Contractions of the Heart Chapter 17: Bitches Be Crazy (part 5), a walking dead fanfic

A/N: Enjoy!

17. Bitches Be Crazy (part 5)

I sat in my car, gripping my steering wheel.

I'd just pulled up to Rick's house and parked next to what I assumed was Lori's SUV. It was a far cry from the sporty little Miata she refused to part ways with before Nugget was born.

I drew in a harsh breath and closed my eyes.

Because of where she parked, I was forced to park on the left side of the driveway.

The left side.

I opened my eyes and let out a slow, unsteady breath.

I was trying to hold on to the calm I'd felt when I left my condo, but that white-hot rage of mine was burning through my calm by the second.

My grip on my steering wheel tightened.

This...

My breaths became shorter, faster.

This bitch…

My calm was in ashes.

This.

Bitch.

Parked.

In.

My.

Space.

I always parked on the right side of the driveway.

Always.

Fucking Lori Grimes pops up out of nowhere and thinks that she can just… that she can just take my space from me?

That she can just take what's mine?

"No!" I growled, yanking my key from the ignition.

I quickly sorted through my keys to find the copy of my house key.

When I couldn't find it, I sorted through them again.

After sorting a third time, I let out a frustrated grunt, clenched my hand around my keys, and pounded my fist on the dashboard.

The key was there. I know it was. I never gave it back. I was never giving it back!

But a red haze was clouding my vision.

I couldn't see what was right in front of me.

"Ok," I whispered, rubbing my brow with my thumb. "Ok."

I needed to focus.

I needed to steady my nerves.

I needed to take deep breaths.

I needed to count backwards from ten.

I needed to do something, anything, to regain a modicum of composure.

I glared at the SUV instead.

Because Lori left the porch lights and outdoor garage lights on, the SUV was-

My eyes darted from the SUV to the porch lights, then from the porch lights to the garage lights.

No.

She.

Didn't.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

She left the lights on.

For Rick.

She was so fucking confident he would come running to her that she left the goddamn lights on.

That no good, deadbeat, hussy demon bitch!

I let my keys fall from my hand.

Fuck the house key.

There was more than one way to open a door.

"I'll kick that motherfucker down," I muttered, flinging open my car door and getting out my car.

My bare feet slapped against concrete as I stormed my way to the front door. I stood in front of it, and planted my feet in a kick stance.

"One..." I whispered, zeroing in on the area of the door next to the lock.

"Two..." I whispered, extending my kicking leg back.

But before I could count off the three and start kicking that motherfucker down, my logical and sensible sides pierced through my anger, begging to be heard.

I sighed heavily and relaxed my kicking stance. I had no choice but to hear myself out.

Once I kicked this door down, I'd be labeled as one of those women. One of those ran out of fucks to give women who openly lost her shit. One of those pushed to the limit women whose behavior teetered between feral and unhinged. One of those "angry black women" who was somehow more terrifying than any other angry woman.

I was very proud of the reputation I'd built at the law firm and within the community. Was the risk of tarnishing my reputation truly worth the reward of beating Lori's ass?

And what about Rick?

I hated when things were bad between us, but my actions would undoubtedly create tension. I fully expected him to be at a red-faced, head tilting, eye squinting level of pissed off once he woke up and realized where I'd gone. Coming home to a destroyed front door was not going to douse that fire.

That was assuming I could even destroy the front door.

Yes, I'd taken a few kickboxing aerobics classes when Nugget was three months old, but did kickboxing aerobics maketh me a barefoot kicker downer of doors?

And wasn't I inviting some type of injury if I repeatedly kicked a solid oak door? I'd just recently recovered from a sprained ankle after accidentally running into Rick.

I owed it to myself to weigh the potential consequences of my behavior before acting so rashly.

Then again...

Fuck you, logic and sensibilities!

A sullied reputation could be rebuilt; Rick would eventually get over it; and my feet were strong as hell.

I got back into my kicking stance.

"One..." I once again zeroed in on the kicking zone.

Before I counted off the two, I redirected my gaze to the doorknob. Lori left the lights on because she truly believed Rick was coming home. I bet she hadn't even bothered to lock the damn door.

I relaxed my kicking stance again and reached out to the doorknob.

With a twist and a push, the door opened.

Fucking Lori Grimes.

I stepped forward and crossed the threshold, my hands fisted at my sides,

It had been two long weeks since I was last inside this house—the house I'd lived in since I was six months pregnant. If circumstances were different, I would've breathed in its familiarity after taking my first steps back inside. But with circumstances being what they were, the only thing I cared to do was find Lori so that I could hurt Lori.

Without giving it any thought, I flipped the light switch up, as I'd done countless times before after entering the house.

My jaw dropped at the sight before me.

I'd never seen the front room like this.

Rick and I always kept it clean and tidy.

Always.

In the event company stopped by unexpectedly and the rest of the house looked like Hurricane Carl blew through it, the front room was our cover.

But Lori's luggage and bags were scattered everywhere... on the furniture, on the floor, stacked on top of each other, laying on their sides. Clothes and shoes spilled out of some. Others were stuffed to the brim with what looked like toys and baby items.

Lori's bullshit was soiling yet another thing that was important to me.

My already boiling blood boiled more violently.

With an aggravated grunt, I grabbed the handle of a nearby suitcase and hurled it out the front door.

Fucking...

I grabbed a duffel bag sitting on the floor and hurled it outside.

Lori...

I snatched a pink tote bag off the entry table near the front door and hurled that outside.

Grimes!

I reached down to grab another tote bag and noticed a picture frame laying face-down on the entry table. I threw the tote bag outside and stared at the frame.

Rick and I had used the table as a plant stand when I was living here. Since I was staring at a frame and not a plant, two things were evident. One: our little bonsai tree had not survived under Rick's care. And two: the framed photo he replaced it with had pissed Lori off.

I picked up the frame and turned it over.

Oh.

The photo was terrible.

The angle the picture was taken at was odd and the lighting was bad. Rick was squinting like an old man confused by technology, Nugget was making his "I'm making a poopy" face, and I was a blur talking on my phone.

But as terrible as this picture was—and it was really, really terrible, I understood why Rick chose to frame and display it.

It was taken on a very special day about four months ago.

A very special day about four months ago

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream," Rick sang loudly on his way to the kitchen.

I cringed as I smeared honey cinnamon cream cheese on my bagel. Rick had a very nice singing voice, but that song was going to get stuck in my head. At some point today when I was at work and sitting in a meeting or reviewing a contract or doing something completely unrelated to rowing a boat, I'd start humming it.

It had happened before.

A few weeks ago, when I was sitting in the courtyard on my lunch break, I started humming the song while stirring my bowl of leftover chili mac & cheese. When I heard myself, I immediately stopped humming and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed it. Luckily, there was only one person sitting a few seats away from me. He was a new attorney at the firm who I'd been introduced to a few weeks ago… Mike Arnold or Anthony Michaels or some other combination of two first names. He glanced at me with an unreadable expression, smiled and returned his attention to his meal.

I was going to murder Rick if I started randomly humming that song today.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream," Rick sang, entering the kitchen with Nugget happily bouncing in his arms.

"Nugget, nooooo," I playfully groaned. "Don't encourage your daddy."

Rick grinned at me and started singing again. "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream... Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."

Nugget cooed and kicked his little socked feet.

I sighed loudly and slumped in my chair at the kitchen table.

"ROW, ROW, ROW your boat, gently down the stream!" Rick sang in a louder voice with an unnecessary amount of gusto.

Before he could continue, I picked up the butter knife I'd used to spread my cream cheese and held it up like a microphone. "If you continue to sing this song, I am going to screeeeeeeeeeeeam," I sang dramatically.

Rick and Nugget stared at me with the same sparkling blue eyes and the same big smiles, and I truly had no idea how I ever managed to leave them in the mornings.

"Ehhh… you were a little pitchy, Mich. But since you added jazz hands, I'll stop singin'." He handed Nugget to me before walking over to the coffee pot. "You need a refill?" he asked after pouring his cup.

I shook my head. My cup was almost empty, but I needed my morning fix of the little bundle in my arms more than caffeine. While I was giving the cutest little bundle in the world kisses, I noticed Rick trying to discreetly glance at his phone.

I knew what he was checking for.

We both knew he wasn't going to find anything.

She hadn't called or texted in the eight months she'd been gone. It was beyond ridiculous of him to think she would start doing so at 8:30 in the morning on a random Tuesday.

But I kept my mouth shut.

The last time I brought Lori up, Rick and I got into a shouting match during game night with Gleggie. In hindsight, maybe I was being slightly immature when I incorporated Lori into our game of Taboo. But the word I needed Glenn to guess was "garbage," and at the time I thought "Lori Grimes" and "Lori Grimes is a walking, talking pile of it" were fair clues. Maggie guessed the right word, but we weren't on the same team, so it didn't count.

"You're gonna be late for work if you spend the rest of your time scowlin' at me instead of finishin' your breakfast," Rick warned, sitting down across from me at the table.

I ignored him and held my palm out for Nugget to slap his tiny palm against.

"I can look at my phone, Michonne," he said defensively.

"I didn't say anything, Rick," I retorted in an even tone.

"But you wanted to."

"But I didn't." I watched Nugget's hand wrap around my finger.

I really didn't want to go there with Rick—not so early in the morning, not before I left for work, and most definitely not in front of Nugget. But I believed with every fiber of my being that Lori Grimes was garbage. That was why Rick's devotion to her was both mindboggling and infuriating.

I was about to tell him as much, but I was distracted by Nugget. He pumped his little fists in the air, blew a spit bubble and giggled like crazy after the bubble popped. His silliness easily made me and Rick laugh, which made him giggle louder. Once his giggles died down, Rick raised his eyebrows at me, silently asking if we were good. I stuck my tongue out at him, telling him that we were.

"Act your age, not your shoe size," he said in jest.

"Up your nose with a rubber hose," I said with a smile.

I looked down at Nugget who was looking up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes of his and a content little smile on his face. I wondered if he was naturally perceptive and understood that Rick and I needed that distraction or if he was just a cutie pie who really enjoyed a good spit bubble.

Either way, I loved him to bits.

I started playfully nibbling on his fingers and Rick started noisily sipping coffee. When I looked at him, he stared at me and continued sipping. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. He just kept staring and sipping.

I picked up my bagel and stared back at him as I bit into it and chewed.

He took a few more sips of his coffee and set his cup down, still maintaining eye contact.

I continued chewing and staring.

He put his elbow on the table, rested his chin in his hand and kept staring.

"What?" I ask with a mouth full of bagel, laughing.

"You tellin' me you haven't noticed?"

I finished chewing and swallowed. "Noticed what, Rick?"

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"You seriously haven't noticed?"

I must have looked at him blankly because he shook his head at me in exaggerated disbelief, stood up and motioned for me to hand Nugget over to him. With only about fifteen minutes left before I had to leave for work, I did not appreciate him infringing on my very precious Nugget time.

Begrudgingly, I handed Nugget over.

"Stop poutin'. This won't take long." He took a step back and held Nugget up. "What do you see?"

I quickly noticed what I'd somehow overlooked when Rick walked into the kitchen with Nugget.

"I see trouble," I said warmly.

Rick was wearing a black tshirt with white lettering that read "Big Trouble" and Nugget was wearing a white onesie with black lettering that read "Little Trouble".

"You two look adorable," I gushed.

"How could we not?" he asked with a wink, handing Nugget back to me.

I groaned. "You're not that cute, Rick Grimes. Nugget is ninety-nine percent of the adorable when you two are together."

I was lying.

Rick was more than cute, and he definitely pulled his weight when it came to being adorable.

I became aware of those truths in the seventh grade during our third period PE class. Even though I was annoyed with Rick for snapping my training bra before class, we partnered up for sit-ups because we always partnered up. He was holding down my feet and counting out my sit-ups, so I knew the exact moment when I started to see him in a different light.

It was on my ninth sit-up.

On my first through eighth sit-ups, Rick was just Rick. He was one of my butthead best friends. But on my ninth sit-up, I noticed how his curly mop-top seemed to be less moppy and more curly. On my tenth sit-up, I noticed how his eyes were a heavenly sky-blue color. On my eleventh sit-up, I noticed how nicely his eyelashes framed his heavenly sky-blue eyes. On my twelfth sit-up, I noticed how his smile, even with the braces, made my stomach flutter. On my thirteenth sit-up, Rick loudly accused me of farting after he made a fart noise with his mouth. On my fourteenth sit-up, Rick was back to just being Rick again. One of my butthead best friends… with heavenly sky-blue eyes.

Rick only grew more attractive as the years passed, but I wasn't admitting that to him.

"You're lyin' and you know it, Michonne. Carl gets all of his cute and adorable from me. This," he said, holding his arms out, "this is his future."

"Always so modest," I deadpanned. "And I wasn't pouting. I don't pout."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he mumbled, sitting back down.

"You two are all set for your day at the zoo?" I added just enough enthusiasm to my voice to hide how I really felt.

Rick slightly tilted his head and studied my face.

Perhaps I'd missed the mark on sounding enthusiastic.

I loved that Rick and Nugget were spending a daddy and son day together, but I had a bad case of the fear of missing outs. The three of us had been to the zoo twice, and the only animal Nugget hadn't seen yet were the penguins. Those little jerks refused to come out their cave both times we'd visited. I had a feeling today would be the day they stopped acting like little jerks, meaning I was going to miss Nugget's reaction to seeing them.

"You know you're more than welcome to join us," Rick said.

I gave Nugget a big kiss on his cheek. "I wish I could, but I have so much on my plate at work today. Back-to-back meetings and-"

"Reschedule 'em," he suggested.

"I can't just reschedule meetings because I want to play at the zoo, Rick."

"Why not? Just call in sick."

I gave him a look. Rick was on vacation this week, and Vacation Rick always tried to get me to play hooky.

"Carl, what do you think?" he asked Nugget.

Nugget put his fingers in his mouth.

"Mmhm. I agree," Rick said. "'Chonne, after conferrin' with Carl, we are now formally demandin' that you spend the day with us."

"A formal demand… Wow, that sounds serious," I deadpanned.

"Oh, it is serious," he said, attempting to look very serious. "So go change into your 'Here Comes Trouble' shirt and those itty, bitty, teeny, weeny shorts you like to wear, and come on."

I laughed. "Not happening. Not the calling in sick and definitely not the shorts."

"What's wrong with the shorts?" he asked, frowning.

"Those aren't for public viewing, Rick. Until I lose the rest of my baby weight, those are around the house shorts only."

I'd gained over thirty pounds when I was pregnant, and so far I'd only lost sixteen of them. I could barely fit into those shorts.

Rick looked confused. "What are you talkin' about? You look great in those shorts."

"That's nice of you to say, Rick. Really, it is." I didn't believe him for a second.

"I'm not just sayin', Michonne. You look... amazin'."

Before I could disagree, he cut me off.

"You do," he insisted. "You always have. A few pounds doesn't change that."

I smiled, genuinely touched by his words. But I still wasn't wearing those shorts in public.

"So put on your less itty, bitty, teeny, weeny shorts, and come on!"

"Rick-"

"And you know what? Because the weather's so nice and it's so early in the mornin', I bet those penguins come out."

I gave my best impersonation of a head tilting, eye squinting Rick Grimes. "You fight dirty, Richard."

He tried to keep a straight face, but his smile broke through and he gave me a sorry, not sorry shrug.

"So what's it gonna be?" he asked, reaching across the table and stealing the rest of my bagel. "You goin' to the zoo today with the cool kids? Or are you gonna be a lame-o and go to work?"

Rick whooped in victory after I sighed and rolled my eyes.

"Your daddy is a bad influence, isn't he?" I asked Nugget.

Nugget gurgled and reached for my face.

"You should tell your daddy he's a bad influence." I told him. "Say, 'Daddy, you are a bad influence.'"

He looked at Rick and then back at me and giggled.

"Not cool, Michonne. You're always tryin' to get him to talk smack about me. Why don't I ever hear you tell him to say, 'Daddy, you tell the funniest jokes!' or 'Daddy, you do the best impersonation of Cookie Monster!'?"

"Don't be shy, baby," I said to Nugget, paying no mind to his daddy. "Say, 'Daddy, you-"

"Dadu!" he shouted.

I gasped and looked at Rick. The bagel he was munching on hung limply from his mouth and his eyes went wide.

"Dadu!" Nugget shouted again. "Dadu!"

Rick took the bagel out his mouth, jumped out of his chair and got down on one knee beside me.

"Are you…" he said, looking at Nugget. "Did he…" he said, looking at me. "Are you… Are you tryin' to say I'm a bad influence, buddy?" Rick asked Nugget in an excited stupor.

"Dadu! Dadu! Dadu!" Nugget shouted again, squirming in my hands to get to Rick.

"That's right," Rick said in a hushed voice, carefully taking Nugget from me. "I'm your dadu."

A pink flush spread across Rick's face as the significance of the moment set in. Nugget had spoken his first word. He was Nugget's first word.

Rick looked at me with happy tears threatening to spill from his eyes and smiled.

"We officially have a talker," I whispered.

He grabbed hold of my hand. "We've got us a talker."

Because Rick had pretty much been MIA the first few months of Nugget's life, I knew how meaningful this was for him. But for that same reason, I understood why there was guilt growing in his eyes. On more than a few occasions, I'd overheard him trying to get Nugget to say my name.

Rick wanted this moment to be mine.

But it was ok that it wasn't.

Regardless of what Nugget's first word was, I was elated he was starting to talk. Every milestone he reached meant that Rick and I were doing something right. It meant that Lori's abandonment wasn't stunting his growth. Before Rick could say anything to take away from this first, I squeezed his hand and looked deeply into his eyes.

"There's only one thing you should be thinking right now," I told him.

A smile started at his lips and worked its way up to his eyes, pushing out the guilt.

"Dance party?" he asked.

"Dance party!" I shouted.

Rick and I celebrated Nugget's firsts in different ways, but we loved to celebrate with a dance party the most.

After we danced around the kitchen to "I Gotta Feeling," and then danced around the kitchen to it a second time, I called Mika to let her know I wouldn't be in for the day. While we were discussing which meetings she could sit in on in my place, I noticed Rick fumbling with his phone to snap a selfie.

I also smelled a very unpleasant odor coming from Nugget.

All too familiar with father and son, I decided to continue my conversation with Mika in the living room before Rick became frustrated with his phone and Nugget became frustrated with what was in his diaper. Rick tried to block my path, but since he had a baby in one arm and his other arm was stretched out taking pictures, I was able to get past him.

I looked over my shoulder at Rick and Nugget when I was in the living room.

I couldn't stop smiling even if I tried.

I held the photo to my chest. Nugget's first word had transformed an average Tuesday into a phenomenal one.

To be honest though, most days I'd spent with Nugget and Rick were phenomenal in one way or another. There were definitely moments when I was driven to the brink of insanity—the toilet seat wars with Rick, for example, and Nugget could throw a tantrum like nobody's business, but I cherished every second that I'd shared with them.

I looked at the photo again and ran my finger down the glass over Nugget's face and then Rick's.

My guys.

My heart and my soul.

The reason why my rage was no longer roaring.

I let out a slow, steady breath and carefully set the frame on the table, angling it so that the photo faced out into the room.

Shit.

Maggie was going to kick my ass. And then Beth. And then Annette. And then probably Hershel. And then Maggie again. But as the Greene family liked to say, "dibs is dibs."

And Rick had called dibs.

He wanted to talk to Lori. He didn't want me breaking her jaw or kicking her teeth in.

I needed to let Rick take the lead. I needed to leave.

And I was going to…

until I heard Lori's unhurried footsteps making their way to the front room.

I narrowed my eyes.

I felt my blood pressure rising.

Lori was never one to exhibit restraint, especially not when Rick was concerned. I was surprised she wasn't running.

I turned away from the photo and watched her limp into the room.

"Fucking Lori Grimes," I said through gritted teeth when our eyes met.

She stood on the other side of the room in typical Lori fashion. Scowling face? Check. Icy brown eyes? Check. Dull, lifeless hair in desperate need of a trim, a deep condition, and a style? Check, check, and check.

The only thing missing was her crossed arms.

She was holding LuLu instead.

LuLu was Rick's baseball bat. He'd gotten it over ten years ago but only used it when he played in the annual King County sheriff's department vs. fire department baseball game. Because the bat was a Louisville Slugger, he nicknamed it LuLu. Because he'd scored a home run in every game he'd played in, he considered it to be his lucky bat.

No one touched LuLu. Ever. Rick was superstitious like that.

But here this bitch was with LuLu in her hands.

"Nice to see you, too, Michonne," she said with nothing but malice in her voice.

I responded with a stone-faced silence.

"You remember LuLu don't you?" she asked, resting the bat on her shoulder. "Bet you weren't expectin' to see her."

I responded with stone-faced silence.

In no way whatsoever was I intimidated by fucking Lori Grimes, whether she was holding a bat or not. My silence was due to an internal battle.

My rage was more than ready to strike.

My heart was committed to respecting Rick's dibs.

Fuck.

"Did you really think you could just walk into my house without me realizin' it?" Lori asked with contempt. "You think I don't know what my husband sounds like when he comes through the front door of my house?"

Don't break her jaw.

Don't kick her teeth in.

"And if it wasn't my husband walkin' through the door at one-somethin' in the mornin', then of course it would be you. Because it's always you, isn't it?"

Don't break her jaw.

Don't kick her teeth in.

"I'm actually surprised you didn't bring your little hooligan posse with you." Her grip on the bat tightened. "But I wish you would've. I'd love to introduce them to LuLu."

Don't break her jaw.

Don't kick her teeth in.

She looked me up and down and sucked her teeth.

"Who'da thunk fancy pants Michonne Danvers would associate with those trashy Greene girls? I guess you got tired of havin' one charity case of a friend in Daryl, so you got yourself a couple more."