his considerate attempts to distract her. He'd been at it for nearly three months now and it hadn't been working. But the thought of having to get dressed… going to the movies on a Monday? "I'm good," she declined. "The Bachelorette is on tonight."
"Right," he nodded. Reminded for the nth time that his brilliant, charming, scientist of a future wife was so depressed that she didn't want to do anything but watch TV these days. And not just TV, but bad TV. And he hadn't the slightest fucking clue how to fix it. Certainly not when he had his own shit to work through. His little suggestions only seemed to annoy her. Every book he suggested went unread. She'd tried therapy a couple of times, but never found one she liked — a good fit was like a needle in a haystack. Their friends suggested a dog, because they make everything better, obviously, but he couldn't be sure that wouldn't make it worse. "Well, maybe this weekend," he conceded, pouring her a glass of water.
"Maybe so." She finally took a bite of her food, just to avoid having to add anything to this conversation. She watched him absently as he washed out the pan he used and cleaned off the stove, leaving everything spotless, the way he found it. This was their daily routine. Or it had been for the last several months, anyway. He was kind to her, even when she gave him nothing in return, and he didn't deserve that, she knew. Every morning, she woke up saying today would be a good day. She would be in a better mood; be more like Negan. And every day, she failed, falling deeper into her depression than the day before. "Food's good," she offered as a way of giving him something. Something to say she was still there.
He smiled back at her as he threw a dishtowel over the edge of the sink, then moved across the room to plant a quick goodbye kiss on her lips. "It's supposed to be a nice day," he said. He couldn't help but nudge her one more time. "Maybe take a walk. Even if it's just to the mailbox."
Again, she tried to smile as he stared into her eyes, and she wanted to be able to tell him she would. But instead she just ran a hand through his soft hair. "I'll see you later."
Negan dropped his head in disappointment, but he relented. He understood. "Should be home around my usual time," he said. He retrieved his suit jacket from the stair bannister on his way toward the door. "I am all in on Rachel and Peter, so I'm ready to see how this meet-the-family shit goes."
Michonne smiled genuinely for the first time all morning as he headed out, their alarm system chiming just at the telephone started to ring. Her expression fell as she listened to the Caller ID announce the caller – Michael Mellone, which she instantly recognized as Negan's mother. Why this woman insisted on calling the house instead of her son directly, she couldn't figure out. They only had a home phone because it came with the cable. "Hello?" she decided to answer – against her better judgment, knowing how much her soon-to-be mother-in-law liked to talk.
"Michonne?" the voice on the other end replied, her thick Queens accent taking hold within those two syllables alone. "It's Lucille. How are you, sweetheart?"
"I'm good," she answered without thinking; without wanting to think about it. "You actually just missed Negan, but I'm sure he has his phone on him, so you can catch him in the car."
"Oh, no, I wasn't looking for him," she returned. "I just talked to him yesterday, so he can wait."
"Oh." Michonne tried and failed not to sound chagrined by the idea that Lucille specifically wanted to talk to her. She could only imagine what about.
"I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay," she went on. "You don't call, you don't use Facebook anymore… This is the only way I have to check on you."
Michonne nodded into the phone. She wished she'd been smart enough to keep up the façade, if only to avoid phone calls like this. Her own mother did the same; always worried about her. What ever happened to the adage, 'No news is good news'? "I really am okay, Lucille," she said. "I've gone back to work, and things are good."
"Negan says you're mostly working from home now. That you don't even get dressed anymore..."
"That's because I don't have to get dressed," she shot back, her tone clipped. She immediately softened when she heard herself. "I mean, it's the same thing as me being in the office. I can still do my research and attend my meetings from my bedroom."
"Well I suppose I can't argue with you over that," she relented, though her skepticism was quite apparent. "But I did wanna come down and see you guys before the end of the summer…"
Michonne stared blankly at her full plate, not wanting to answer and encourage such a thing. The last thing she wanted was to be seen. In fact, more than anything, she wanted to disappear. God, give me a way to disappear, she thought to herself.
"Is August a good month for you two?" Lucille went on to ask.
No, god, please, no. "August is fine," she confirmed, ignoring the screaming in her head.
"Okay, well I'll start looking at flights today, and I'll let you know what's good for my budget," she chuckled.
Michonne was too preoccupied with figuring out how she'd get out of this to insist that they'd pay. Maybe she'd be less inclined to come if she couldn't find an affordable flight. "Sounds good," she replied instead. She could feel her entire body shutting down, her mind having already checked out of the conversation. At that point, she would take any way off of the phone she could get. "I actually have a conference call I need to take, but we can talk about this later."
Lucille was disheartened by Michonne's wooden tone... the lifelessness in her voice. She'd hoped Negan was wrong, that she'd hear something else in her when they talked; that once they got to discussing the wedding and whatever else, that she might brighten a little. But they couldn't even get to that before she was rushing her off the phone. Unable to even pretend for a few minutes. "Okay, baby, I'll call you two tonight then."
"Have a good day," she tried to say politely. She knew it didn't sound polite – she had never been a very good actress. In college, she wanted to be part of the theater crew, but they wouldn't allow her to be on stage because she was so bad at emoting. She was a data scientist. She did research on vaccine deserts and studied machine learning and dealt in facts and figures. Not feelings. Which was why none of this shit made sense to her. Why couldn't she just move on with her life? She wanted to wake up and be normal again. Not mope around her gorgeous house with a near perfect man waiting on her, hand and foot, while waiting for her to get better.
But no, she sat at that kitchen counter with her full plate and a phone in her hand that she never used, and she felt the urge to burst into tears. She could feel them burning her eyes, that stirring in her throat, but nothing would come out. She was all cried out. And she didn't know if it was better or worse, wanting to cry – needing to – and not being able to. Nothing made sense.
"All right, gimme a hug, dude." Rick knelt down to his son's eight-year-old level, letting out a contented chuckle as the kid wrapped his arms around his neck. He closed his eyes and stood to his normal 5'11 height as he squeezed his boy affectionately. "I'm gonna miss you," he whispered.
"You always say that," Carl was quick to remind him, his head resting against his father's face.
"That's because I always miss you," he retorted honestly.
"It's just a few days, Dad. Mom does it all the time."
Rick took that opportunity to look at his ex-girlfriend, standing a few feet away. The way she watched them, it did remind him that this was a weekly occurrence for her. "Well I'm sure it's just as hard for her," he offered diplomatically, setting his son back on the floor. He ran his fingers through the kid's short brown hair before letting him go. "I guess I'll see you Friday, bud."
"I love you, Dad," he was sure to say before scurrying off toward his room.
"I love you, too," Rick chuckled again, shaking his head at his rambunctiousness. He envied it though, having so much energy all the time. He was relieved that their kid seemed happy. "He's funny," he commented to Lori as she moved to collect the bag Carl dropped in the foyer.
"He's a lot," she agreed with a smile, passing Rick to lean against the arm of her couch. "He reminds me of you."
"Well, he is my kid, so that's good," he joked, his eyes awkwardly scanning the home they used to share. "Is it – I mean, are you gonna be okay with him for the week?"
"Of course I will," she scoffed. "I'm his mother; I think I can handle more than one weekend at a time."
"I didn't mean it like that," Rick shook his head, smiling to keep the mood between them light. It had taken a long time for them to get to the point where they could be friendly, and he found himself constantly working to keep that harmony between them. "I guess I'm just more worried that I can't handle more than a weekend without him."
"Mmm," she smirked, her eyes briefly studying him and his sullen mood. "Well maybe you'll finally have some time to shave," she teased, referring to the thick, ugly beard he seemed intent on growing for the past few weeks, not to mention his lack of haircut lately. She was surprised their son still recognized him under all that hair.
He chuckled at her ribbing with an amused nod, his fingers instinctively going to scratch his hairy cheeks. "I dunno, I kinda like it. Carl does, too."
"Boys," Lori sighed, rolling her eyes before allowing them to take in the rest of him. She never understood how he wore those heavy boots of his in the dead of summer. "Well, I'm sure you're just gonna go up to your little cabin and build things, so you'll be fine for the week."
"I go up to my 'little cabin'," he retorted, emphasizing her choice of words, "to keep me occupied when I don't have Carl. That's all."
"Oh, you love it up there."
He shrugged, feeling protective of his little home away from home, and matched with a small, timid smile. "I do like the quiet."
"With that one runnin' around all the time, I'm sure you do."
"Which reminds me, he has a swim playdate at Cameron's on Thursday."
She nodded, making a mental note to put that on Carl's calendar for the week. "Oh, which reminds me," she submitted, "Shane wanted to take him to one of the Titans' practice games. Apparently they play not far from you? So I wanted to see if that was okay to take him for a few hours next Saturday..." Her words trailed off, her tone conveying her unease, as she had no idea how Rick would react to the request.
He innately bridled at the mere mention of the guy's name – as he often did – so it didn't help that he apparently now wanted to encroach on his time with his son. It'd been hard enough to trade his weeks for weekends over the summer. But again, he was trying to reestablish a friendship with Lori for the sake of Carl. He wanted to end their constant bickering over custody and visitation and all that. Which meant that at some point, he would have to accept that Shane Walsh was a part of her life, and therefore, would be part of Carl's. "As long as you're there with 'em," he granted. Reluctantly.
"Of course," she promised. "He won't be hanging out with with Carl one-on-one until all four of us are comfortable with that."
Rick smirked, fairly certain that that day would never come for him. Everything had changed so quickly, or at least it seemed that way, and he felt like he was still trying to catch up. "Baby steps," he said, making his way toward the door. "We'll see how this goes first."
"We'll see you Friday," she grinned, clapping his back as he headed out. She felt him flinch at her touch, so she pulled back, but not before leaving him with what she hoped he'd take as kindness. "I really do hope you're doing okay," she said. "I think it's healthy that you're finding a way to get away from it all and recharge. Up in the mountains," she smiled at him wistfully. "I'm jealous."
Rick didn't have a response to that, not coming from the woman that was the reason he needed to get away from it all in the first place. Whenever he saw her, whenever they were in the same room for too long, he felt like his heart was warring with itself – this constant battle between hating her and still being in love with her. Because after ten years, he couldn't just move on. Not even when she'd turned his life upside down, all while she got to be happy with some other guy. And she had the gall to say that she was jealous? No, there was no response for that. "I'll call tonight to say good night," he submitted instead, his tone composed, despite the aggravation bubbling inside him.
He headed for his old Silverado, squinting at the image of his house and his ex in the doorway. He inhaled softly and exhaled sharply, deciding to leave his frustration there in the driveway. Truth be told, he couldn't wait to get to his little cabin, away from it all. Disappear...
By mid-afternoon, Michonne was standing in her bedroom with an open, empty suitcase sitting on her bed, waiting to be packed. She'd been through her full routine at that point – having her breakfast for lunch, answering only the emails that demanded easy answers, then returning to the couch for her viewing of General Hospital. After that, in the lull between daytime TV and the roundup of evening news, she'd made her way upstairs to her unborn baby's room. To sit in the nursery that would never be used, torturing herself with thoughts of what would never be. She knew it was the most unhealthy thing in the world, but like most addicts, she couldn't help herself. She liked the pain she experienced when she stood in front of his crib, picturing him inside it. Because at least she felt something. They'd painted his room in a light gray, with decals of jungle animals dancing along the walls, his name, Anthony, displayed in big, white letters. She always touched her fingers to the 'Y' as she swayed back and forth in the rocking chair that sat in the corner, tears always threatening to fall when she did.
Normally, she'd sit there for a while. She imagined this is how it would've been if he'd lived. She'd rock him to sleep and then watch him in his slumber, knowing she should've used that time to sleep herself. She should've been exhausted because she had a newborn, and his cries constantly ringing throughout the house at 3:00 a.m. made her miserable – in the most wonderful way. Instead, she was exhausted because she couldn't sleep, not for long; haunted by the ghost of the child she delivered, knowing he was already gone.
She wasn't sure what was different about today – perhaps she'd simply reached her limit. But she couldn't sit in that room any longer. She couldn't be in that house, echoing with its emptiness. So five minutes after she settled into his room, she picked herself up and went to her office, and she began to write down her thoughts. She wasn't sure what was going to come out, but once she finished, she realized it was a goodbye. She needed to disappear...
I'm so sorry.
I wanted to be able to do this. I did. I wanted to resume my life after what happened — grieve our loss and move on like a normal person. Like you. But after four months, I'm coming to see that I'm not a normal person. Not anymore. Every moment I spend in this house, every minute I'm with you, I'm in pain. I'm using every scrap of energy I have to block it out. All I do is try not to think about him. Do you know what it's like to ignore every impulse in your brain telling you to do something? It's exhausting. It's why I've turned my focus to TV. I need it so I can pretend to sleep; I need it so I can try to be awake. It's hard for me to even look at you, because I imagine him. I picture this beautiful infant with your face, the face I've seen in all those pictures of you as a kid, and I imagine you walking around the house with him in your arms and it makes me cry. And it's not your fault, but I can't help it. I can't look at myself either, because I still see myself as pregnant. The weight left when he did, I know, but I still see my round belly, full of our baby and it makes me crazy. And it's not my fault, but I can't help it. I'm so tired of seeing these things. I'm tired of sneaking into his room while you're at work and making myself cry so that I don't do it when you're home. I feel like I owe it to you to be okay, except I have no idea how to do that. I'm lost, Negan. And I love you, but it's not fair to either of us to pretend I can do this anymore.
I don't know where I'm going, so please don't try to find me. But know that you didn't do anything to deserve this. You're beautiful and thoughtful and funny and passionate and you deserve better than me; much better than the fate I've resigned you to. So I genuinely hope you find happiness past this. I'm so sorry I wasn't better.
Take care of yourself, please. Your sister and your mother, too. They need you, and you need them.
I have to find a way to take care of me.
-M
