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Chapter

Four

MICHONNE

"Eighteen," Rick says, plopping down onto his living room couch, followed by a sigh of exhaustion. "That's how old Annabella was when she moved out of her mother's house."

"And?" I cast an expectant look in his direction. He pauses with casual indifference to remove his tie and unbutton his shirt collar, smirking at my impatience. I practically hounded him for any scrap of progress as soon as he strode through the front door, the scent of fresh rain trailing in behind him.

Every minute spent in his house bullies me with memories of our past. Even standing here in this familiar living room has me on edge. Despite Deanna's "new" furniture set and curve tv, I am surrounded by the same old cream and brown décor with the 1980's brass chandelier, and that massive Victorian painting passed down through the Grimes family for three generations. Literally, I have stepped back in time, and Rick's persistent boyish good looks only stimulates a pang of desperation, needling me to escape to my own life.

Rick leafs through the pages of his legal pad and hands it over, pointing out the notes I should read. "Didn't go to college. Without saying a word she just packed her bags and left. A bit of a firecracker, according to her mother, was always mixed up with the wrong crowd. Once, at thirteen, she was busted for shoplifting and got off with community service."

As I pace the floor, amazed that I can still decipher his indecipherable handwriting, my mind tries to connect the dots that could lead us to possible answers. Annabella left home as a teen, probably right after she graduated from high school. Yet at twenty three she was an entrepreneur with her own Beauty shop. Within a year of her return to Trinity hills, 'Skin Deep Beauty salon' opened on Faber Avenue which is prime commercial real estate, which means it took her five years to enroll and complete cosmetology school, work, and save enough cash to start up her own business.

"Rosita?" I guess out loud. The older sister works as a loans officer, probably she made it possible for Annabella to get quick approval at the bank.

"No. Not Rosita." He shrugs off the jacket of his dark grey suit tossing it beside him before standing to block my path.

His presence and his smell loom in my intimate space, and immediately I misplaced my line of thought. Tilting his head he shifts sideways to peer at his notes over my shoulder. My eyes lifts towards his Adam's apple, gauging whether or not the old desire to trace my fingertip along the curving line of his neck still sparked somewhere in some 'Rick Grimes' pocket of my heart.

"In the words of Miss Clara Josephine herself," he drawls, "those two girls were polar opposites. Night and day. Fire and ice. It was mission impossible for the two to get along."

"Okay…"

I glance up to catch him staring at me. Our connecting gazes linger. His slightly golden complexion, highlighted by the graying temples and stubble framing his handsome face draw me right in. And those eyes? His eyes are like glass. Captivating.

I thought about my false declaration to him all day. Reassuring him that yes, "We were good," should encourage him to focus on doing the task at hand, the job for which he was hired, instead of obsessing about regaining what we shared in the past. And yes, I know he's obsessing about the failure of our relationship because I could see it in his blue marble eyes. Wistfully looking at me. I wish he would stop. A thick sadness suddenly seeps throughout my rib cage and threatens to leak out.

Throwing my attentions towards Deanna's Christmas cactus, my hands place the yellow paged pad back into his possession, and my feet sought some safe distance. As of late, my life has been one catastrophe after another and if I'm not careful, Rick Grimes and I could easily combust.

"The money came from someone else?"

His eyes narrow with my movements as I pretend to fuss with the flowers, but I ignore the question behind his obvious surveillance.

"Someone, or someplace else," he says, bypassing the weirdness between us. "Daryl's looking into her financials first thing in the morning."

"And Josy's father?"

"Annabella never spoke about him. Not even once. Her mother suspects that things ended badly and that's why her daughter made a sudden retreat to her childhood home. Once Miss Josephine asked for the man's name at least, but Annabella's only response was that he's trouble and not to ask anything about him again because he was no longer a part of her life. However, there is someone who was spending more and more time with her younger daughter. Even Josy talked about him all the time. Apparently he's a strange one. A Mr. Eugene Porter. Works at the Super Green pharmacy just across the street from the beauty salon."

"So what's our next move?"

"If I could, I'd like to talk to this Mr. Porter."

"Okay. You should still have a sit down with Rosita, right? Wouldn't hurt to cover all our bases?"

"Agreed, It wouldn't hurt." Smiling, he pulls off his tie and untucks his shirt. "What's that I'm smelling?" He sucks in a gut full of air.

"Sweet potato casserole. With marshmallows on top. You're mother's trying to fatten me up."

He winks. "Nothing wrong with that."

I shake my head biting back a smile. I really need to get out of this house.

€….€

One hour, a casserole dinner, and two stories about Carl's paranoid science teacher later, I am at the kitchen sink again washing up the dishes despite Rick's objections. Both him and his mother worked hard today on my behalf, it's the least I could do to show my gratitude.

Lingering at the island guzzling his second beer he asks, "You notice anything out of the ordinary today?"

Confused, I glimpse at him over my shoulder. "With?"

"With my mother? You know she's taking meds and what not for her memory?"

I nod. "She was fine." For the most part. I don't go into details. As a matter of fact, I'm mindful not to encourage lengthy discussions outside of my case.

It is commendable though, how he hasn't turned his back on his mother, regardless of his insincere ways of the past. Packing up from Virginia to move back here instead of paying someone else to take up his trouble, signals the depths of his sense of duty and devotion.

Not that Deanna is any trouble. Not much, not really. Except earlier in the day, when she'd left the kitchen for the bathroom, it took her 15 minutes to remember where it was. Thank goodness she didn't have an accident. Can't imagine how embarrassed she would've been. Perhaps this should be mentioned to Rick, but with vehemence the prideful woman made me promise to keep the incident to myself. If, however, it happens again tomorrow, which I am sure it will, then for her safety I'll have no choice. She'd probably be annoyed, but saving face is not worth the risk.

Without warning something warm presses into the dip of my spine, my heart jumped.

"You update your mother today on the break-in?" Rick whispers above my head.

When did he creep up behind me? "Yes," I say, clipped, short, no explanations.

"And Principal Jones…think he might give you another week? We need more time to figure this out."

"No. He wouldn't." My voice has gotten smaller.

Maintaining his position, Rick proceeds to chit chat about his son and his schoolwork, Deanna's doctor's appointments, his other cases at work. And all the while I was aware of nothing else but the presence of his hand on my lower back. I kept my head low, staring at the soapy dish in the sink, paralyzed. Two seconds, and just like that I'm sixteen again. I didn't even like this guy, much less have 'feelings' for him anymore. Yet, an unexpected shiver skitters the length of my spine. Why?

"Hey, you okay?" he asks. "You zoned out there for a minute."

"I'm listening."

"You're always listening. But that's not what I asked?"

"Sure. I'm doing great." The sensation of his touch finally falls away and I am released. Strangely though, I miss his warmth.

I finish rinse the last plate and grab a towel to dry my hands. Facing him now I could see him analyzing my disposition. "What?"

"Nothing just…" he tilts his bottle into his mouth, "…you used to be so open to me is all."

Busted. I take in a deep breath measuring my next few words. Ticking him off is not going to do me any good. So, I decide to play ignorant. "Meaning..."

"Meaning…" he sighs and shrugs.

I throw the towel on to the counter and fold my arms waiting. A minute goes by before either of us says something. Wow, really? It's me who finally breaks the silence.

"Rick," I begin with caution, "I'm not her anymore. You do realize that, don't you?"

"And I'm not him either," he shoots back. "Thought we were gonna move forward. Thought you agreed we were good. But I don't think you're even trying. "

"How can you think it's that simple?"

"Because it is. If only you could just cut me some slack, quit giving me a hard time, maybe we could get to know each other again."

"For what?" My arms drop in frustration. "Just do your job, that's all I want. It's the only reason I'm here. You said you'd help me get my life back."

Incredulity darkens his eyes and rocks his jaw shut. The look of a man, a boy, used to getting what he wants. My stomach twists. Jesus. Disappointing him still irks me. How? It's not my responsibility to ease whatever residual guilt he has. I am burdened with more than enough regret of my own.

Making a huge arc to get around him I retrieve my black sweater and decide to go for a walk. Even though I promised not to go to my house, I still do. A car is waiting out front in my driveway: It's Shane.

Great. From one past mistake to the next.

It takes a few moments to realize however, that he's not sitting behind the wheel. Rather, he's chilling out in the dark on my unlit porch. I am too old for this crazy shit so I turn and walk away, not bothering to dodge the puddles of water on the pavement.

"Hey, I've been calling you. Where you been?" He sprints behind me, imploring that I stop for a minute. In a flash he grabs my arm and forces me to look at him.

"Don't touch me," I cry out.

Letting go he holds his palms up in surrender. "Not gonna hurt you. I just wanna know if you're okay."

With my stubborn refusal to answer, Shane proceeds to ramble on about his hurtful behavior. Says he knows he was wrong for how I've been treated, and that I'm right for walking away from him. The second time he reaches for my hands I don't resist. As he claims that his love for me is what makes him so crazy, I one hundred percent don't trust or believe a word he says.

He nods his head towards my place and asks where I'm staying.

"A friend from church." A half lie. Not the absolute truth. Whatever, that's my business.

"I won't mind helping you clean up the place, if you haven't gotten around to it." Shane interlaces my fingers with his, and suddenly starts reminiscing about the summer he helped me paint the porch. Asking if I remember the bees from Roger's, my neighbor, tree that attacked him.

"One bee, Shane," I furrow my brows. "And you complained the whole time about the color of the paint."

He chuckles. "What the hell is periwinkle pink anyway? It's just dang lilac."

I look at him perplexed. When he sees I am not going down that path with him his face goes solemn, then shifts to an icy glare. My skin prickles.

Not sure what this moment is, I untangle my hands from his and shuffle backwards. A sudden stiff wind hits against my neck causing me to shiver. My arms wrap around my body instinctively, shielding from Shane's cold stare as well as the night's chill. "I should go."

"Yeah, okay. Give you a ride?"

"No, I'm good."

He nods. "For what it's worth Michonne, you're the only woman who understood me. You never tried to change the man I am."

"Maybe…but you've never understood me," I reply. "And that's not your fault. It's mine. Because with you, I honestly was trying to be someone else." Not the woman who helplessly watched her only child suffer and die. Not the woman who abandoned her grieving husband, shattering his already broken heart. And not the woman who has had betrayal, pain and regret as constant foes her entire life.

I tell Shane to go home, that I'll see him around. And again I was the one who was sorry for everything.

He jumps into his vehicle and drives off. A sense of relief engulfs me; I start to breathe again.

As I approach the end of my block, making my way back, my stomach drops. Rick 'the Viking' is standing there. With his arms locked across his chest, he's not looking at me, but beyond me into the distance. I turn. His focus is zoned in on the rear view lights of Shane's red Mustang car.

Emotionally listless, I am ill-equipped for yet another confrontation. I brush pass him and head back to his house. His footsteps follow me all the way in silence. Once inside, he even trails me to the guest room. I try to close the door in his face without saying goodnight, but Rick stuns me as he pulls me into his arms, cradles my head, and lowers his mouth to my ear.

"I'm sorry," he says.

A different sensation tingles my skin.