Hey there! I've been big on Christmas stuff lately, having started my annoying X-Mas playlist and gingerbread-flavored everything. This has also bled into writing Christmas-y things. That's where this story comes in. :)
I don't know an exact length, but it shouldn't be too longer than 9 or 10 chapters. The opening is a bit heavy, but more or less this is a lighthearted holiday story featuring Richonne so stay tuned if that's your bag. Hope you enjoy.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
1 – The End of Love
Coming home, the cold air greeted them hello. It came as a welcomed distraction after a long, hot day spent crammed in a little shoebox-sized room. They'd sat on the wobbly chairs opposite Doctor Carson, breath bated for the slightest silver lining. In the end, he'd offered his kindest smile and slipped them a business card to another specialist.
The third one that year. John didn't bother a glance at the card let alone a touch, but she'd humored the doctor. She thanked him and pocketed it. Tucked away with crumpled receipts and gum of indeterminate age, the subconscious hope was that it got lost in the depths of her purse. Otherwise, the 3 by 2-inch piece of paper served as another memento of failure. A reminder unneeded as the strain between them proved more than enough.
In the hall of their home, John tossed the keys and fiddled with the thermostat. He mumbled something about the A.C. on the fritz again, the ultimate cause of a hefty electricity bill. She hardly listened as she set sights on the kitchen. She floated more so than walked there. The veneer she'd worn earlier had fallen by the wayside as soon as they buckled up in the car. Now, only a surreal haze difficult to break engulfed her.
On the kitchen counter, the answering machine blinked neon red. She pressed play.
"Happy Fourth, you two! I know it's a day early, but who celebrates on a Monday?" exclaimed Sasha amid a backdrop of loud music and wordy chatter. "Sorry you couldn't make it but there's always next year. Abe has a couple of cold ones in the fridge for you. He made me say that. Anyway, call me when you get a chance. Alright, bye."
The message ended with a beep and the automated voice informed her another one remained. It segued into the voicemail without granting her a chance to back away. The syrupy recorded voice of Barbara Gipson played and gut punch dread pierced the thick haze surrounding her.
"Hello, Mrs. Berlet. Mr. Negan. This is Barbara from Forever Family, following up on your recent application. I have a few more questions I'd like to get sorted out then we can move onto a one-on-one interview. We can discuss your options moving forward and how the process typically works. If you have any questions, I'd of course be happy to answer. Please give me a call back whenever available. Thank you and Happy Fourth!"
Her finger hovered over the buttons on the machine as the message beeped its ending.
"Delete it."
She peeked over her shoulder and found John in the doorway. His sullen eyes looked beyond her to the fridge, the rest of his face carved like stone. He ambled his way over, pulling the door open and reaching for a cold beer. She hadn't moved a muscle, finger included.
"How can you say that?" she asked.
"I never agreed."
"Yes, you did. Over dinner, when we talked about it at Bonelli's—"
"How many glasses of that damn overpriced wine had I drank? Three? Four? The whole bottle?" He cracked open the beer and downed a swig. His normally slouched posture, denoting a relaxed nature, had shifted. Instead he stood straighter, more upright as he stalked through the kitchen. "That doesn't count. You know that. The fact you went above my head and filled out an application anyway—"
"What's this really about?" she asked exasperatedly. "Just tell me. Spit it out and get it over with."
"You know what it's about!" His voice boomed in the otherwise silent kitchen before he caught himself. After a quick pause to rattle out a breath, he cooled his temper. "We need to press the fuck out of the pause button for a sec. Look where all this scrambling's left us, trying to make shit happen that maybe ain't supposed to."
"This is about what Carson said? Did you miss the back half? His recommendation?"
"Darling, I was sitting right next to you. I heard his words loud and clear—more bullshit to grab more money out our pockets. That's what's going on," he said, a toothy grin on his face. His trademark dark humor improved his mood. "There's a price for everything. If he wanted to help us, he would've a long time ago."
Her head ached so much it hurt to think. She clenched her eyes shut. "So, what do you want? We press pause and then what?"
"Figure out what we're gonna do."
"You don't want to anymore? You're giving up…"
"It's hard to stay invested these days." He chugged some more beer, headed for the arched walkway leading into the living room.
"What does that mean?"
"There you go playing innocent little lamb again. You know what it means. We work long hours day in, day out hardly seeing each other. Sometimes I forget what you look like. And when we do see each other? We fight more than we fuck. But when we do? Look how that turns out, back in some doctor's office acting like we're ready to make one big, happy family! That's a laugh," he ranted no longer holding back. "How can we when you won't even take my fucking last name?"
"You knew that about me before you even asked—"
"And you damn sure meant it!" he snapped.
"It's always an ego thing with you. Always about your pride and feeling like a big man," she fired off in her own flaring temper. Her earlier haze long since evaporated, she followed him into the living room. Their explosive fights rarely ended with a calm ceasefire. "Things aren't going your way and you don't feel like the man making it happen like everybody else, so you quit—you throw in the towel! Fuck you."
"You're welcomed to any time you like, but don't go getting those hopes up again. Shit's getting embarrassing," he sneered, TV remote in hand.
She froze, for once rendered speechless. His words effectively snuffed the fiery ire burning inside her only a second ago. A cold emptiness filled her, but this time the air conditioning wasn't responsible. The devout sensation burrowed deep and spread throughout every inch of her. She gazed at him with an abrupt lens of finality that could no longer be denied.
He spotted the change in her one second too late. The TV remote dropped from his hand and he leapt to his feet off the Lazy Boy recliner. She'd already turned her back to him and started to walk away. Each step carried her closer to their end as she drifted further and further away from him.
"Michonne!" he called after her to no answer. He put down his beer. "Darling, come back. I was an asshole. Let's talk about this. For real this time."
His feeble attempts to rein her in fell on deaf ears as she never looked back.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
1 year, 4 months later…
"I don't normally do this."
"Me neither."
"So, why?"
"Why?"
"Yeah, why tonight? What made you decide tonight was the night for the dreaded blind date?"
Michonne smirked asking the question, eyes alight with humor. Across the table sat the man she'd spend the next couple hours in the company of. Five minutes in, as they ventured past standard introductions and pleasantries, he wasn't so bad. He was definitely easy on the eyes.
"Guess you can say a friend talked me into it," said Rick Grimes. His naturally gritty voice and heavy twang took some time getting used to. "What 'bout you? Surprised to see someone like you out on one of these."
She quirked a brow. "Someone like me?"
"A beautiful, smart woman like you who devotes her time helping children."
"I love kids. They almost always put me in a good mood."
"Meet my son Carl and then tell me if you feel the same," he joked to her soft laugh. "I'm kidding, mostly. He's a good kid. Anyway, you said you're also a writer?"
She hesitated for a second and then nodded. "Yes, I write a weekly column for the Tribune."
"I read it daily and I can't remember if I've ever seen your name."
"I write under a pseudonym."
"Why the mystery?"
"I like the anonymity it affords me, especially considering my job at the community center."
He studied her for a long second, clearly intrigued. "Well, I bet whatever you're writing, it's got me hooked."
"I'm flattered you think you like my work but I'm not sure it's up your alley."
"Try me. I might surprise you," he teased lightly with a chuckle and a single wink.
Michonne's pulse quickened. She relished in the back-and-forth banter brewing between them as it offered exactly what she sought that night. A night out on the town with an attractive man to take her mind off everything preoccupying her during daylight hours. For the course of their dinner, and the soon-to-follow nightcap she'd already decided on, she could turn off her brain and enjoy herself.
"If I'm honest, I cheated," said Rick seconds later. The restaurant's dull yellow lighting colored his eyes several shades darker. Staring into the indigo orbs transfixed her even if momentarily. Arms folded, he leaned closer across the table and dropped his husky voice a notch. "I tried to find out more 'bout you from Shane, but he didn't know much. He promised that your friend thought we'd be a good match."
"Oh, really?"
"Yup, can't say either of 'em are wrong. I'm glad you've decided to have dinner with me…seeing as I'm such a big fan and all of those articles I'm sure I've read," he chuckled heartily.
She pursed her full lips half-instinctively, half-intentionally. His eyes dipped ever so slightly to her mouth. She gave no clue that she'd noticed and spoke rather coolly in a bid to drum up mystery.
"Maybe if you play your cards right, you'll get an autograph from the writer of said articles," she quipped demurely.
But she already knew the answer…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
The door flew open in a frenzy of keys in the locks and entangled, kiss-heavy footsteps. They wandered into the dark apartment flailing for the closest light switch only to fail on several occasions. Michonne finally struck gold when she pulled away to find the ceramic lamp on the hallway table. Beside it, the answering machine glowed red signaling two missed calls. Both from John.
"Maybe we should cool off a sec. Sit down and talk s'more," Rick breathed, watching her stare at the machine. His lips were swollen from their taxi ride kisses.
She gritted her teeth as past emotion threatened to well up in her chest. Shoving those old feelings aside, she spun around and thrust herself into Rick's waiting arms. Kissing him fervently, clutching his face as he stepped back in surprise, she made her intentions loud and clear. He stood still for the briefest moment as if about to withdraw in protest, but soon he gave way to her feminine wiles. His arms fully engulfed her, plucking her off her feet and half-carrying her as they stumbled their way past her chic furniture. She soaked up the sudden assertiveness, aroused by his brazen, go-getter brand of affection. He pulled her down with him, sinking into the desk chair normally reserved for serious thinking. For carefully crafting her weekly column.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, kissing Rick Grimes with reckless abandon, slinky dress riding high up her thighs, it registered that she'd never be able to look at the chair the same way again. She'd need to buy a new one if she ever hoped to write another article let alone another word. No matter, as by the second, Rick's hungry mouth and eager hands proved to be well worth it.
Hands that she'd noticed earlier under the low-lit lamps of the restaurant. That she'd eyed fondly as the fine outlines of veins protruded on the back of them and roused thoughts of what they were capable of in her mind. That she now quickly discovered as they glided up her silken thighs at a slow pace as if afforded all the time in the world. That possessed a perplexing balance of a smooth and rough touch, setting fire to her skin wherever they ventured. Then, suddenly, these workman hands of his gripped her tighter, with a strength and adamancy that made her core clench in wanton need.
She purred a moan into his mouth and rocked in his lap like a cat in heat. The chair beneath them swung back-and-forth the heavier, hotter their affections grew and created a rhythm to lose themselves in. Under her, he twitched to life, unmistakably hard through the fabric of his pants. That spurred her on, grinding herself teasingly over his tented member, driving him into insanity.
He kissed her harder as his arm curved behind her back. The tight flex of muscle supported her, keeping her in place perched in his lap. By now her dress had twisted shamelessly on her waist and she'd undone most buttons on his shirt, dipping beneath the fabric to run her hands down his chest. His head tipped back slightly with a guttural groan as her long nails raked patterns across his skin and she nibbled unforgivably on his neck. Her lips spread in a secret smile.
John always said she could tease anything out of him. He used to tell her she could make a man give up his own name if she really wanted. She hadn't lost her magic touch. Far from it as their lips met again and her hands sought Rick's erection and his breath labored to keep up.
Soon another sound drowned out the smacks of their kisses and creaks of the rocking chair. The telephone on the table against the wall jingled and jangled, louder than any other sound in the apartment. Intent on finishing what they'd started, neither paid the ringing any mind. Rick's mouth had dropped to her collarbone, his hands pushing aside her plunging neckline to knead her pert breasts.
The rings wore out their welcome and the machine beeped as a message recorded.
"It's me again, darling, calling to see if you'll pick up this time," came John's voice. His deep, normally jokey voice bore the notes of forlorn misery. He sighed heavily before continuing. "Wherever you are, I miss you. I've got my phone on me if you wanna call me back. I'm here."
When the beep sounded again, a mood shifted tangibly in the air. Michonne felt it immediately, but ignored it. Rick had gone still, somehow no longer burning up with a feverish need as before. She doubled down with affection, kissing his jaw line and grinding in his lap. He gently disengaged and his eyes found hers.
"Do you…uh…do you need to return that call—"
"No," she murmured moving in for another kiss. Her lips touched his to little response.
He closed his eyes as if torn between warring thoughts then sighed. Her stomach sank before he even uttered the words.
"Maybe this is a mistake. I should go," he rasped.
"Why? We're having fun, right?" she asked, never one to give up easily. She trailed slow kisses down his bearded neck, darting her tongue out for optimum effect. The night could be salvaged. She'd see to it herself.
Rick's hands grasped her waist on either side and he eased her off of him and to a stand. Rising himself, he straightened his shirt and fastened the buttons. "Guess I was right when I said I don't normally do this. I shouldn't've agreed to come over. This isn't my kinda thing."
Michonne raked her teeth over her bottom lip and fought off impending aggravation. She fixed her dress feeling hot for all the wrong reasons. To think the night had ever looked promising. That Rick Grimes could be a worthy choice for said promising night. She felt ridiculous, like a desperate fool wasting time for no payoff.
"I'd like to see you again," he said into the gauche silence. "I had a great time."
"Yeah, me too. Do you remember the way out?" she asked disinterestedly as she turned her back to collect her heels from the floor.
He didn't budge an inch. "I do. And I'm serious. I'd like to take you out again. Is it alright if I call you?"
"Right, sure. Listen, it's better you go, anyway. I have to get up in a few hours. Big meeting about my column."
Rick moved only when she ushered him toward the door, but he never took his eyes off her. His steady blue gaze studied her as if searching for something. Some sort of loophole or opening to combat her dismissive attitude. But she had nothing else for him, no longer interested in even knowing his name.
"Night," she said once he'd crossed the threshold.
"Good night, Michonne. I'm gonna call you tomorrow, alright?"
"Mhmm. See you around."
The door slammed shut in his face and she strode away with a petty satisfaction fleeting in length. Coming up on the ever-blinking answering machine, she grimaced as a lump rose in her throat. She went to press delete on the three thorns in her side, but changed course of direction at the last second. She pushed play, letting each one play for what would come to be countless times that night.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
At 9 A.M. the next morning, someone pounded on her door. Michonne stirred, rolling over to snatch her robe off the armchair. She'd only finished tying it about her waist when she checked the peephole. Huffing out a sigh, she pulled the door open and let her mother Latrice bustle inside.
"Are you just now getting up?" she asked. In her arms, she hauled a giant box brimming with tinsel and tiny colored bulbs.
"I only have a rewrite to do on my next article. What's that in your arms?"
"Oh, you know, a little extra something." Latrice shot straight through the open layout of Michonne's apartment, stopping at the kitchen island to unload the box. Dusting her hands off, she rounded on her daughter with a wide smile.
"A little something, huh? Those little somethings look like Christmas decorations," said Michonne, peeking into the big brown box. She held up a tin drummer boy and raised her brows. "Mom, how many times do I have to tell you? Decorating my place is not my thing."
"It's all in the spirit of the holidays," answered Latrice airily. She glanced around the clean minimalist apartment full of black and white everything. "Lord knows your place needs some sugar and spice. You sit back and sip some coffee, I'll do the legwork."
"Mom."
"Michonne…"
She raised her brows as high as they'd go gaping into her mother's eyes. When she saw nothing more than a keen interest, she rolled them and sighed. "Fine, but only some lights and maybe a wreath. Besides, it's November 2nd. Who decorates that early?"
"I do." Latrice smiled radiantly, the same one Michonne had also perfected over the years. The 58-year-old widow dug into the box and withdrew a giant wreath wrapped in a red velvet bow. She delicately carried it over to the door, careful not to mess the flowers adorned amongst the leaves and twigs. Only after it hung perfectly in place did she back away with satisfaction.
Michonne smirked to herself. Most who know them both said she was a lot like her mother. Though a learned behavior on her part rather than hereditary, the closer she got to thirty, the more she agreed. Whenever Mama Latrice dedicated herself to a cause, she was all in or else. In her eyes, half-measures didn't exist. The dogged tendency mostly came in handy, but sometimes it also frustrated those around them.
"What's the advice this week, Dear Abby?" she asked, reaching for tinsel.
"Someone wrote to me about a cheating boyfriend."
"What a shame. I hope she kicks him to the curb."
"She did more than that. She burned his shit. Now she wants to know how else to get over him," Michonne explained. She walked around the kitchen island and pulled open a cabinet. "Coffee?"
Latrice shook her head. "And what did you tell this troubled young lady?"
"To seek therapy."
"Figures I'd raise a woman with a slick mouth," her mother simpered. Shaking her head side-to-side, she smiled. "But you wouldn't have such a big audience for your column without one. Did you know all the ladies at the salon read it every week?"
"So, you've told me a dozen other times."
"I can't help it. I'm very proud of you. Some parents have four kids and they're all duds. Me and Roy? We had one and nobody can tell me she's not a bad mama jama," said Latrice happily.
Michonne cringed mid-pour of coffee. "Mom, how many times do I have to tell you? Nobody says that anymore. You shouldn't either."
"Oh, hush. I'm just reminding you John doesn't know what he's missing. Speaking of, have ya heard from him?" she asked.
"No," Michonne lied. Luckily, she had her back to Latrice and didn't have to worry about her dismal poker face. Besides, she'd rather not bear witness to the hope in her mother's eyes. It always flickered whenever discussing John and their marriage. Even after signing the divorce papers, she still held onto the belief they'd fix things. They'd stopped discussing it for the most part, as it upset her when Michonne promised she'd never give him another chance.
"Well, who knows? Maybe he'll call." Latrice slipped onto the kitchen stool and her cheeks rounded in another delightful smile.
Michonne let the coffee mug give her an excuse not to say anything. She took her time blowing and sipping on the piping hot java. The longer she stalled the more she prayed Latrice would grow bored and change the subject. No such thing happened as she graciously waited for Michonne to say something else about John.
The expectation pinched Michonne's last nerve. Her mother meant well, but at times she bordered on flat out overbearing. She hadn't always been this way. When Michonne and John first got together and in the early year or two of their marriage, she'd largely stayed out of it. The change happened when her father passed and widowed her. Simply put, Mama Latrice had no other children, scarce friends and no job or hobbies to be found. That resulted in her frequent visits to Michonne's apartment, sometimes bearing homecooked food and other times seeking someone to talk to.
"Mom, have you been to that cooking class I told you about? The one Niedermeyer goes to?" she asked.
"Oh, no. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I'm so busy. I don't have the time," she replied flippantly. "Between the dogs and the garden and spending time with you, I don't—"
"The dogs can go a couple hours without you home. The garden's a nonfactor. And I'm twenty-nine. I'll be okay if you don't come by for a week," said Michonne gently. She crossed the kitchen and pulled up the stool beside her. "I was thinking, Sasha's dad Lamar—"
"Don't you even finish that sentence," warned her mother. "That man wears cheap polyester suits and drives a boat car. No thank you."
Michonne couldn't help chuckling between more coffee sips.
"Besides, Roy was it. I don't need anybody else. Shame on you for even asking."
"I'm using your logic against you. It's the holiday season, right? Time for love and togetherness," she teased lightly.
"Oh, really? You call John and then we'll talk."
"Entirely different situation, mother. Anyway, I should probably get dressed sometime today. I think I'm going to do my writing on-the-go before dropping by the community center."
Latrice understood the hint loud and clear. She slipped her purse on her shoulder and stood. "I look forward to reading your next article. Maybe write one that's focused on the holiday season. Love you, God bless."
When the front door shut and Michonne found herself alone again, she grinned and shook her head. Her mother always made her laugh even when she didn't mean to. But what she didn't know was that during their conversation Michonne had decided she would take Latrice up on her holiday advice. Something unexpected but that would wholly put her in the spirit of the season. She'd cooked up an idea for an experiment that could only be fun to put to the test.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"What're you doing?" Shane Walsh asked.
Rick glanced up from the Alexandria Tribune and said, "reading the paper, what's it look like?"
"Looks more like you're searching for something."
"And if I am?"
"Then I'd ask what's that?" Shane dropped into the chair opposite Rick's desk, body lax and legs spread far. "But I think I already know the answer."
"If you do, shoot."
"You're looking for her column, am I right?"
Rick lowered the gray pages and stared. "How'd you know?"
"Figured as much. You forget I've known you for almost two decades. Plus, Rosita mentioned she wrote a column for the Tribune."
"Did she happen to say which one?"
"Nope. And I can't even ask her if I wanted to. We broke up last night," said Shane. Delivering the somber news didn't affect the heavy grin on his craggy face.
"Isn't that the fifth time in a month? Might not be meant to be."
"You'd think that, but I ain't giving up. She's a firecracker in the—"
"Yeah, you've told me. I get it."
Shane's desk phone rang and he ignored the call for several seconds until Captain Jones stuck his head out his office and yelled at him to answer. He half-assed his way through the phone conversation, hung up and returned to his lazy pastime teasing Rick.
"You gonna tell me what happened between you two? I feel like you got lucky. Then again, you always screw things up. You get these girls with those blue eyes and your good guy schtick and then you bail on 'em before sealing the deal," Shane theorized. "Nobody compares to Lori, but somebody's gotta come in second place some time."
"This has nothing to do with Lori."
"Alright, then if nothing else, you need to get a couple in before Carl gets back."
"He'll be here in a week."
"So last night? Is that gonna count for the tally?" Shane reached across his desk and picked up a stress ball, squeezing it between his thick fingers.
Rick's entire face warmed thinking about last night. He'd meant it when he'd said he didn't normally do the whole blind date thing. Hell, he wasn't one for the dating scene itself, period. Most of his dates since divorcing Lori had come his way by chance. A smitten woman in a grocery store aisle heavily implying he ask her out. The mailwoman whose daily delivery route took her to his neighborhood and used it as an excuse to flirt with him. Carl's third grade teacher at one point skipped implication altogether and asked him to dinner herself. But none of the dates he'd been on had been like last night.
He hadn't gone in expecting to find a connection. He certainly hadn't expected to wind up kissing Michonne Berlet until his lips numbed and he'd uncharacteristically thrown caution to the wind. As soon as she smiled at him, reeling him into the back of the taxi with her, he'd been powerless to think straight. It wasn't until her phone rang and some guy left a voice message that he'd come to his senses.
She slammed the door in his face not long after. He'd spent his morning shift on duty doing patrols but also wondering if he should make good on his promise to call her. He wasn't one to give his word lightly. However, she'd been pissed. She wouldn't even look at him. From the second he pulled away, her interest plummeted to the bottom of the ocean. Maybe that's where it would stay. He wasn't one to relentlessly pursue a woman who gave off a disinterested vibe. Oftentimes, he found it awkward guilt tripping and badgering a woman for her time. Instead he usually chose to take them at face value.
So, when Michonne Berlet slammed the door in his face after wishing him a very insincere good night, he'd known the deal. He had no other choice but to accept the entire date as a mismatch whether he liked it or not. Still, that did nothing to quell his curiosity as he held onto the pages of the Tribune with renewed determination. He flipped to the editorial section.
"Well?" Shane prompted.
Rick snapped out of his thoughts. "No."
"Too bad. Rosita said for sure she was pretty laidback."
Rick rolled up the newspaper, grateful when he checked the time. He stood up with car keys in hand. "Listen, spoke to Jones earlier and I'm getting off early. I signed up for some parent committee at the community center. It's for the holiday festival. Carl's big on Christmas so should be a good way to welcome him home."
"Ain't you dad of the year," said Shane, grinning. He tossed the stress ball into the air and caught it. "'Til next time. Maybe I'll set you up with somebody else. When Rosita's talking to me, that is. That's one thing 'bout her—she's got a shit ton of chick friends."
Rick eyed his best friend as he slipped on his jacket and said, "don't hold your breath. Last night was a fluke. Carl's coming home so no more dates for me."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
The November afternoon faded early. By 5 P.M., the streetlights were on and the pale sun was long gone. Michonne had spent the day at the local coffeehouse typing up her rewrite. Whenever writer's block hit her, she'd people watched sitting back and clutching her coffee. Now, as the evening began with a nippy breeze, she bustled about the community center.
In an hour, the meeting for the Christmas Festival committee would commence. Two dozen volunteer parents would fill the meeting room with questions to ask and opinions to offer. They'd likely grow thirsty and hungry somewhere along the way, and so she'd made a point to set up a refreshments table.
"Who bought so many Oreos?" Jessie Anderson asked. She'd unbagged the third pack of chocolate, crème-filled cookies. "Whoever did, apparently thinks they go with Tang."
Michonne laughed. "Blame Noah. That's his idea of snacks."
"Got it. Note: next time send someone old enough to drive," she said.
"I picked up some fruit and veggie trays on my way here so we should be good. But I need Zeke to set up some more tables and chairs over there," Michonne explained. "The volunteer turnout this year is our biggest yet."
"I'm excited! I tried to get Ron involved with the play, but he says it's dumb. Teenagers." The blonde sighed as she crumpled the plastic bags into a single heap.
"Give him time. He'll come around."
"So," said Jessie, smiling. "Rosita mentioned you had a date last night. How'd it go?"
"I'll put it this way, it ended with me listening to John's voicemails."
"That's why I'm afraid of dating again. After Pete, it's like, what's the point? Maybe he's as good as it gets."
"Don't say that." Michonne's usually easygoing air evaporated in that split second before she caught herself and cleared her throat. Glancing at the blonde to inspire hope as she most often times did, she smiled softly. "I'm working on my next set of articles for the Tribune."
"Oooh," Jessie hissed, eyes wide. "I really enjoyed last weeks—the one about the guy with mommy issues. What's up next?"
"I'm doing something different. I talked it over with my editor and instead of doing the standard advice column, I'm going to put my money where my mouth is," she explained mysteriously.
Jessie's thin blonde brows pushed together. "What do you mean?"
Michonne shrugged as she mentally compiled her list of test subjects. "You'll be one of the first to find out."
She left the blonde looking puzzled when Zeke walked through the door alongside Noah. Both promptly took her up on her request to arrange another section of tables and chairs. She thanked them and checked the clock, counting down the minutes until the volunteer meeting began…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rick arrived at the Alexandria Community Center nine minutes before showtime. The parking lot had filled with the cars of other parents. Some brought their kids with them, having recently picked them up from school or other extracurricular activities. He snagged a spot midway down the parking lot and thought about Carl.
In a week's time, he'd be participating in this Christmas Festival with his son. It'd be a bonding experience for them over their first real Christmas since the divorce. Carl had mentioned he wanted to participate in the holiday play as well as setting up the parade floats. Rick didn't care what task he was assigned as a parental volunteer, so long as his son enjoyed himself.
He climbed up the steps to the community center two at a time. Other parents milling about clued him into what room to go to. Conversation buzzed from the meeting room, many chairs already filled as he entered. The community center workers stood at the outer corners of the room, welcoming parents and children in.
A woman with chin-length blonde strands greeted him with a pretty smile and a pamphlet. "Hello, glad you could make it. Choose whatever seat you like. There's also refreshments in the back. I'm Jessie if you have any questions."
Rick swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as heat splotched his skin. "Hi, Jessie. I'm Rick. And, uh, thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
Her smile widened before she moved on to the next parent walking through the door. His eyes followed her. Curiosity flooded him for the next couple seconds until he shook his head and forced himself out of the involuntary daze. He looked around for an empty seat and that's when he stopped altogether.
Michonne Berlet stood at the front of the room, calling for everyone's attention. He hadn't expected to see her so soon. Already in a strange mood from Jessie, he lost whatever grapple he had on his rationale. He lowered himself into the nearest seat and spent the next fifteen minutes wondering if he should go up to her as soon as the meeting ended. Someone asked him a question and he stammered to reply, utterly out of it.
"Huh? What? I'm sorry…"
"I asked you if you wanted the sign-up sheet going around," said the vexed lady beside him. "It's for who's on what project."
"Right. Yeah. I'll take it." He grabbed the clipboard and scanned the list. The sign-ups for festival booths, parade floats, fundraising and a few others were almost full, but he managed to get his name down under the ones Carl expressed interest in. Then he noticed a project with the fewest volunteers yet. The Christmas play itself required any parental volunteers to have experience writing, acting or with stage production. None of which he had. He signed up anyway, spotting Michonne's name among a few short others on the list. "There was that three-little pigs thing in grade school. That counts, right?" he mumbled under his breath.
"Excuse me?" snarled the same vexed woman on his left.
"Nothing. Sorry, talking to myself."
She rolled her eyes and snapped her head to the front.
Rick passed the clipboard to the next person and told himself he hadn't made a mistake. That Michonne Berlet wouldn't scowl seeing him on the volunteer list. Deep down he doubted such was the case. He'd never been one to be so spontaneous, but for the second time in 24 hours, he found himself being exactly that. He sat back in the chair, sighing, and tried to pay attention to the rest of the meeting.
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After the officialities were over, the mingling began. The kids entertained themselves while a few parents hovered nearby and most others walked off to mingle with each other. Michonne and the other youth workers monitored the scene. Zeke charmed a group of parents with a story about an audition he'd gone for in his spare time. Noah engaged some tweens about joining their after-school sports program. Jessie begged Ron to stop stewing in a corner alone. Michonne worked the room, wending through the crowds and graciously socializing with most.
She spotted Rick Grimes from a far and she smirked. She'd seen him as soon as he walked into the room, but she hadn't let him know that. In fact, she hadn't looked at him once since he sat down. He'd stared at her almost unblinkingly the entire meeting. Fortunately for him, she no longer held any ill-will toward him. A day spent writing and drinking coffee, relaxing at the coffeehouse cleared her mind.
Truth be told, he hadn't done anything wrong. It still annoyed her he'd come by her place only to leave her hanging, but she chalked it up to John's pesky calls. Besides, they weren't compatible. Not in a long-term sense, anyway. Physically, the shock of chemistry she'd felt straddling him, moaning under his traveling hands, was hard to forget. But that surmounted to nothing more than a fun romp together. Considering he'd used up his chance and she was a one-time kind of woman, that was that.
Still, she approached from afar. Like a feline ready to pounce, she stalked toward him from between the crowds of people. He looked up from the refreshments table as if sensing her presence. When his eyes found hers, she flashed a bright but calculated smile. Relief flittered over his face.
"Michonne," he husked. "Shoulda known I'd see you here. I was gonna call you—"
"I wouldn't have been home to answer so it doesn't matter," she quipped wittily. She picked up a plastic cup filled with fruit juice. "I saw your name on the sign-up sheets. Pretty ambitious to volunteer for three projects."
He scratched the back of his neck, flushing pink. "Yeah, well, Carl's really excited."
"I didn't know you have theater experience…"
"Uh, yeah. I do."
"From where?" she asked curiously.
He stammered a reply, saying, "well, uh, years ago. I had a starring role in a play. It wasn't professional or anything, but I learned a lot. Plus, Carl wants to be one of the actors so I figured…"
Her desire to call him out on the bold-faced lie rose strongly inside of her. In the end, she passed as she'd already decided on a different use for him. Sipping from her cup, she steered the conversation in a new direction. "So, when did you say Carl gets here?"
"Next week."
"And he's how old?"
"Ten."
Michonne smiled, eyes roving the crowd. They landed on Jessie Anderson and her two boys. Thirteen-year-old Ron continued to unabashedly sulk, but ten-year-old Sam looked excited to have a handful of cookies and juice.
"Ten's a good age," she said. Her eyes shot back to his face. "So I hear, anyway. If you excuse me, I have to go chat with a coworker."
Rick gave a nod and the crowd swallowed her up two footsteps in. The crowd required her to maneuver creatively, sometimes brushing past people. In passing, she mumbled to Zeke that she was taking his name off the list for the Christmas play. The confused man called after her, but she didn't stop, continuing to the other side of the crowd. Once on the opposite end of the room, feet away from Jessie and her boys, she set her first experiment into action.
"Jessie, I'm taking you off the fundraising committee. You're going to be co-producer with me for the play," she said. "Is that alright with you?"
"But I don't have any experience with theater. Zeke's an actor and he's stage direct—"
"It's a long story," interrupted Michonne with a masterful smile. "But it has to do with that experiment I mentioned earlier. You're going to have to trust me."
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Thanks for reading! Any reviews left will never not be a nice surprise that I love. I hope to update again this weekend. :D