Author's Note: I want to thank you guys for your patience. I know the slow burn can be torture, but I have really loved writing/developing their friendship. With this fic, it was important to me to establish their mental and emotional connection with each other before a romantic/sexual one. Plus, I think we can all agree we want Michonne healthy before she's in another relationship. So that's where chapter 7 comes in. This chapter focuses on Michonne and her therapy. It's not as heavy with drama as a couple of the other chapters, but I felt it was necessary to devote time showing Michonne's healing process one small victory at a time. Timeframe-wise, about a month passes in this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy reading.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Tell me about your life, Michonne."

Denise Cloyd waited with every ounce of patience existent in the world. Michonne peeked to her left, fleetingly eying the therapist before she returned her sights to the window. She found it was easier to take in the tree line and pale sky outside than it was to meet the therapist's eyes. Not because Denise wasn't welcoming or friendly or personable. But, rather, because the expectation she should unload her innermost thoughts and feelings was foreign to her.

She didn't know where to begin even if she wanted to.

Another glance to Denise told her the therapist was ready to spend the duration of their session in wait. She exhaled a shallow breath, uneasily adjusting the bracelet on her wrist. The words started to form, coming together on her tongue as she considered what should be shared.

"I'm sure you've heard of Sugarhouse," Michonne began.

"Of course. Great coffee. Love those sugar puffs. I had to learn to stay away or I'd gain 50 lbs."

"My father owns the place, but I run it these days. He, um, he's not well enough to anymore. Sugarhouse is important to us. We're trying our best to keep it open. We've been struggling a bit with the payments, but we still have a few weeks 'til the bank's deadline. I'm looking for a second job to help chip in that way too."

"What about your homelife?"

"My homelife?"

"Yes. We will circle back to Sugarhouse, but I'd love to hear some more personal details—so far you've kept it strictly business related. What is your homelife like?"

What a loaded question. Michonne's skin itched with overwhelmed stress merely thinking about the chaos constantly awaiting her at home. The stress bubbled on the inside also, frothing over the edge as a pot left on the stove too long would, and she felt like the lid was about to burst high into the sky despite her futile attempts to let it simmer forgotten and unacknowledged.

"I live with my father, my younger sister and her three boys."

"Your younger sister Mariah?"

Michonne nodded.

"She mentioned she has three boys. They're very close together in age. I'm sure that's a handful."

"Yeah, um…it is…" she swallowed with difficulty, eyes on the window again.

"What are they like—the boys?"

"They get into trouble sometimes, but they're sweet boys. I've gotten Wesley into books. He loves reading. It distracts him. Devon is the one who gets into trouble the most, but I try to have him help me with the chores—keep him busy. Mikel is the youngest. He's teething right now. I'm taking him to his next checkup tomorrow."

"Michonne, do you know what I gathered from that? Besides those boys sound adorable?" Denise asked gently. "You are very involved in their lives, which can be a good thing. As their aunt, it is great you're there as a role model providing them some guidance. However, it sounds like they're your sons."

"Mariah struggles sometimes. She became a mother very young. She was a teenager. Even now, she's only 22—she isn't ready."

"And you're 25."

Michonne stared at the therapist quizzically.

"What I mean, Michonne, is that many would say 25 is pretty young to be in charge of three little boys, too. On top of your full-time job at Sugarhouse," Denise said.

"I don't have a choice. Mariah's not responsible enough and Daddy's not well enough," she blurted before she could catch herself. "Everything's up to me—all of it. Keeping the house going, keeping the business above water, taking care of the boys. It's on me."

"I feel overwhelmed just hearing you talk about it, let alone experiencing that daily. I must say it's a testament to your strength because I believe many would've had a breakdown a long time ago."

"There's no time for a breakdown. I breakdown, everyone breaks down."

"And your boyfriend Zeke. Tell me about him."

"We broke up."

"What happened?"

Michonne let her eyes close at the same time she inhaled some air. Though she'd known going in Ezekiel would be a heavy source for discussion, as soon as the bespectacled therapist brought him up she felt her jitters kick in. Her pulse raced and the muscles in her stomach contracted. Her entire body tensed as if he would walk into the room at any second and overhear what she had to say.

"It happened on Christmas Eve. I invited my friend Rick to the house for dinner. Zeke decided he wanted to come over too. They don't, um, they don't get along. Dinner was fine. Then after…after Rick and I were putting away the dishes I overheard Zeke and Daddy talking."

"What were they talking about?"

"About me," she said, eyes dulling with pain. "Daddy's obsessed with marrying me off to Zeke. He thinks he's looking out for me—he's traditional and wants a man to be around to look after me when he's gone. He's convinced he doesn't have much time left. Anyway, Daddy was asking Zeke when he was going to propose."

"I'm guessing Zeke's answer wasn't too admirable."

Michonne shook her head and said, "Zeke thinks I'm…he thinks I'm damaged. It's my scars. He thinks marrying me would be settling. I overheard everything and so did my friend Rick."

Denise looked disturbed for a slight second, the only reactive emotion to be gleaned off her since the session began. She quickly reverted her expression to the serene calm Michonne had grown used to, then jotted down a couple notes in the book open in her lap.

"Did you confront Zeke and your father about this conversation?"

"Rick did—he punched Zeke. Daddy kicked him out. Rick and I got into a fight, but I knew…I knew it should've been Zeke I was angry with. I broke up with him that night. He didn't want to go. When he did he told me he'd be waiting on my call," Michonne said, fighting tears. She sniffled and squelched the urge to cry as far down as it'd go.

"It doesn't surprise me he would say that to you before he left."

"Zeke always tells me that when we breakup. He's always sure I'll be back. And…and he's right. I always give in. I call him. I show up at his place apologizing—for what I don't know sometimes. I just want peace," she sighed.

"Because you're hoping he'll welcome you with open arms and things will be better this time."

Hearing her thoughts repeated back to her only intensified her impulse to let her tears go. She battled as best she could, eventually giving in and turning them free. They rushed to gloss her eyes and slide down her cheeks, slow but a constant.

"I love Zeke," she confessed finally. "I do."

"And you feel like he loves you too."

She subtly nodded, though she stayed quiet.

"Michonne, I am going to present you with an honest truth I hope you are open to hearing," said Denise with utmost delicacy. She met Michonne's eyes as she spoke, empathy embedded in them. "Zeke does not love you. He will never love you. You have to accept this fact if you want to heal from his emotional abuse."

"I know…" she whispered.

"You have been harmed by a man who deceived you into the belief how he treated you was love. Over the course of your relationship, Zeke has convinced you through his repeated behaviors—his repeated mistreatment of you—you need him. But you don't, Michonne. You can and will heal from the pain he's inflicted on you. I'm going to help you," said Denise adamantly. "Do you know where we start?"

"No…" Michonne shook her head, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan.

"We start with you. You've lived your life doing what's best for everyone else—Zeke, your father, Mariah, the boys. It never ends. When do you live your life for Michonne? Who is Michonne?" Denise asked.

Michonne's insides chilled at the horrifying realization. She found she couldn't answer Denise's question. She hadn't the faintest clue. Her gut reaction was to say something about Sugarhouse or Daddy needing help at home or looking after the boys. Not one response was about herself. More tears leaked out as she stared into her hands in her lap.

"I don't ask you to make you feel bad, Michonne. I ask you because I want you to find out," said Denise. "Today, as soon as you get out of here, I want you to take the rest of the afternoon for yourself—take yourself somewhere—anywhere—treat yourself to your favorite meal or activity. Go to your favorite place. Wear something that makes you feel good. And tonight? I want you to be hands off. I want you to let 'Daddy' and Mariah and whoever else you help out day in, day out handle things for once. Let them be responsible for their own lives tonight. Do you think that's doable?"

"But…Sugarhouse—"

"—forget Sugarhouse. Call in sick." Denise smiled at her.

Michonne slowly returned the gesture.

"And tomorrow," Denise went on. "Soon as you wake up, I want you to write down five things you like about yourself. It might sound cheesy, but if you keep doing it, it becomes second nature—it ingrains itself into your psyche. I need you to get into the habit of holding yourself in high-esteem. I need you to look into the mirror and think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread—okay, maybe not that extreme, but damn near close. Do you think you can do that?"

"Okay," Michonne agreed.

"From here on out, I want you to try and devote at least two hours to yourself every day. Morning or night—you choose. During these two hours I want you to shut out the world and focus on yourself. Do something you love. Many of my clients like to exercise. Some write. Others watch their favorite tv show or read a book. I don't care what it is, but take the time and use it to decompress from what's overwhelming you in your daily life," explained Denise. "Do you have something in mind?"

Michonne's face lit up slightly as she realized it'd been weeks since she'd even laid eyes on a brush. She said, "I think I do."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

After her session with Denise Cloyd, Michonne drove to the Tybee Commons. Her natural inclination was to go straight to Sugarhouse and check on business, but she remembered Denise's words and bypassed the freeway exit. She ignored the guilt and got out her car, heading into the giant shopping mall with only one store in mind.

Artz was the best arts and crafts store on the island. There had been a time in the past where she'd frequented the shop weekly. These days she went months without going anywhere near the place. She pulled open the shop door and wandered inside to instant acknowledgement.

"Michonne! Am I seeing things?" said Jesus, the man at the counter. He had shoulder-length brown hair and still wore his trademark green beanie.

"Hey, Jesus. It's been a while."

"A long while. Where've you been? How're you doing?"

"I'm goo—" she started then stopped the lie. She said, "I've been better—hoping maybe I can clear my head if I start painting and sculpting again."

"Yeah, definitely. I get it. Do you remember the aisle?"

"Of course I do," she said, giving him a small smile. "How can I forget? It hasn't been that long."

Jesus chuckled then picked up his comic book to resume reading. Michonne went down the first aisle, browsing the shelves at a leisure pace to take in the various art supplies. She couldn't remember the last time she went out by herself without a care or worry about her next responsibility. As she reveled in the liberating sensation, it occurred to her how fretful the last couple years of her life had been.

After time, she'd simply grown used to the constant chaos and stress. She'd adapted to it so much so that she forgot what life felt like without it. Next thing she knew, there was a basket hanging off her arm stocked with art supplies. The first couple items she dropped into the basket caused another one of those guilty pangs, as she thought about the high prices of Daddy's medication or the screen door that needed replacement, but then Denise Cloyd's words chased the guilt away…

Today, as soon as you get out of here, I want you to take the rest of the afternoon for yourself—take yourself somewhere—anywhere—treat yourself to your favorite meal or activity.

That propelled her forward. Encouraged her to keep going until she turned up at the counter with a basketful of paints, brushes and sculpting clay. Jesus eyed the basket grinningly then began to ring her up one item at a time.

She left Artz with two brown shopping bags and her legs steered her toward the exit. Again that innate urge to return to her car, get on the road and drive to Sugarhouse arrived without her even consciously realizing it had. She shook away the urge and considered what she wanted to do next that didn't involve stressors. Her eyes landed on a frozen yogurt stand and her stomach gurgled as if sensing her line of thinking.

It'd been hours since she'd eaten anything, and even then the couple bites of a croissant hardly counted. She walked out of Tybee Commons five minutes later with a large double scoop bowl of frozen yogurt, taking her time to eat the strawberry, coconut concoction she'd created.

She thought about what she wanted next and a beam came to her face. She wanted to go to the beach. Spend some time walking on the sand. Sit on the shoreline and watch the waves. Hopefully garner some inspiration for artwork. Maybe even spend the night in the cottage. But there was somewhere else she needed to go; a stop she needed to make first.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It took Michonne a long time to work up the nerve to go inside Daddy's house. She'd limited her contact over the past few weeks to the bare minimum. Even when in his presence, she hadn't been able to look him in the eye. Not without the singe of betrayal and pain pricking her. Daddy sensed she was upset, but he seemed under the impression the breakup with Zeke was the sole reason.

That afternoon she grabbed a small suitcase from her under her bed and began to stuff necessities inside. Only enough things to last her a couple days. Until she figured things out and cleared her head. It would be impossible to do while under Daddy's roof, where she rarely had time to herself let alone a spare moment to sit and think.

Michonne grabbed another sweater from her closet when she heard a car engine in the driveway. A curious frown crept onto her face. The boys were in daycare and school. Mariah was out job hunting. Daddy's bedroom door was closed, which normally signified his naps. She slunk over to her bedroom window and peeled back her curtain to the slightest degree.

Her frown deepened and her breathing ceased.

Zeke's white Lexus idled in the driveway. Both the driver and passenger door opened. Zeke got out from behind the wheel and Daddy got out the passenger side. The two men chatted, their lips moving animatedly. The sash window's thick glass prevented her from eavesdropping. Never did she wish she could read lips more than in that moment.

Still, the sight paralyzed her—terrified her in a way as she realized Daddy was amicable with Zeke. Daddy was still socializing with the man she'd learned to finally admit tormented her for years. By the looks of it, they were chatting as good friends would. They were bonding as father and son would. Her eyes closed and she let the curtain go.

There was a part of her that almost wanted to crawl into bed and give up. Accept that maybe she'd entirely misinterpreted her situation. She'd jumped to wild conclusions and let her imagination run away with her. If Daddy still believed Zeke was a good man then maybe she was the one who was mistaken…

But something stronger inside of her persisted; a resolve which staunchly objected and reminded her she hadn't imagined a damn thing. She hadn't made up Zeke's hurtful words and actions. She hadn't exaggerated. His mistreatment of her was real, whether or not Daddy chose to see it. With her quick spell of self-doubt vanquished, she finished packing.

Only, she grabbed a bigger suitcase.

Fifteen minutes later, Daddy ended his conversation with Zeke. Zeke hopped into his Lexus and drove off. Daddy hobbled inside with his cane. He didn't seem to notice Michonne hovered in the kitchen doorway until he glanced over. He jumped in surprise and almost lost hold of his cane.

"Lovebug," he said. "Didn't see you there. Where's your car?"

"I parked a block over."

"Why would you do that? You have the garage." he chuckled.

"I'm not staying."

"Sugarhouse swamped again, eh?"

"I'm not working at Sugarhouse today. I'm taking a break."

Daddy's puzzlement was clear. His eyes strained, narrowing as he said, "Lovebug, what are you talking 'bout? What's wrong? Why the long face?"

"I can't stay here anymore," said Michonne. She stepped aside to reveal the suitcase behind her, pulling it along with her on her walk to the front door.

"What on earth are you talking 'bout—hold up a second. What's going on? Lovebug, what happened? Tell me what's wrong," he pleaded. Panic inflected itself in his croaky voice as he limped closer. "Is it Zeke? You're missing him?"

"NO!" she blurted out. She gaped at him as if he were insane. She couldn't believe he could be so tone-deaf to her pain. The fact that she'd never raised her voice to Daddy didn't matter as frustration boomed to life. "I told you I never want to see Zeke again! What don't you understand about that?"

"Lovebug, now you don't mean that. Every relationship has issues. You and Zeke can work through things."

"You don't get it. You don't see what Zeke's done to me? You think what he said was okay? You agree with him?"

Daddy's headshakes were vigorous as he said, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed, "no, of course not! I gave Zeke a piece of my mind for what he said 'bout you. Soon as you left with the deputy, I told him off, Lovebug. I let him know he needs to think before he speaks—his heart was in the right place, but the wrong words have consequences."

"What does that even mean?" she shrieked, heart pounding. "He meant what he said. I won't let you tell me he didn't. Not again. He's spent years letting me know I'm damaged and he's settling."

"Zeke explained what he meant. He meant you've changed after the accident—understandably so—and he's had to learn to love the new you."

"He's never loved me."

"He does, Lovebug. He's dying to see you. You just have to give him a chance."

Her heart ached hearing Daddy defend Zeke. Yet, as piercing as the pain was, it nourished her in an inexplicable way, spurring her on to do what she needed to for her sanity. It was the final push she needed to walk out the door as it dawned on her Daddy might never understand. At least not then. Not now.

Michonne gripped the handle of her suitcase and said, "I'm moving out."

"Where will you go? You'll be on the streets," he said worriedly. "It's dangerous for a woman to—"

"—I have a place to stay."

"We need you," he went on beggingly. His features twisted in an expression which called for sympathy and Michonne found she couldn't bear his pitiful gaze. "Who's gonna help take care of the boys? Who's gonna help out at Sugarhouse? Lovebug, we're a team—a family."

"I can't be here anymore. I'll help out at Sugarhouse. For now," she said firmly. "And I'll…I'll come by to check on things, but I can't live here."

"I won't mention Zeke anymore," he mollified. "I promise I won't bring him up. I just didn't want to see you throw a good man away. Zeke says he's willing to marry you. With his promotion at the bank, he can take care of things—"

"—you'll never see him for who he really is, will you? That's exactly why I have to go."

"Lovebug, don't leave me."

Walking out the door, listening to Daddy's feeble plea as he leaned on his cane, was harder than Michonne anticipated. Her father's mental and physical disability weighed on her so much so she almost stopped halfway down the block on her way to the car. She thought about the boys starving for dinner and Daddy missing medical appointments and she almost went back.

"I can't," she repeated. Her hands shook as an addict's would, as the compulsion to give in to guilt rose up. She loaded her suitcase into the Camry's trunk and then drove off as soon as she got in.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Life in the cottage was strangely serene. The seclusion served as an opportunity for Michonne to exercise a sense of individuality she'd forgotten about. She caught up on sleep. She read books and jotted down her self-love exercises Denise assigned. She even, after a couple days stalling, set up an easel and canvas. By the window overlooking the sea, she positioned the easel and picked up a paint brush.

Holding the brush in her hand lightened her heart. The heaviness which lingered from leaving Daddy and the others had continued to burden her in doses, but with the paintbrush in hand, she remembered why she needed to. She began to understand, as she dipped the bristles into the paint, that she couldn't live for the others anymore. She couldn't help them until she helped herself.

Stroke by stroke, the canvas sprung to life with color. Michonne lulled into a trance as she created. The breathless excitement of creativity left her body lax and her fingers nimble. She listened to instinct, letting the brush guide the way in a cathartic quest for healing. The last flick added a glowing touch of gold to what she realized, standing back to take in the finished product, was the North Beach at dusk.

Her lungs expanded to make way for a pride born again, and she slowly smiled.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The knocks diverted her attention. Her eyes left the canvas and shot to the door. Being a quarter past 5 P.M., she tried to imagine who would stumble upon her cottage that evening. Her paintbrush stayed with the palette and easel. She moved on to answer and received a welcomed surprise.

"Evening, ma'am," said Rick, tipping his brown sheriff hat. "I'm responding to a noise complaint."

Unable to dignify his ridiculous intro with real words, Michonne burst into a giggle instead.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to keep it down," he continued in his twang. "What are you doing in here—throwing a party?"

"Yeah, a party of one," Michonne replied with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. "Get in here. How was work?"

"Good. Had some nutjob try to start a brawl over a parking spot, but other than that it was pretty boring. I went by Sugarhouse and you weren't there," Rick said, taking off his hat and walking over to the loveseat sofa. "Figured I'd drop in and say hello."

She smiled at him and said, "I was supposed to check in with Sugarhouse—guess I lost track of time."

"I see." Rick gestured to her cheek, blue gems sparking with humor. "Looks like you've been busy—you got paint all over you."

Michonne held up her arms and glanced down, realizing he was right. A snicker followed and she shrugged, explaining, "I got a little carried away. It's been months since I painted."

"Yeah? What'd you paint?"

"Slow down. Not sure if I'm ready to show anyone yet."

"C'monnnn. It's me. " Rick grinned. "Gimme a sneak peek. I wanna see the next great masterpiece that's gonna be put up in the Savannah Art Museum."

"Your flattery's convincing. Follow me."

He got up off the sofa and trailed her into the bedroom, where she'd propped up the easel by the window. Rick stopped in his tracks as soon as he set sights on the painting. She held her breath, hoping his reaction wasn't too harsh. Then she remembered it was Rick. Unlike Zeke's critical eye, her best friend wouldn't say anything to debase or diminish her artwork.

"You painted this?" Rick asked hushedly.

Michonne nodded, picking up the paintbrush to fiddle with.

Rick gazed at the freshly-coated painting as if taken aback, silent for another long moment. Michonne searched to gauge his reaction.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Like it?" He turned to glance at her, such a subtle action uplifting in itself. He said, "Michonne, I'd hang this up in my house. It's beautiful. You captured everything I love 'bout the North Beach—the horizon along the sea. The lighthouse. Even the seashells in the sand…"

Her skin gone flush, she fiddled with the paint brush some more and said, "then you can have it."

"What d'you mean?"

"I want you to have it," she said simply. "The North Beach is your favorite. Maybe I painted it for you without even realizing it. As a thank you."

Rick's speechlessness reminded her of her first night in the cottage. The night she'd told him he was her best friend. Both times she sensed a thousand thoughts milled in his head. Her intuition told her his silent stun arrived out of a sentimental connection between them. He was touched by her words and gestures, as profoundly as she was by his.

"Thank you," he said huskily, seconds later.

She smiled at him and poked him in the side with her elbow. "Take care of it. It's going to be worth a million bucks someday."

"I told you that's gonna end up being true," Rick chuckled. His eyes kept their luster as they lowered to her baggy, paint tinged t-shirt and jeans. "How 'bout we grab dinner?"

"Funny, I'm starving. But I should probably change first."

"Why? The paint on your clothes tells everybody you're an artist," he teased. The eyebrow-arched expression she gave him was enough of a clue to head back into the living room so that she could change. He made his exit with a nod and a grin.

Michonne shut the bedroom door and consulted with the limited wardrobe she'd packed. In the days since she arrived at the cottage, she'd taken the time to hang up her clothes in the closet and put away others into the dresser drawers. Standing in front of the selection in the closet overwhelmed her.

She thought about her last session with Denise. The therapist advised she rediscover what she liked. What she knew was that she hated the wardrobe she'd donned in recent years. The clothes Zeke insisted she wear to keep her scars, and ultimately her entire body, hidden. What she didn't know was what she felt comfortable in in the aftermath of not only the accident but her breakup with him. She hadn't dressed herself, picking out what she truly wanted, since before the accident.

Michonne perused the rack for what to wear. Blouses ended up tossed on the bed. Skirts and pants too. She shuffled through the clothes on the hangers as she tried not to dissolve into insecurity. Finally, she settled on a dress much shorter than what Zeke encouraged in the past. The sweater dress came up a couple inches above her knee but was still rather modest in the scheme of things. Her scars would remain hidden under its knitted fabric.

She inhaled and pulled the dress over her head. She let herself check the mirror in a fleeting pass. Her braids swayed side to side as she reemerged in the living room suddenly nervous. The slight surprise was in Rick's eyes as he rose off the loveseat. The thought to turn back and change came to mind.

"I wanted to try something different," she muttered.

Rick slowly smiled at her and said, "you look great no matter what you wear, but this is nice. I like that color on you."

"Thanks…"

He seemed to want to say more but kept it there for fear he'd say too much. Her nerves faded as she eyed him curiously and attempted to put her finger on what felt different about him. His demeanor became a mystery to her that she desperately wanted to solve. He interrupted her thoughts by asking her if she was ready.

"Let's go," she said, happy to set out for dinner with her best friend.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Dinner was hilarious. Michonne picked Mr. Dumpling, a Chinese restaurant in the center of Tybee. When she made the choice she had no idea Rick would provide her with endless entertainment at the dinner table. Try as he might, he could not figure out how to use chopsticks. At first she held in her laughs, but after a while, as a dumpling quite literally escaped in a roll onto the floor, she caved and her belly ached with laughter.

Rick's cheeks flashed red and he said, "I'm gonna get the hang of it. Lemme try again."

"Rick, half our dinner is on the floor," said Michonne, mirthful tears in her eyes. "Time to call it quits."

"Noooo…" he said stubbornly. He brought the chopsticks close to his bowl of Chow Mein. Maneuvering the wooden sticks in tandem with each other, he latched onto a heap to bring to his mouth. "See," he boasted with a fast grin. "Look…look I'm doing it."

He spoke too soon. The bundle of noodles slipped out the chopstick's grasp and flopped down the front of his tan sheriff deputy shirt. Michonne exploded into more laughs, endeared by his crestfallen look afterward. The waitress appeared at their table with a pitying smile, a bib and a fork.

"For you," she said, handing both over. "Keep you clean and free of mess."

"Err…thanks," he mumbled.

"Ohh…your uniform," Michonne moaned in sympathy, though humor lingered on the backburner. "Hopefully the stain comes out."

Rick narrowed his gaze and said, "go ahead and gloat. You were right. As usual."

Afterward, the sun setting long ago, they returned to the pier. Most shops were shutting down as the night wore on. They didn't mind. In fact, the less people around the better as they strolled along the pier and enjoyed the effortless conversation. Rick told her about Lori's latest bout of dramatics. She'd called the Sheriff in tears and told him Rick left her pregnant and without a place to live.

"What did Douglas say?" Michonne asked. "Please tell me he didn't believe her."

"He told her there's nothing he can do—she lived under my roof. She's not on the deed to the house. I gave her two weeks to find a place."

"Considering what she did with Robert, that was generous. But I thought she's been staying with her parents in Savannah?"

"She has. She's lying."

In disbelief, Michonne shook her head and said, "she sounds obsessed."

"Bobby's fallen off the face of the planet—she's got nobody else to bother."

"I think you need to be careful, Rick," she said, concerned. "You don't know what she's going to try next. And I wouldn't trust the lab she suggests for a paternity test."

"Trust me, I know," said Rick. "There's one thing that makes me grateful for my cheating asshole of a father. That's his team of lawyers ready for whatever shit she's gonna try and throw my way."

"That's good. What about Anne?"

Rick sputtered. Michonne's lips shifted into a confused frown.

"What?" he asked afterward. He stopped mid-step halfway across the boardwalk. Michonne did too, facing him.

"Anne the registered nurse. My foolishness ruined your date," she said. "Have you called her back? I don't know her but tell her it was my fault. Hopefully she'll understand."

"Ohhh…Anne…nah…" he recovered, rubbing his neck. "I, uh, haven't given her much thought to be honest."

"But it sounded like your date went well 'til you got to the Saloon," Michonne pressed.

"I dunno. We didn't have much chemistry."

"You never know, maybe nerves got in the way. It was one date. You should give it another shot," said Michonne thoughtfully. She stuck her hands in her peacoat pockets and her smile arrived as a mischievous afterthought. "You know I try not to be petty, but I hate what Lori's doing to you. I guess that's why, if I'm honest, I want you to have a new woman in your life. Think about how pissed Lori will be."

"You're right 'bout that. She'll prolly try and tell me off again," said Rick. He shrugged. "But who knows? I've learned I shouldn't rush trying again with a new woman. I'm sure it'll happen when the time is right."

Rick's vague remark puzzled her. She almost clung to her nosiness and probed further, but the topic transformed when he asked her about her therapy sessions.

"How're they going? You don't have to tell me details if you don't want, but are they helping?"

"I think so. I'm following her advice and I feel less stressed," said Michonne softly. "I told you about Zeke and Daddy. He's still defending him."

"I'm not a father, but if a man—if anybody—ever spoke to my daughter that way…"

"We all know what you would do," Michonne said, shooting him a grin. "The guy would probably be in the hospital. But Daddy said he spoke to Zeke—he says I misunderstood what Zeke really meant."

"I get you love your father, but I'm sorry that's bullshit. There was nothing to misunderstand 'bout what Zeke said."

"That's how I know therapy's helping me. If he'd given me that explanation before I probably would've accepted it. Pathetic, isn't it?" she asked, giving off a small laugh. "That's how warped my perception's been. And I'm not saying it's not anymore, because I know I still have a lot to work through, but…I guess what I'm trying to say is, at least I know it's wrong now. I've questioned so many times if I'm crazy."

"You've never been crazy—you were trapped in a bad relationship with a bad guy," said Rick bluntly as they drifted onto the sands, closer to the layered tides. "I can relate to that feeling. That question if maybe it's you and not them. But the biggest lesson I've learned over the past couple months is that it's not us. It's them."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"It wasn't always like that—our relationship," confessed Michonne. "We had good times."

"I'm sure you did. I bet your relationship was different in the beginning."

"He was never perfect—he was always kind of eccentric, but…he wasn't…I wasn't…" Michonne interrupted herself with a sigh. "I guess we both changed for the worse."

"When do you think that change occurred?" Denise asked curiously. "What fueled your relationship to become a toxic one?"

Michonne allowed for a pause to consider the question and then answered, "I was going to breakup with Zeke the summer after we graduated college. I went home first—I wanted to spend a couple weeks with my family. Then it's like everything in my life went wrong in one night. It's like I almost lost everything—my mother, myself…" Her sorrow scrawled itself across her face as sudden fatigue set in. "I was in pretty bad shape. Daddy was too. Mama didn't make it. Zeke…he was there…he showed up to the hospital that night. He never left my side."

"Do you think that's where your sense of obligation to him stems from? Your loyalty?"

"He helped me get through the weeks after we lost her. He was tender. He was thoughtful. I was still banged up. I couldn't think straight. I was grieving. And…I guess…around that time I started letting Zeke decide things," she recalled slowly, tugging on a string on her cardigan. "He seemed to know what was best—he even made sure Daddy was well. He helped with funeral arrangements. He did it all. That's why Daddy loves him and sees him as a son. He really went out of his way to help us out."

"You and your family were in an extremely vulnerable place. It sounds like Ezekiel was there during a dark time and his help gave everyone comfort," observed Denise. "Those sound like the actions of a loving, selfless man. But another part of me wonders differently."

"What do you mean?"

"Michonne, emotional abusers are some of the most manipulative people you can have in your life," said Denise. "Their toxic behavior is not born overnight. These behaviors can be dormant at times until the abuser sees opportunity to gain the upper hand—take control of the person they see as their prey. You mentioned earlier you were going to breakup with Ezekiel after graduation. I'm betting he suspected you were. What were your reasons?"

"We were together for three years. I was ready to move on. Date other men."

"You said he was eccentric. I find that to be an interesting word choice. Can you elaborate?"

"I guess Zeke's biggest flaw—the one that made me realize it was right to break up with him was his…" Michonne trailed off hesitantly. She felt a shiver tingle its way down her spine then paused to recollect her thoughts and start over. "We're both creatives. He's a writer and I'm an artist. It's how we met. We were members of a Creative Arts Council at Savannah U. But, um, Zeke's always been insecure about his writing. He's always looking for validation."

"Interesting. How so?"

"Back in uni, he always felt slighted. If his short story wasn't selected for publication in the campus paper or he lost out on a writing contest he would be pissed for days—I mean he'd go on these bitter rants about how nobody recognized how talented he was. Senior year, my artwork was chosen for a mural on campus. It was a huge deal—it would be this giant display that would be seen by thousands each day. I was beyond ecstatic—it's every creative's dream to receive recognition en masse for their creation. I even had a few prospects lined up postgraduation for my work."

"I'm guessing Zeke wasn't as happy for you as he should've been."

"No, he wasn't. He said he was, but I could see it in his eyes. He was jealous," said Michonne. "We started fighting constantly. That's when I decided he was dead weight—he was baggage I didn't need in my life. I didn't want him to drag me down as I started my art career."

"And that's when the accident happened, and suddenly Zeke was front and center to 'support' you."

"Yeah, that's more or less what happened."

"Michonne, it sounds like Zeke was a negative presence in your life even before you lost your mother—it's only that you were able to consciously recognize he was when you were college seniors. He didn't have an opportunity for manipulation because you were independent and self-sufficient enough to leave him. With the loss of your mother—and the physical and mental impact the accident had on you—he finally had an opening."

"Are you saying…" Michonne faltered, traumatized by the thought. "You're saying Zeke wanted to hurt me after the accident?"

"I'm suggesting Zeke wanted to put you in your place and keep you there. It seems like he seized the chance for role reversal in your relationship. Up until the accident, it sounds like you were the settler. He was out of his league, and it tore his ego up to feel inferior. He saw the toll the accident had on you and flipped things in his favor. But because the actions in the beginning seemed helpful, you developed a blind trust in him that allowed him to gradually wear you down over time," Denise said. "I'm sure it started off with small chips to your self-esteem—it always does with emotional abusers."

"I was very self-conscious about how the scars looked," Michonne revealed. "He told me I was still beautiful, but that I shouldn't expose them—I was saving myself from embarrassing stares and questions."

"And from there he carefully convinced you to alter your style of dress. From there he stripped away your sense of self."

"I went along with it."

"You were in pain and instead of helping you heal, he intensified your insecurity," said Denise gently. "Michonne, it's crucial to keep in mind someone who genuinely loves you would embrace these kinds of changes to your appearance. He would accept you as is, no shaming about your body or playing mind games. What do you think would've been the appropriate and healthy response for him to have following your accident?"

"He shouldn't have told me no one wants to see my scars—that they weren't easy on the eyes," said Michonne aloud. For as difficult as it was to say, she knew it was the truth. "He shouldn't have made me cover them up. He…He never let me show them. Not even when we…"

"When you were intimate?"

"No," she whispered, tears slipping. "When he did want to be with me, he would never touch me there."

"That can have a toll on anyone's self-esteem with time, giving him yet another upper hand in the relationship."

"It did. It made me ashamed to let him see me without my top on. Zeke's particular about sex. It has to be exactly how he wants it. I didn't want to repulse him."

"And how do you feel about your scars?"

"What?"

"Your physical scars. It seems to be a deep-rooted insecurity of yours at this point. We'll touch on the mental 'scars' in a moment," Denise said in clarification. She pushed her glasses up her nose, blinking behind them. "I realize Ezekiel shamed you about them. But, taking him out of the equation, how do you feel about them?"

"I don't…I don't look at them."

"Why not?"

"They remind me of my mother—of what happened."

"Michonne, do you know what your newest homework assignment is for tonight?" Denise asked.

She shook her head as an answer, feeling exhausted from purging so much pent up emotion.

"I want you to go home, look in the mirror—look at your scars. Touch them. You need to learn to accept them as a part of you. They are a part of you. They are proof of your strength and vitality as a human being, and one day someone very special is going to love them as much as he loves you. But you have to love them first," said Denise, smile reassuring.

Michonne left Denise Cloyd's office and made it to her Camry before she let a thought formulate. She sat behind the wheel and eased her breathing. A habitual poison poured into her by default, spiked with negativity and doubt she could ever achieve comfort in her skin. Such venom was difficult to expunge, but with concentrated effort, she banished the poison out of her system. At least in that moment as she replaced it with cautious hope.

"I'm going to be okay," she whispered aloud to no one. She slowly turned the key in the ignition and her eyes flittered up to look herself in the rearview. "Eventually…"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mariah turned up to Sugarhouse that afternoon. Jessie changed out the display case and Michonne poured mailman Theodore Watts his coffee when her younger sister waltzed in giving off a noticeably different air.

"Surprised to see you here," said Michonne. "Everything okay at home?"

"Are you kidding? We're kinda up shit creek without a paddle."

Michonne's shoulders braced and she said, "Mariah, I can't come back—"

"—I know. I get it. We're seeing the same therapist, remember?"

"Then what do you need?" Michonne asked. "Maybe I can take the boys to the park on Sunday. I do miss them…"

"That'd be nice. But I'm not here to ask you for help with the boys."

The kitchen door swung open and Glenn came out with his arms wide carrying a tray of sugar puffs. The 22-year-old pastry chef stumbled when he realized he'd walked in on a conversation between the sisters. He looked from Michonne to Mariah, his skin developing a slight pinkness to it.

"Sorry," he said. "Don't mind me."

"Nah, it's alright, Glenn. We're just talking," answered Mariah.

Glenn nodded though the pink remained. He brought the trays to Jessie who looked amused and then suggested they head back into the kitchen to grab the rest of the fresh pastries. Michonne and Mariah watched the two disappear before they continued.

"I wanna start helping out 'round Sugarhouse," said Mariah. "Like, daily—like, a job."

"Mariah, we've tried this several times. It never works."

"I know. I always fuck it up. I never last long, but please? Michonne, gimme one more shot. I swear I'll try really hard to be a good worker."

"Where is this coming from? Why now?"

Mariah looked down at her colorful acrylic nails and said, "I dunno…I mean…Denise said I need to find a purpose in life—find something to channel my energy into that's not going out drinking and meeting guys. I figured maybe it could be Sugarhouse?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, why the hell not? It's our family business. It's 'bout time I take some pride in it. I really have been looking for a job 'round the island, but then I realized none of those jobs were for me. I want to be here and learn the ropes—learn from you."

"Learn from me," Michonne repeated. Her tone was sarcastic. "Because I'm such a great role model?"

"You're better than you give yourself credit for. Besides, Meesha's bougie ass won't return my calls."

Michonne couldn't stifle the slight laugh as she said, "good to know I'm the second string."

"Aw, c'mon, yanno I'm kidding. Meesha's a bitch. You've always been my favorite sister. So, how 'bout it?"

"We do need extra help these days now that I've cut back my hours."

"See! I can backfill. Just, uh, no ovens or anything. Don't forget I burn whatever I cook."

"I'll make sure to schedule you when Glenn's working," said Michonne. She stared at her younger sister sternly. "Mariah, I'm serious. This is your last chance at Sugarhouse. One more screwup and you're done. Okay?"

"Got it," Mariah said. Her youthful features stretched in a smile. "I'm not gonna let you down."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Michonne let the bath run for several minutes. She lit candles along the marble countertop and had a tape in the stereo playing soothing relaxation music. Over the past couple weeks in the cottage, she'd come to love a soak in the tub before bed. She used the bath as part of her decompress time Denise suggested. In the tub, stretching her limbs and sinking against the cool porcelain, eyes closed, she could truly destress and think.

That night was no different as she tossed the day's outfit into the hamper and pulled on her cotton robe. The melodic notes drifted into the bedroom through the bath's open door, calling her name with temptation. She followed and walked into the bathroom. Her eyes never went to the mirror, as usual when in any state of undress, and that thought struck her over the head hard as an anvil would.

She paused and remembered the latest homework assignment. The nerves arrived on time, regulars whenever she dared to face her bare form. Somehow she found the strength to ignore the uneasiness and let the robe slip past her shoulders to a pool on the floor. Then she worked on meeting the mirror.

Gazing at her reflection, she took in the unevenly healed tissue along her chest. The smaller scars had faded slightly with time, faintly visible flecks on the flesh above her breasts. But it was the large one, the long scar which dipped between her breasts to her upper abdomen that haunted her. Its deep line was like a vein that'd been the bane of her existence for years.

Michonne's breath bated, heart stopped, as her hands shakily rose to cup her breasts. She ran her thumb across her many little scars and eased into rhythmic breathing again. The wonderful feeling of her full, soft breasts surprised her. She held them for a second before her fingers ventured toward the wound which had almost claimed her life. Her fingers traced over the fleshly ridge and the pain came back to her like it was yesterday, intense and paralyzing and seemingly endless.

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she thought about Mama and how the mark always served as a reminder. The scar had always been a source for her pain and misery, but as she stood there and as those tears fell, she decided it was time to redefine what the scars meant to her. Because she could. Because she loved Mama and wanted to honor her memory. Because Mama would be pleased she was still going.

And she wanted nothing more than to make her proud that she'd survived the past few torturous years.

Michonne's exhalation the second she lowered herself into the warm bath was one of pure and genuine peace. She continued to breathe in and out as the milestone she'd made dawned on her. It might not have seemed like much, but she felt brave and even unstoppable in a way as she soaked and mused over the tiny step forward. Her breasts were soft and full and maybe they were not what some deemed ideal-looking anymore, but that shouldn't be her problem. If she could reach a comfort-level with them, accept and brace them for what they were, that was all that mattered in the end.

On that note, Michonne let herself enjoy the rest of her bath with a carefree ease afloat in the tub.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

On Tybee, February was synonymous with drizzle. The short month managed to pack in precipitation most days of the week. This meant raincoats, umbrellas and galoshes were staples. But as February's page began to peel off calendars everywhere, an early spring sprouted to life before their eyes. The sun came out and its rays shone hello again. Puddles dried and windshield wipers no longer worked in overdrive. People stopped scurrying from buildings to their cars and started basking under the warmth as they strolled.

Rick and Michonne were no different. They went to the beach. They took off their shoes and walked barefoot in the sand. They paused to admire variously shaped and colored seashells along the way. They laughed and realized they were perhaps the only two people on the island interested in appraising seashells.

"I can use them for my art," said Michonne, eyebrows high and hands on hips. "What's your excuse?"

"Are you saying I can't appreciate seashells without having a reason?"

"I'm saying it's not the most interesting hobby in the world," she teased.

"You're just mad I found this gem first," said Rick. He held up a spired shell with a distractingly striking sheen. Michonne reached for it but he held the shell just beyond her fingertips. He had no qualms hiding his payback for her teases. In tune with each other, his slow grin spread on his lips the same time hers slunk onto her face.

"Let me see it," she said.

"I'm sorry but finders keepers," he drawled and tilted his head.

"Rick. Let me see it."

She stretched her hands and moved toward him but Rick stepped back and kept it out of reach. Her mouth fell open and she gaped at him in mild surprise.

"Rick!"

"You're gonna have to get your own, Michonne. Seashells are boring, remember?"

Michonne's eyes narrowed and her arms crossed as if stewing. Even then Rick did not cave. He only continued to grin at her, blatantly tickled by her aggravation. She made up her mind. Standing still and staring at him, she deduced he expected her to go for his shell. To try and snatch it out his much larger grasp. She wouldn't be so predictable. But she would go for something else, determined to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his stubbly face.

She surprised him with her lithe speed. She jumped and reached up to pluck the blue baseball cap right off his brown curly head. Then she booked it. She took off across the sandy dunes as fast as her gazelle-like legs could carry her. Her laughter accompanied her, a travel companion in her spontaneous flee.

Rick dashed after her. She was fast but he was too. He was only a step behind as her runaway feet brought her to the shoreline. The jig was up knee-deep in the water. She plodded in haste with the occasional glance over her shoulder. Rick grabbed her about the middle and her bare feet left the wet ground. They spun together a couple times. Their laughs strung together into a contagiously wild and unencumbered melody. They tumbled, balance lost on the slippery sand, and rolled as one to a breathless, excitable stop.

Michonne's cheeks flushed with warmth coming out on top. She pushed herself up, astride him for a brief second as her eyes caught his and her heart fluttered out of cadence. And it occurred to her then in that quick, single second how much things had changed. How her spirit—the very essence of her core—felt lighter and freer in the most wonderful way. She didn't know why she realized this in that moment, meeting Rick's good-humored, blue-eyed gaze, but it brought an unexpected smile to her face. One she couldn't do away with.

In the next second, they untangled themselves and rose, bottom halves dusted with grains of sand. Rick picked up his baseball cap and stuck it on her head.

"You win," he told her with a chuckle.

Her fingers came to shape the bill as she looked up at him, smirked wider and said, "you're never getting this hat back. You realize that, right?"

"Oh, I know. It looks better on you anyway," said Rick. He pointed to the distance, where the pier lights twinkled on with dusk. "C'mon, how 'bout we take a break from slipping and sliding on the shore?"

"Coffee?"

"There you go again. Reading my mind."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

By the time her fifth session rolled around, Michonne thought about her first. The hesitancy she'd felt as she sat fidgeting in an armchair across Denise Cloyd. How she kept her eyes on the window and spoke ambiguously as possible. The paranoia which made her question if somehow Zeke would turn up again and knock her house of cards asunder.

Come her fifth, she plopped down in the armchair and waited for the therapist to do the same. Denise fixed her glasses and apologized for the session beginning late. She asked Michonne for an update since last week and Michonne spared no seconds giving an answer.

"I took the entire weekend off," said Michonne.

"That's good. And did Sugarhouse survive?"

Michonne smiled slightly and said, "it's still going. Mariah's been trying. Jessie's gotten better too."

"I'm glad you see you don't have to overextend yourself so much. Sometimes we need to take a step back and remove ourselves from the equation. How did it feel having the weekend to yourself?"

"It was great," gushed Michonne. "On Saturday I got a chance to finish another sculpture. Then Rick and I went to the beach. Sunday I took the boys to the park. I dropped them off and didn't go inside the house."

"Have you spoken to your father?"

Michonne shook her head. "Daddy won't answer my calls. Anytime I've visited he goes to his room. Mariah says his depression's gotten worse. He feels like I abandoned him."

"Remember how crucial that step was, Michonne. You needed to remove yourself from that environment. It's been a linchpin to your healing," reminded Denise. "The best you can do is hope your father comes to accept and, maybe even understand, your decision."

"It's what I tell myself, but it's hard. If I'm honest, I do feel like I abandoned him. What would Mama think?"

"I'm sure your mother wouldn't want you to be trapped in an abusive relationship. Your mother wouldn't want you to suffer a miserable homelife."

"She loved my father very much. She wouldn't want him to be alone either."

"There's no easy solution. But this does take us back to the idea you must heal first before you try to help your father or anyone else," said Denise. "Everyone grieves differently. I'm sure it's been very traumatic for him to lose his wife. In a way, it almost seems like he's replaced her with you. He feels he's lost his 'rock' a second time."

"I guess I've tried to be that rock. Mama held our family together. When she passed, it's like everything fell apart. Mariah's always been troubled. She had Wesley when Mama was still alive, but when she passed, Mariah went wild—she drank all the time and got involved with drugs and men who hurt her. Meesha moved away. It's like she's in denial. She only calls a couple times a year. And Daddy…Daddy shutdown."

"And yourself?"

Michonne took in a breath and conceded. Once again she'd fallen into the trap. The habit of thinking about herself last. She flattened her palms on her denim and admitted as much to Denise.

"When my body recovered and I was able, I had to be the glue. I had to keep things together as best I could. That's what I've been doing ever since."

"I'm going to ask you a question I don't want you to take offense to," warned Denise slowly. "Michonne, do you think you ever properly grieved the death of your mother?"

A lump lodged itself in her throat and she had to concentrate to keep herself composed. She said, "when I was in the hospital she was all I thought about."

"I'm not sure I'm convinced you've completely processed losing her. I've noticed you don't mention her often. In comparison to the rest of your family, you don't seem to talk about her much."

"I love Mama. I miss her every day."

"I don't mean to imply you don't. I suppose where I'm going with this, Michonne, is that I think you don't let yourself think about your mother very often because the tragedy triggers you. It's the catalyst for everything you currently struggle with. You've distracted yourself with devotion to your loved ones and in the process, you sacrificed your own wellness," Denise explained astutely. "However, I can tell your mother meant the world to you. In fact, she's the only family member who you have relentlessly spoken highly of."

"She was a wonderful woman."

"Our session is almost over, but I would like to give you a new assignment, Michonne. This one to do with your mother."

Tensing, Michonne said, "what to do with Mama?"

"I want you to have a conversation with your mother," said Denise. "I want you to visit her grave and pay respect to her memory—let her know she's still in your heart and you are trying your best to heal and make her proud. I think it will be cathartic for you to release some pain you've avoided confronting. I understand it might be something you have to work up to, but please give it a try."

"Okay," Michonne sighed with dread. "I'll do my best."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Her best was not good enough. A couple days after her session with Miss Cloyd, Michonne got in the Camry, drove to the local florist and bought a bouquet in Mama's memory. She then drove to the most deserted corner of the island, parking outside the cemetery gates. It's where she sat for minutes on end. For an hour as she gripped the flowers and listened to her heart hammer through the silence.

"Just do it," she muttered to herself. Her chest's rise and fall hardly fell in line with her erratic breaths. She licked her lips and chewed the inside of her cheek. "Just try."

But she couldn't. She never got out the car and the petals shed onto the seat beside her as the bouquet rolled onto the car mat below. Her fingers sought the wheel and with a turn of the key, she eventually drove away. Disappointment set in as her beat-up car meandered along the curving stretches of empty road.

For as much progress as she'd made in the past five weeks, a plateau seemed to be reached. She wasn't as ready as she'd hoped to be coming upon the cemetery for the first time in years. The thought she would never be able to do as Denise asked occurred to her. Perhaps that step was too hard to take. It asked too much of her.

Her pager beeped from her purse. Her eyes went to the clock on the dash. She'd forgotten about dinner. Rick had asked her if she wanted to grab a bite to eat. In a more optimistic headspace at the time, she'd happily agreed. She finished the drive to North Beach, turning into the parking lot for the boardwalk.

Her Camry pulled up into a space and she didn't expect the blue eyes staring at her through her car window. Rick waved from his parking spot two spaces over. He shut his truck door and walked over chuckling.

"I paged you earlier to let you know I was running late. Just pulled up now."

Michonne's smile was only half-hearted as she said, "oh…yeah, sorry. I was driving."

His gaze lowered to the battered bouquet laying forgotten on the passenger seat though he made no mention of it. He stepped aside as she opened the driver door and got out. His concern arrived in his voice as he asked her if she were okay.

"You sure you're still up for dinner? We don't have to."

"No…no…I think I need some company tonight," she said. "If you don't mind."

"Are you kidding?" He grinned at her. "Do you hear my stomach grumbling? I've been thinking 'bout our dinner all afternoon."

"Do you mind if I grab my coat from the cottage?"

"'Course not. I'll walk you."

They left the parking lot and moved onto the pathway which led up to the sky-high lighthouse and, in turn, the cottage. Rick seemed to understand her mood as he didn't force conversation but instead kept her company on their walk. Even through her dampened spirits, she recognized how in sync he was with her. She marveled his ability to get her. No one else seemed to without fail. She pulled out the brass key and stuck it in the lock only to discover she didn't need to.

The door was already unlocked.

Michonne glanced at Rick. His brow furrowed. He stepped forward and pushed the door open. Its usual creak was a lot more ominous when facing the unknown inside. He didn't need to go more than a few feet into the cottage before he stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. She came up his side and realized the source of his vexation.

Richard Senior sat on the loveseat with legs crossed and his arm braced along its spine. He was grinning, staring at them expectantly. For the moment, the businessman didn't seem to care his posh suit wrinkled or his Rolex needed adjusting. He told them to join him and have a seat.

Rick didn't move. Instead he asked, "what're you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Mr. Grimes asked in a scoff. He held up his master key and tossed it onto the coffee table. "I own the place, son. Have you forgotten?"

"Since when do you care what's done with it?" Rick asked curtly. "It's not like you don't own dozens of other properties."

"Son, the electric company called me again. I had to come check out the place—you know squatters are a concern," he said. His blue eyes zeroed in on Michonne only for the first real time since she'd met him.

She didn't know how to describe his gaze other than one which bewildered her. His eyes were Rick's. They were vibrant and blue and stunning all things considered, but there was a harsh tinge to them that made his stare slightly unsettling. She wanted to fold her arms and shield herself.

"Is this who's been staying here?" Mr. Grimes asked. "Murray Lawrence's daughter?"

"I don't have to," said Michonne quickly. "I'll pack my things and go."

"Nonsense. I didn't say that, did I?"

"Then what do you want?" Rick snapped, teeth gritted.

"I already told you, son. I stopped by to check out the place. I even questioned if you were the squatter again, so I planned on giving you a pep talk. I've found some viable options for you," said his father proudly. "How 'bout we discuss it over dinner?"

"No thank you. Michonne and I are having dinner."

"I'll join you. Believe it or not," said Richard Senior as he stood. He straightened his tie and ran his hand over his slicked grayish brown hair. "I have something to discuss with you too."

Michonne frowned when she realized he was talking to her. She glanced uncertainly to Rick and said, "Mr. Grimes, like I said, I apologize for staying here. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Not 'bout that. 'Bout that."

The wealthy man moved over to the canvases propped against the wall. The dozen odd paintings Michonne had created over the past few weeks. Michonne stared, dazed by the unexpected turn of events. Meanwhile, Rick glared and let his distrust drip off him.

"These are quite exceptional. I'm assuming you painted these yourself?"

"Yes."

"I have a proposition for you. I have very good friend of mine," said Mr. Grimes. "Jean Bernard. I'm sure you've heard of him. He owns several galleries in the country, the closest being Atlanta—one we share joint ownership of. He's the art aficionado of the two of us so I'm sure he would love to see some of your work. Do you think you would be interested?"

The question threw her for such a loop she didn't know how to answer.

"We can arrange a meeting," he went on, handing over his business card. "I'm sure we can cut you a deal you'll be hard-pressed to turn down."

"Uh, thank you. I'll think about it."

"Michonne…" Rick's stony expression said enough.

"You should if you'd like to make some easy, fast cash," said Mr. Grimes. "Anyway, I better get going if you don't want to have dinner, son. I'll catch you next time. Don't forget those viable options I've found. Gorgeous ones that'll take your breath away." He paused as he moved into the doorway, peeking over his shoulder to grin at the best friends. "My offers will remain on the table. For both of you."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Author's Note: Next chapter, there will be another time jump. We'll check in with Rick and his feelings for his best friend. Also, our lovelies will share a very special moment together. And someone may ask Michonne on a date (don't worry, not Zeke lol). Any guesses who? Thanks for reading and for leaving a review (if you do)! My goal is to keep the weekend updates going. :)