~...~
Chapter
Five
RICK
I knock on Michonne's door at 7 a.m. armed with a fresh cup of coffee.
"Hey." As soon as she peeks her sleepy head out, I quickly press the peace offering into her hands: Creamer, three sugars, and one too many dashes of cinnamon, if my memory from yesterday morning serves me correctly.
"Hi. Um, thank you." Her raspy soft voice indicates she truly just rolled out of bed.
"About last night," I say, holding her confused gaze, "I'd like for us to have a do over."
"Rick," she sighs, "It's fine, really."
"No, it's not. Drink that, get dressed, and let's go. Carl's already waiting."
"Wait. Where are we going?"
"Taking you to see Rosita Espinosa and Eugene Porter. We're gonna get your life back."
Her jaw goes slightly slack with disbelief.
"Be careful with that now, it's hot. I'm giving you fifteen minutes, don't be too long."
Looking every bit the librarian in a blue and white polka dot spring dress and cardigan, Michonne, twenty-two minutes later, hustles out of the house and jumps into my car, the engine is already running.
Strapping on her seatbelt Michonne focuses on me with uncertainty. "Are you sure about this?"
I nod and back out of my driveway. Guilt pricked me from the look of frustrated exhaustion on her face last night. I should be making things easier, not harder for her.
Unlike yesterday, no April showers are in sight today. Trinity Hills is picture perfect with clear sunny skies the same soft elegant blue as Michonne's outfit.
When I decided to invite her to have a more active part in the murder investigation, I wanted to show her that my motives are sincere. That she could, and should, continue to put her trust in me. Was I hoping to benefit from the unforeseen circumstances that threw us together? Yes. I admit that I did. That I still do. There's no doubt in my mind that we can overcome and repair our broken relationship. But downplaying the seriousness of the transgressions, and making her feel obligated to move forward was wrong. I have to allow the healing of our inner cuts and bruises to occur naturally. That's how we started off in the first place. Simple, instinctive and organic.
Carl, suddenly leans forward from reclining in the backseat. "Hey, Miss Moretti?"
She angles her head to the side. "For the umpteenth time sweetie, just Michonne is fine. I get enough of 'Miss Moretti' at my school."
"Sorry. Forgot. But um I wanted to ask you something…about my dad. What was he like back in high school?"
She smiles at me and wiggles her nose. Asking for permission.
"Knock yourself out," I reply.
"Well Carl," she taps a finger at the side of her chin in mock deliberation, "Hmm, what can I say?"
"Anything, once you keep it PG," I warn with a smile.
She chuckles. "Okay, let's see. Your Dad was…a great student, popular, and quite the athlete."
Carl shoots off another question like a news reporter getting a scoop. "Really? And how'd you two become friends? I mean I asked him already and he said you two just clicked. Is that true? Was it easy to get along because, I don't know, you guys had a lot in common or something?"
Out of the corner of my eye I catch her glimpse in my direction, biting on her bottom lip.
"Mmhm. We did," she admits.
"Yeah, like what?" Carl badgers.
I grin at her. Now it's my turn to request permission to divulge a bit of our personal history. She grins back and shrugs her shoulders like, 'Why not?'
"Michonne and I…loved poetry," I confess, glancing at my boy in the rear view mirror.
"What? Dad are you serious?"
Michonne spins around to face him. "And what is wrong with poetry? It's the beautiful and intense expressions of the human experience and soul."
"I guess. For a girl."
She throws her head back and laughs. Awesome. "Oh, you have so much to learn little man."
The free flow of traffic has slowed down considerably as I drive closer to Carl's school. Usually it's an annoyance especially when I'm just a few blocks away, but this morning the banter between Michonne and my son has me most entertained.
"What else did you guys have in common?" he continues his inquisition.
Michonne shrugs. "Lots of things. Rick and I preferred lakes to beaches. Sunsets to sunrises. And…"
"And the quiet company of each other to the incessant chatter of other people," I add. "Still do. All of it. We understood each other without having to say much of anything." My focus slides away from the line of cars ahead to the beauty next to me. "Isn't that right?"
She squints her eyes and shakes her head with disapproval. "Yeah, something like that."
I laugh. Oh boy, I'm in trouble. But it's nice to know that I can still tell what she's thinking.
I can't remember how precisely Michonne and I became friends, but I remember feeling shocked by how quickly we'd become emotionally attached. I loved to be apart of everyone's circles, but anything I learned from my lunatic father was the wisdom in safeguarding your true self. Michonne, however, she snuck past my defenses. It never occurred to me that a bond between a girl like her and a guy like myself, with our differing backgrounds, was possible, far less this long lasting.
"Alright buddy, we're here." I announce when at last my car pulls up in front of the public school's entrance.
"Have a good one Carl," Michonne says, "And don't give Miss Cloyd too much trouble. Just enough to keep her on her toes."
He chuckles. "Sure thing, Michonne. See you later?"
She nods. "Later."
As soon as my 5ft 2" son is swallowed up by the influx of students through the large metal doors, I drive off.
I could feel Michonne's eyes studying me for awhile before she asks, "You set me up, didn't you?"
"No, I did not." Which is the absolute truth. I had no idea Carl would spontaneously launch into an all-out interrogation.
"Well he's a precocious little boy."
"That he is," I concede. "Carl is special."
She leans back on her headrest with a solemnness. "Be good to him. He admires you so much."
"I'm trying my best." And I hope I'm succeeding. After allowing our family to fall apart and re-locating him from Waynesboro, Virginia, the only home he'd known, to Trinity Hills Georgia, Carl's safety, well-being, and happiness is my number one purpose in this life. He has always been my top priority, but now so more than ever I have to be there for him, as his Mom lives hundreds of miles away.
Daring to broach the sensitive subject of children I say, "Michonne…you know I haven't had the chance before to say this to you, but um, I'm truly sorry for what happened with your kid. I don't have the details, but all the same, going through something like that must've been unbearable."
Her body folds a little and she goes quiet.
"You mind if I ask how it happened."
A shadow clouds over her face and by the time she speaks her voice is distant, mechanical, and somewhat trained. As though she's reciting from a report about a random person.
Seven years ago, during a week long visit to her family here in Georgia, Andre apparently had fallen ill with what her and her husband believed to be a simple cold. For a couple of days her kid had a fever and was lethargic, and it was a task to get him to eat much or even get up out of bed. Typical symptoms for anyone out with the flu, she said. But then, his breathing changed, it weakened and that's when they rushed him to the hospital. Once there, doctors quickly diagnosed him as having pneumonia and put him on a steady round of drips.
After three hours, Andre was, thankfully, feeling better. Smiling, giggling, and chatting like his usual self. But then his chit chat, some hours later, turned into gibberish. The nurses said it was nothing to be concerned about, more than likely the little tyke was just tired, and Michonne and her husband accepted that seemingly logical explanation. Thirty-six minutes passed when Andre drifted off to sleep and never woke up again.
Only afterwards was it discovered that sepsis had set in. His body was attacking itself. He had blood poisoning due to an infection and the doctors never caught it until it was way too late.
My fists tightened around the steering wheel. How does one find the will to go on after something so tragic? Michonne must have incredible inner strength to pull herself together and move on.
Reaching over I give her shoulder a quick squeeze. "I can't imagine experiencing such a tragedy and overcoming it."
"I haven't," she admits. "I'm just living with it."
"How? Why aren't you isolated somewhere, wallowing in a dark corner, going crazy?"
I can tell she's processing my curiosity. "I was, for a long time. But I read books, drove back and forth to a support group in Atlanta three times a week, and volunteered for 'Grief Survivors Circle' : a community of parents who have all lost children. We share advice and offer support to each other, support you can't really get from individuals who have never experienced that particular type of hell."
A new sense of admiration for her fills me. No inflections of bitterness or anger in her voice, just calm acceptance in order to live on.
"Also," she adds, "I started spending time with Shane."
My jaw sets at the mention of that idiot's name. But I'm determined to keep a neutral face.
"What?"
Looks like I failed. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to," she smiles. "You're giving me that look. That Rick Grimes 'Are you out of your goddamned mind?' look."
"Wow. That's a mouthful. Show it to me."
She narrows her eyes considerably she can't even see. Then she tilts her head so far like her neck is about to break off and arches a brow.
"What the hell is that? I have never in my life made a face like that. "
"Oh, come on Grimes. Yes, you do it all the time. Just like this. Look." She points at her face, making that deranged mock expression again. I start to laugh.
"You look like you're holding something in and you're about to explode if you don't let it out."
"Oh just forget it." We laugh together, and it's nice. "I can't—I can't do it like you. Anyway, you think I lowered my standards being with Walsh, don't you?
"Does it matter what I think?"
"No. Of course not." Her sparkling gaze turns away from me too soon. "I'm a grown wo-man, I do what-ever I want…" she croons, and shimmies her shoulders.
"Oh yeah girl, I can see that."
She attempts to give me a scolding look but her face quickly breaks into a broad smile. "Rick stop playing."
"Sorry," I apologize, for my lame effort at being sassy.
"But um, you know," she returns her stare out of her window, "if you wanna tell me what you think...I wouldn't mind."
Really? Knowing full well I am not in any position to hold judgement over Michonne and her choices, maybe swallowing my opinions would be best. Even if she's giving me the go-ahead.
Needless to say, I have never ever taken too kindly to the likes of Shane 'He-Man' Walsh. He was always a pain in the ass, misogynistic prick, whose sense of entitlement was above and beyond my comprehension. Even up to this day. Since moving back home, we have had a couple of encounters and I have seen first hand just how much of a dipshit he still is.
To lean on him for companionship? Michonne still isn't one to burden her family with her problems, so…
"I think…he was a friend in your time of need," I assume.
"He was," she sighs.
"But then? You fell in-love?"
With a swift glance a rueful expression flashes in her eyes, and that's my cue to just drop the subject.
€...€
A mullet-wearing, thick neck, oval shaped man with a perpetual frown was not what I was expecting when the Super Green pharmacy's elderly cashier pointed us in the direction of a Mr. Porter. After I introduced myself and Michonne, I assured the skeptical gentleman that any knowledge he's willing to share concerning Annabella Espinosa would be greatly appreciated as Michonne and I are "assisting" the police department with their search for his friend's killer.
In response to my query as to the nature of his relationship with Miss Espinosa, with a measure of pride, he proceeds to give a detailed description of how they'd first met. Desperate one night, the overwrought mother rushed into the dispensary hunting for a specific brand of cold medicine for her infant who'd been quite ill at the time. After he'd provided efficient and effective assistance, two days later she'd returned to express her gratitude. Ever since they'd become fast friends.
Mr. Porter raves about having the privilege of getting to know the real Annabella—sweet, hardworking, and just a plain nice girl who was obsessed with being a good Mom.
"Did she ever mention to you particulars about her life in the past?" Michonne asks. Up until this point she'd been quietly listening and observing, letting me take the lead with my line of questioning. "Specifically, the time she lived in Atlanta?"
"Oh no," Mr. Porter responds. "That topic was totally off limits Ma'am. But there were a couple of times when she'd been on very disturbing phone calls with some dude named Logan. He even came by the shop one time when I happened to be there waiting to take her and Josy out for ice-cream. I'd overheard a part of their conversation and my Bella was most upset. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or nothing but she said something about living up to her end of the bargain, and that she knows she wouldn't have the life she had now without him so he shouldn't bother threatening her."
I scribble as fast as I can everything he's saying but the brother is talking a mile a minute.
"And you weren't eavesdropping?" Michonne asks not masking her doubtfulness.
"No Ma'am," Mr. Porter says, "Just couldn't help but over hear is all. I did not like how irritated my girl was getting."
"Did you tell all of this to the detectives?" I inquire.
"Yes Sir," the pharmacist nods emphatically. "Gave a description of his physical features and everything."
"Which are?" The man's small eyes turned to slits with hesitation at my question. "I saw the report Mr. Porter, just verifying the information given coincides."
"Just tell us." Michonne pushes.
"Six feet tall, mid-forties, Caucasian, silver beard with dark spectacles. That's the extent of my knowledge. And like I said, his name was Logan…or Raegan or something like that. Don't recall exactly. We weren't formally introduced and what not. "
"Thank you," I say, continuing to take notes. To wrap up the brief interview I ask one final question. "You say Annabella refused to talk to you about her life before… Does that include who Josy's father is and where he's at? Reason why I'm asking is that this man who murdered your girl seemed to have a personal vendetta against her."
His face turns red. "She never, ever wanted to share anything about that man. But I didn't insist. I figure his loss was my gain… still can't believe she's gone. Bella was a real class act. Unlike that sister of hers. She had such potty mouth."
"You've met Rosita?" Michonne arched a brow.
"That's correct. On a couple of occasions. But boy did those two hate each other. One evening at a cookout at her Mama's house they got into a real heated-ass argument, and Rosita made a nasty comment about the basura Annabella brought back home to the Hills with her. I don't know if Bella ever confided in anyone, but it seems clear to me that her big sister may know something about her younger sibling's time in Atlanta. Might wanna check up on that."
"Thank you Mr. Porter. We intend to."
€...€
On our way back to Burkeside, we stop at a Korean deli to grab a bite to eat. After deliberating for ten minutes over a chicken salad sandwich or a Turkey with Swiss, Michonne and I settle on a twelve-inch Italian combo and split it, half-half.
"Maybe you're right," I say, my mouth full of delicious ham, capicola, salami, pepperoni and provolone cheese. "Maybe I do expect you to be Michonne Moretti from high school. I see the same face, the same smile, and I don't know…I can't help it."
She pauses just before taking another nibble of her overstuffed sandwich and peers at me from across the square metal table of the deli's outside sitting area.
"Is it the same for you? When you look at me?"
Her eyes close and she sighs, "Yeah. Maybe. Why Rick, is this so important to you, us becoming friends again?"
"Why?" I tilt my head from side to side contemplating the ramifications of answering that question with 100% honesty. "Why not? I mean, come on…despite the bullshit, we had something good. Something real." Trying to understand my intentions, I could see on her face a bit of regret, a bit of sadness, and I lower my gaze knowing my mistreatment of her was the cause of those feelings. "Our friendship, or whatever you wanna call it, was one of the realest relationships I have ever had in my whole life." And that included the one with Lori, but I keep that bit to myself. "It can't just be me, can it, who remembers that?" I place my sandwich down and dust my fingers, "Listen, I'm not gonna lie to you but I could really use some more good in my life right now. Understand? I could—I could use a friend Michonne is all I'm asking. Of course, you know it's totally up to you, if it's something you'd want."
The day is getting warmer and people are lingering on the sidewalk enjoying the mid morning's light breeze. Michonne strips off her sweater, slips out of her shoes, and finishes her sandwich before she speaks again. "What if I told you no, that I don't want what we had before?"
I take a deep, hopeful breath, holding it in. "A fresh start?"
"Yeah. A fresh start."
The air rushes out my lungs in relief. "Even better. I think that's a fantastic idea, I'm all for it."
A smirk dances in her expression at my reaction to getting what I want. "Of course you are Rick, of course you are."
"If I tell you three things I've discovered about myself over the years, you're gonna have to do the same. Deal?"
"This is your plan Grimes? Playing twenty questions?"
"Not questions. Stating facts. And not twenty. Just three. Come on…you can handle three."
Shaking her head in amusement, she sighs. "Fine. I'll do three."
I straighten in my seat. "Darts - I'm good at it."
She giggles.
"Gardening – I'm starting to appreciate it, but not my forte. And liquor - other than beer, I'm not much of a fan as I used to be before. I'll indulge once, twice a year tops. Gives me blinding headaches."
"That's it? Real profound Grimes. I'm impressed."
"Don't be a snob, you're up."
"Geez Rick seriously?"
"Hey, you agreed, quit stalling." I nudge her elbow.
"O-kay! Feel like I'm on the clock here." She clears her throat. "One: I have developed a knack for interior design."
"Like your Mother."
"Like my mother. Two: I also happen to appreciate gardening and I'm not good at it, but I am exceptional, thank you very much. And three: I definitely still drink the hard stuff, not just beer, and most certainly more than just once for the year."
"Wait," my eyes narrow at her, "you can't just copy from me."
"Did I? Tough. You didn't specify the rules of your game my friend."
"Damn. I think you missed your calling. Should've been a lawyer like your father wanted."
"Yeah well rebel without a cause and all that. Are we done?" Her focus has switched to slipping her feet into her slingbacks.
"Jesus, you're gonna make me work hard aren't you?"
"You had it too easy when we were younger. I know better now. Besides, I confided about Andre and about Shane that should be enough for today." She leans forward to tug the straps up over her heels.
My eyes follow and trail further along her curvaceous, toned calves.
"And don't say the Lord's name in vain. I don't like it."
In that instant, an inappropriate image flashes before my eyes of the time I made her scream out the Lord's name in vain. And she damn well liked that.
No Rick, down boy, I admonish myself, don't go there. Michonne made me promise not to ever speak, or mention, or think about that experience again. As I lead her back to the car, I lock away the memory along with its bittersweet emotions. Tucking it inside the metal box of secrets in my mind, hidden beneath a special compartment labeled: "The Summer Michonne Moretti broke my heart."
€…€
At FTB bank, Michonne has to wait awhile before getting to speak with her former loans officer. There's a heavy flow of customers and she doesn't have an appointment so she takes a number, sits, and waits for her turn.
In the meantime, I use the opportunity to have a chat of my own with a customer service representative, sure to keep Michonne in my line of sight the entire time.
Seated opposite an eager employee-of-the-month whose nameplate says Paul but he insists I use his nickname Jesus, so we can keep things cash.
'Whatever dude.'
I question him about the requirements to open a safety deposit box, what box sizes are available, how much are the annual fees and key rates, and what policies and procedures are in place, in case someone unexpectedly dies. Whilst gathering information, Michonne, suddenly, bolts out the front door. Without giving it a second thought I curtly excuse myself and take off after her.
"I can't believe this," Michonne says flustered, as soon as I track her down in the parking lot. "It's her. She has all of my personal information on file including my social security, and my address. That's how this guy found me."
"I don't understand. How do you know that?" I ask, baffled by her absolute certainty. She hardly spent ten minutes with the woman.
Pacing, she recounts how it didn't take Rosita long at all before she directly asked her if Annabella said or did anything strange before she succumbed to her injuries. When Michonne responded, I don't know what you mean by strange. I was too distracted by her gagging for breath while she bled to death, Miss Espinosa's expression fell, remorseful.
"Suddenly, she started pulling forms asking me if I'd like to apply for another loan. A bigger one, where I could take that trip to Paris she'd remembered I'd mentioned during one visit before. She told me that it wouldn't be much of a hassle as last time, she could simply put in a word with the manager to bypass the formalities for quick approval. When I asked, Today? Miss Espinosa replied, Yes. If you'd like. And you're lucky because Mr. Negan just came back from a three day sick leave."
"Mr. Negan?" I shrug my shoulders at the unfamiliar name.
She comes to a standstill. "Yes, their Branch manager. Apparently, he loves helping people. And she's sure he can help me too, as a favor for her. Rick, she asked if we could meet up for coffee to talk in private later."
"What did you say?"
"Told her I'd have to consider it. Both the coffee and the loan, and then I rushed out. Don't you see? Check your notes. Logan slash Reagan is really Negan. Eugene Porter heard wrong. Somehow Rosita's boss was involved with her sister."
Her mouth is drawn into a straight line and she's biting her lip, understandably upset. But I tell her not to jump to conclusions. We'll figure out if there's any real possible connections later on tonight. Whatever theory we come up with, tomorrow, Daryl and I would gather concrete proof before into the police department with our suspicions.
MICHONNE
Everything about today has hit me for six.
First off, Rick going against his own decision to keep me "hidden" was both surprising and borderline suspicious. Especially with regards to how our last conversation played out I never would've expected this. But, at the end of the day, despite my being attentive to, and aware of, everything that was being said and done, we had a win.
And it felt good.
Which leads me to the second shock: Letting my defenses down a smidgen wasn't as terrible as I'd imagined it would've been. There was genuine interest from Rick to just pull back and, like he said, have a do over. Rick was giving me what I wanted—to have an active role in the case—And truthfully, his gesture was appreciated. Besides, it's exhausting being pissed and guarded all of the time. I'm not made of stone. But, I'm not gullible either. My willingness to open up about my life was just a means to an end.
Lastly, the third phenomenon that really made my head spin was the revelation that Rosita Espinosa is possibly linked to not just my home being vandalized, but also the actual murder of her own sister.
"Look at this," Rick says. He's handing me a photo of Mr. Negan Vincenzo printed from an online profile. "Fit Porter's description, right?"
"Yeah, it sure does, except no beard."
"If I get a positive I.d. from him tomorrow I'll have Daryl track down as much info as he can and we can start in that direction. Sounds good?"
I nod.
Rick swipes away some crumbs from my chin and I had to fight against my body's reaction.
Right now, sitting side by side on the living room floor with our backs against the couch, Rick and I try to piece together all of our findings including that of his buddy Daryl's. However, the daunting reality remains that for my own self-preservation I need to keep Rick Grimes at arm's length.
Piece of chocolate cake, right? If I could remain focused on figuring out this convoluted case, keep my just as confusing emotions for this man at bay, and maintain a high level of professionalism with him, I could make it out on the other side unscathed. Simple.
'High level of professionalism huh? While in a jeans and a tank top drinking beers together under this dimly lit chandelier at ten o' clock in the night? Girrrl.'
Okay, okay. Truth: The fact that he's still so damned good looking is not helping.
His incredible smile, marked by boyish charm yet brimming with manly confidence, can make any woman at any age blush. I can't help it. Every time my gaze bounces into his, or our fingers accidentally brush each other's, a zing rips right through my heart.
But, so far, no descent into any sort of arguments have taken place. So…another win?
'Half-crazy' by Musiq Soulchild starts to play. When I glanced at my phone and didn't answer, Rick snatches the cell to see who it is I'm ignoring. It was the fourth time I'd refused to pick up.
"What the hell does Shane want?" His brashness has me flabbergasted. "If he broke up with you, why on earth is he still coming around, calling you at this hour?"
Damn! I snatch my phone back. "Mind your business."
"As your attorney, I am minding my business. Does my client require a restraining order?"
'But what the…'
My ears must be deceiving me. Lord, give me strength. This man is really trying my patience. My eyes narrow at him. "No, I do not. Besides he didn't break up with me."
His hard expression retreats, replaced by one of confusion. Whatever he's heard from Deanna is an altered version of the truth which I personally fed her.
Shane proposed to me about three times during our four year courtship before I accepted. And that was because he was so nonchalant about it. The first time we were binge watching Brooklyn Nine-nine, and the second we'd just finished having sex. Casually, on both instances, he'd said, This is nice. This is great. We should get married. After a good chuckle I said, For what? I'm already always here in your house anyway.
The third time, he went all out: Bought flowers, an actual ring, and took me to the Mayor's ball. Accompanied by a live band Shane proposed wanting to finally make things official in front of all his Daddy's big wig friends. Only then it dawned on me that the dude was serious. Despite my better judgement, I said yes.
"I'm not perfect," I reply. "I've made bad choices. He's not the first man I've been wrong about."
"Same," Rick sets an empty beer bottle down on the floor, "I've been wrong about people too."
"Women?" I clarify.
"One, woman." He nods, cuts his eyes at me. And I level my stare right back.
This is the equivalent of a full blown cuss out between the two of us. Tension is crackling in the air.
I take a swig of my Coors Light, ignoring him. He is not going to get the best of me. MmMm. I don't care how handsome he is tonight.
No jacket, crisp white shirt untucked, collar buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, shoes off… so disheveled it's delicious. "Why are you asking me about him again in any case? I already told you."
Rick shrugs. "Just curious. What made Shane so special? You did agree to marry him." He chuckles but doesn't look at me. This is a loaded question.
"What do you want me to say? He made me laugh. Was very charming and I was trying new things. When he asked me out, I said yeah sure why not, and part of it was that the quiet in my home started to drive me insane." That bitch loneliness got the better of me. "Also I…I wasn't moving forward. Not fast enough anyway. Felt like I couldn't on my own because I'd blown it completely with Zeke." The first and only man not to make me doubt myself by loving me through and through.
"Think I could relate." Nodding his head, Rick leans forward and grabs another bottle from the case on the coffee table. " 'Alone, all alone,'" he says, twisting off the cap, " 'Nobody, but nobody, can make it out here all alone. Now…if you listen closely, I'll tell you what I know. Storm clouds are gathering. The wind is gonna blow…'"
He looks directly into my eyes and pinches my chin. The familiar words make my lips curl into a smile. We recite the end of the old poem together.
'The race of man is suffering.
And I can hear the moan.
'Cause nobody,
But nobody,
Can make it out here alone.'
I jab his arm with my elbow. "Since when do you like Ms. Angelou? Mr. 'Wordsworth my guy'?"
"Since sophomore year at UVA, my English professor was obsessed. Made her books mandatory reading. I had no choice."
"Well your professor did a good job 'cause you still remember."
"Yeah well, Maya Angelou's a genius. I know that now." He knocks his right foot against my left. "Still reading poetry?"
"Sometimes."
"Written any lately?"
"No. Not lately. Not in a long while."
"You never did used to let me read your journal of poems. Not even one. I didn't like that—You holding back from me."
So self absorbed. He felt like I owed him everything. "Some things are private."
"Not from me." His arm drapes over the left knee he has bent to his chest, whilst his right leg remains stretched out next to mine.
I poke the side of his jaw. "Especially from you," because most were about you. "What can I say? Nothing wrong with a little mystery Grimes. If we were to be completely honest right now, I'm damn sure you kept secrets from me too. Like now. You have me spilling my guts today, but what about you? What happened to your marriage?" That might be a touchy subject, but I expect him to give me something anyway.
"I forced myself to believe that she was the type of girl I had to be with, because it was expected. I did love her, but a make believe version of her. If that makes any sense. We tried to change each other. Daily routines, stress and demands of our jobs, differing views on finances, raising Carl, it all culminated into us drifting from one another. Sometimes I'm in a bad mood, some times she's too tired, so we stopped being intimate with each other. Before I could pull my way back to my wife, it was too late."
"Too late how?" Turning to face him, I fold my legs into a lotus position, and can't help but notice the look of vulnerability in his blue gaze.
Then he confesses, "I cheated on her, Michonne. With a co-worker—a secretary of the firm." He winces but I keep my expression open. "Such an embarrassing cliché. Instead of talking openly with Lori, doing the work of making my marriage last, I threw away our entire relationship, destroyed my family, for a 15 minute screw on a copy machine late one night."
Rick is right. It is such a cliché. But when one allows distance to grow within a marriage it almost always results in betrayal. My own parents taught me that lesson from a very young age. "Was it any good?" I joke, letting him know I'm not here to judge.
"Of course not.. It was distasteful. And she was loud like a rhinoceros in labour."
I can't help but cackle. "Oh god Rick, what?!"
He smiles. "Saw that on animal planet with Carl." He guzzles down half of his drink and sets the rest aside. "Twenty-three year old blonde with a writer boyfriend named Hans who loved puppies and skittles and who she suspected was probably gay."
Stretching back out his left leg, Rick winces and grabs at his knee.
"You're doing it wrong," I say, watching him haphazardly squeeze and nudge at his old injury. "No. Place your left hand above your knee, and press firmly with the palm of your right."
But he wasn't listening, I could see pain and frustration hardening his features. Why are men so macho and pig headed when it came to treatment?
Moved with pity, I kneel between his legs, place my hands around the joint, and take over massaging the ligament. "Here. No, like this."
He grabs my wrist. "I can take care of it."
"No, you can't." I smack his hands off resuming the technique. "Don't be stubborn. Let me do it," I order. It wasn't a difficult task, just takes practice and patience to effectively get it right. I gently begin to massage forward a couple of inches until I can grasp his muscle between my fingers and thumb. "Listen, I should tell you thank you for today. You were right. About everything. Hopefully tomorrow we could take what we've learned to the cops." I glance up to discover his head rolled back, his eyes closed, and his countenance completely relaxed and serene.
For a few moments I hold my breath to absorb the specimen. A small scar etched just below his right eye doesn't diminish but only adds to his appeal. Rugged features define his jaw and his neck where a light trail of brown hair peeks out from the opening of his shirt, teasing as to what's hidden underneath.
'Why would you want to know?'
Why indeed. As a matter of fact, I don't. Neither one of us has intentions of going down that road. I would have to be out of my damned mind. It would be illogical and downright stupid.
"Does it feel better?" I ask, refocusing on the task.
"Somewhat," he groans.
"Just wait. You'll see." Strangely enough I feel pleased. Lifting his knee higher I then guide him to slowly stretch it back out. "Really Rick, this should be done twice a day, and a knee band would do wonders."
He grunts. I look up and he's watching me. I am suddenly self-aware. His pointed expression makes my hands cease and retreat. "Just trying to help is all. Sorry."
"No it's...You were gentle. It felt good. Thank you."
"No problem."
His gaze slides down my body, returns to my eyes flickering with salient interest, and draws me in. No. I should get up and remove myself from this god forsaken temptation. But I don't. Instead I dare to engage in a staring match with my ex-best friend, admiring the tender slope of his gorgeous eyes, mapping out the curve of his pouty lips and wondering if the feel of his mouth against mine would shock me to my core like it once did twenty years ago.
Hold on. What is going on here? What has happened to my resolve to keep Rick at arms length? Nothing. My racing pulse is just a momentary lapse in judgement.
With that notion, I blink away. Time to nip this in the bud and head for bed.
As though my re-surging resolution is written clear across my face, Rick angles forward stretching from his slouched position, to fix his hands on either side of my hips. In a fluid motion, he tugs me onto his lap and a jolt of electricity from the pit of my stomach jump starts my heart. I don't know precisely what sort of man Rick has become, but he doesn't strike me as someone so forward. I'm stunned.
Before I could push off from him, his forearm hooks around my waist and traps me firmly against his chest. The rush I feel in this barricade is palpable. Dazed, my eyes fall shut, and I inhale a deep breath, as his other hand snakes its way to the nape of my neck. He then sinks his fingers into my hair and my whole body vibrates.
"From the moment I first saw you again," he whispers, "all of this came flooding back. This Michonne..." His thumb caresses my jaw. "...And this." He kisses my neck. "I'm not the only one who feels it, am I?"
All coherent thought for my part has dissipated.
"Am I?"
"This isn't real," I say.
"Yes, it is." He slides his mouth down my neck like silk. My body responds sharp and instant.
I have to remind myself to breathe. Hot air fondles my lips, inviting me to lean in for a quick taste. And yes, I want to lean in and it frightens me. Both his hands now creep along my back and nudge me closer. In the last second though, I turn away. It would be foolish to allow this to happen. I don't care if we still have such a strong connection after all these years. "This is just… I don't know what this is, but it's messing with my mind."
Finding some fortitude, I get up, step over the bottles and the paperwork, and escape down the hall. Rick, however, is on my heels.
His hands grip my shoulders and I find myself cornered in front of the guest bedroom. "Wait. Please Michonne. I'm so sorry."
Conflicted, I frown up at him. "I know. We can't…we shouldn't…"
"Yeah, you're right, we shouldn't. It's just that…" His shoulders slump forward, "there's something powerful lingering between us, just beneath the surface. Isn't there?"
I nod. Baffling, but true.
"We have to deal with it. I mean, what's the alternative?" he tries to reason, "After everything's done, tell me, do you plan on ignoring me again? For the rest of our lives while we live eight blocks apart?"
My shoulders shrug. "I don't like dwelling on the past. No good can come from it."
Dejected, Rick steps back, stuffs his hands in his pockets and asks, "What is it about me you're so afraid of?"
"Everything."
There's no denying the hurt on his face. My gut twists like a bitch with that look of vulnerability.
As I recall the embarrassment I endured as a result of granting him too much power and influence over my young heart, mind, and soul, then not being just as cherished in return, an apple sized lump forms in my throat.
"We're not kids anymore," he says, lowering his head until his gaze is level with mine. "We're adults. Let's just have it out. No more holding back."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
"You heard me. Come on. Let's put everything on the table. You think you know how I feel but you have no idea. So let's fix that. Tonight."
"You're joking."
"I swear to God I am not."
"Rick, stop this okay. You're not thinking straight. You're being ridiculous. When are you gonna realize that you can't have everything your way?" Reopening old wounds? Stirring up anger and contention? I adamantly reject this proposal. Some things are better left unsaid.
I open the door and make my way inside. Again, I am followed.
"You don't wanna go first?" he says crossing the threshold, "Fine, I will."
"Don't."
"I'm disappointed," his voice rises above mine, "that you never showed up for my wedding."
The atmosphere in the room becomes stifling and malicious. Heat flushes through my body and my eyes automatically dart towards my luggage.
'I need to leave this house.'
"Let's start there. My wedding, Michonne. The biggest day of my life. Young and scared trying to be a big man, and my best friend was not even present."
"The others were," I reply through gritted teeth.
"That's right, they were. Sean, Karen, T-dog, Tyreese, but not you, no. You didn't even have the decency to call me, text me, or email me. Nothing. Hell even my douchebag brother Spencer showed up for the free liquor. He kept asking the whole time where the hell you were. I lied my ass off of course about you getting a job and what not, that's why you couldn't make it. But they saw it – him, my mom. They could see my disappointment."
"I'm sorry, Rick," I lie. Because really I'm not.
He shakes his head. "That's not good enough. Tell me why?"
"Why?" I balk. "I didn't want to be there, that's why."
"You hated me that much?"
My throat closes in and I choke. "I could never hate you."
"Come on Michonne, be honest," He moves closer into my space till he's less than a foot away. "Just say it. Right here, right now."
"I don't owe you that anymore. That girl is gone. This woman right here, in front of you, has had enough of your bullshit."
"And I've had enough of yours. So just say it!"
My fists clenched. "I didn't want to pretend to be happy for you. Alright?"
"What's there to pretend? Thought we had patched things up, thought we were good."
"You thought wrong."
His breathing is growing heavier by the second and I inch back. "Okay…Okay. Look, I know what I did was... I was going through a bad phase, terrible even. And I'm not saying that as an excuse, but I was feeling sorry for myself and you got mistreated as a result. I didn't mean for it to be like that."
"Mistreated? No Rick, you took advantage of me! That's what happened."
"Excuse me, what now? Took—Took advantage of you? What the hell? Don't put that on me. No one forced you to do anything."
"Now who's not being honest? You didn't call Sean, or Karen, or even Lori your goddamned girlfriend. You called me. You lied and said you missed me and how awesome it would be for us to spend the weekend together. But when I got there…" I pause to blink back the tears. "Why? Why Rick? Let's be honest. It's because you knew I was 10 feet deep in fucking love with you that's why. You wanna talk about being honest? Then let's talk about that. About how I would've done anything you wanted. Including cheating a drug test."
It surprises me when I witness the color drain away from his face. "In—In love with me? What the hell are you talking about? I—I didn't… you never…"
'Shit, shit, shit.'
I try to scurry around him towards the exit but he grabs my arm.
"Wait! Are you serious?" His piercing eyes search my face for non verbal answers.
"Are you? Oh come on Rick. I'm not that stupid. You're not."
"Back at the cabin? That summer? After my freshman year? You never said anything. Did I take advantage of you then too?"
I shove him off. "What we did, what I did, was a mistake."
"You don't mean that!"
"I do." He's holding out his damaged heart wanting us to compare scars. Specifically the ones caused by each other. He's gouging at the biggest scar tissue, ripping an old wound apart and it hurts. Tears start to flood my vision. "We should've kept things platonic. Avoid all this ugliness of guilt, betrayal, and regret."
"Michonne I don't know if you're remembering accurately, but goddammit, before then our relationship was anything but platonic. And unlike you, I don't regret a damn thing."
