AN: Here we are, another chapter here. I posted another chapter earlier, so if you missed that one, don't forget to read it before you read this one.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Carol sat at her kitchen table and sipped the glass of rosé she'd poured herself from the chilled bottle that was still well within reach. She didn't drink nearly as much as some of the other Glory Gals, but she fully recognized that, sometimes, a nice glass or two of wine was necessary for bolstering one's self esteem, inspiring confidence, and promotion action.

Carol was in need of all those things.

Carol ran the piece of paper through her fingers. By now, it had almost become soft from the rubbing of her fingers—the transfer of oils—and the time it had spent riding around in her purse.

Part of her wanted to believe that the man didn't want her to call. It was, after all, a one-night stand. Carol knew, though, that the part that wanted her to think about it that way was also closely related to the part of her mind that reminded her that all men, really, were alike. They only wanted one thing from a woman, but they disrespected her once they knew that she was willing to let them have that. They were insecure and, even though Carol didn't find insecurity, by itself, to be a real fault, they often let that insecurity make them brutal and cruel. Men hated to be wrong. They wanted to be worshipped. And they wanted to control, hurt, and humiliate whoever they could because that gave them a sense of power that the world had taken from them—just the same as the world stripped most people of power and control from time to time.

"Fucking Ed," Carol muttered to herself. She tipped back the glass of wine and swallowed down a good mouthful of the sweet drink. She liked the sweet wine that reminded her of juice or candy. She liked the light, dizzy feeling that it gave her—almost like she was airy and her mind was capable of floating around. It made her feel happy and giggly. It wasn't the same feeling as hard liquor.

She didn't like to think of Ed while she drank wine. Wine wasn't for thinking about Ed.

Though she remembered very little about the man, she did remember that the sex had been good. It had been the best she'd had in…forever, even if she had been a little uncomfortable the following day. And he hadn't made her feel ashamed about any of it, but that could have been because he was as shameful as she was during a one-night stand—not that the stigma was ever the same for a man.

"You're either going to call the number," Carol said, talking to herself, "or you're—going to throw it away and forget the whole thing. That's all there is to it. There are no other choices. You dial the number, or…you throw it away."

Carol laughed to herself. She often talked to herself, but that was a side effect, she reasoned, of living alone. Sometimes it was simply nice to talk to someone—even if that someone was herself.

She sighed. She felt glued to her seat. She might not be verbally answering herself, but there was something that anchored her to the kitchen chair and kept her from throwing the number away. It was the same something that had kept her holding onto the piece of paper since Saturday morning.

Carol picked up her phone, dialed the number, and took a deep breath before she suggested to her phone that it ought to call the stranger. Her heart drummed in her chest, and Carol focused on controlling her breathing as she heard the phone ring. She wasn't sure if she was more hopeful that he would answer, or that he wouldn't.

She almost hung up, her hands shaking and tensing, but she didn't make it before there was an answer on the other end.

"Hello?" The voice asked. Carol felt frozen. She could hear her slightly labored breathing. She felt like she could hear her heart thrumming in her chest. She forced herself to relax her jaw. She wanted to speak, but she almost felt like she'd forgotten that skill, and she didn't know how words worked. "Hello?" The voice asked again. She thought she vaguely recalled the voice, but she couldn't be sure. She hadn't rehearsed what to say. In all her fretting over the number, she'd never actually gotten to the part where he answered—or, if she had, he'd always simply answered in anger and declared that he never wanted to see her or hear from her again. "Anyone there?" The voice asked. "Listen—I can hear you breathin'—so you might as well say what'cha got to say. This some kinda crank call? Axel? That you? Merle? Whose damn phone you got? This ain't funny."

Carol never meant to laugh to herself. There was absolutely nothing funny about the situation. She was practically glued to her kitchen chair and she'd forgotten how to form words. The man on the other end of the line was growing more paranoid and suspicious by the moment. He was certain this was some kind of joke on him. Carol never meant to laugh, but she had—just a short, quick laugh. As soon as she heard it, her heart pounded a little harder, but her muscles seemed to relax a bit more.

"You a woman," the man said. Silence. One beat. Two. Neither Carol nor the man spoke. "You her?" He asked.

Carol either had to hang up the phone or speak. The man on the other end of the line wasn't livid with her for contacting him. Even when he'd thought this was some kind of call at his expense, he'd never sounded angry—frustrated, maybe, but no more frustrated than Michonne often got with Andrea, or Alice, or anyone who wasn't quite as serious, as she often thought they should be, in situations where she thought that seriousness was appropriate.

"Are you D?" Carol asked. "I might—I might have the wrong number." As soon as she said it, Carol worried that she might, in fact, have the wrong number—especially given the new found silence of the man on the other end of the call. Almost immediately, though, the voice in her head argued that there was no reason for the man to leave a wrong number when he could have chosen not to leave any number at all. "I'm looking for a man who—who might call himself D. And he might have…he might have given out his number on Friday night. To a woman he met at Salty's Bar. Are you…are you D?"

Carol washed down some of her anxiety with a swallow from the wine glass, and she reached for the bottle and topped off her glass while she waited for the man on the other end of the line to decide if he was D or not.

"Daryl," the man said. "I'm—Daryl Dixon. And you're…?" He left it hanging.

Carol laughed to herself.

"I think I'm the woman that you—met on Friday night," Carol said. "If, in fact, you met a woman on Friday night."

She rested her forehead on her hand and her elbow on the table. She didn't know if she was humiliated or relieved because, as dumb as such a thing might sound, she liked the sound of the man's voice.

Daryl—because that was his name, Daryl, and Carol turned it around in her mind and committed it to memory as though she'd ever need it again after this embarrassing phone call—laughed quietly to himself. He coughed into the phone.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry. Yeah—I'm…Daryl. I'm that Daryl. I don't—uh—I didn't catch your name." He laughed nervously to himself and Carol smiled. "I don't know if you didn't throw it or if I just forgot it."

"Carol," Carol offered.

"Carol," Daryl repeated. "Yeah—that's a pretty name. It uh—makes me think of Christmas."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I've heard that before," she offered.

"I bet you have," Daryl said. "So—this your number? That you callin' from, Carol?"

"Do you think I borrowed someone else's phone to call you?" Carol asked.

"You don't never know," Daryl offered.

"It's my number," Carol confirmed.

"So now—I got your number," Daryl said. "I mean—if that's alright. You didn't bother to block it or nothin' so…I'm guessin' that's alright."

"I guess that depends on what you intend to do with my number," Carol said.

"I weren't gonna sell it to no telemarketers," Daryl offered. "If that's what you scared of."

"Well, that's a relief," Carol said. She picked up her glass and sipped some of the wine. She felt like she remembered the man. Maybe she didn't remember his face—because there was really very little about his face that she could recall in any detail—but she remembered the way that he made her feel. There was a sense memory that went with the ache of her cheeks and the welcomed relaxation of her shoulders. Carol sat back in her chair and, using her feet, she slid the other kitchen chair out so she could rest her sock-covered feet on the seat of it. "What did you intend to use it for?"

"I don't know," Daryl said. "I guess—lot of that's up to you. I mean—I got ideas, but they don't really matter none if you ain't interested in 'em."

"What ideas did you have?" Carol asked.

"Maybe—I could use it to ask you out for drinks?" Daryl asked.

"I know you're not going to believe this," Carol said, "but I really don't drink that much. I mean—I like a drink. Maybe two. But I don't usually drink, you know, like I did on Friday night."

"Me either," Daryl said. "And I ain't just sayin' that shit 'cause you said it, neither. I like a drink or two. A couple beers to knock the day off, but…maybe we don't do drinks. Maybe we do somethin' else, then."

"What'd you have in mind?" Carol asked.

Her heart began to pick up pace, again, as she considered the actual possibility of being face to face with the man that was on the phone. It was one thing to talk to him when she was in her kitchen and he was—wherever it was that he happened to be at the moment. It was another thing, entirely, to put herself in the same space with him. Despite what they'd already done together, it all seemed a bit overwhelming. What they'd done together, after all, had been brought about by too much alcohol and by impulse decisions. This was knowingly and willingly putting herself in a room with a man that she didn't know at all—and she hadn't been on a date in a very, very long time. She was almost afraid that she didn't know how to date, anymore. Beyond that, she was terrified that she might find that she didn't want to date—and men, when they weren't getting what they wanted, were the most dangerous of all.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, when she realized that she'd been listening to the internal noises of her own body, and her screaming inner voice, and she'd entirely forgotten to listen to Daryl as he spoke. "I didn't hear what—what'd you say?"

"I said—I could pick you up," Daryl said. "Dinner? I was thinkin' Friday just because we don't have to—you know—be too rushed. But, if you like a different day…I mean I gotta eat most every night."

In spite of all her anxiety, Carol laughed to herself, and she swallowed the laughter back, thankful for the few knots it helped to untangle in her chest.

"I'm sorry," Carol said. "Maybe—not dinner?"

"Oh," Daryl said. Carol was almost certain that she heard disappointment in his voice.

"I just mean—it's the first time we're meeting and all…I mean, I know it's not the first time, but…"

"No," Daryl said, cutting her off. "No. I mean—I understand. I get it. You don't—you don't gotta explain." He cleared his throat. "You—so—did you have, I mean, somethin' else in mind or…you was just callin' to say no dinner like…like don't call again or? I'm sorry. You prob'ly don't believe me, but…I haven't actually done this before."

"Me either," Carol offered softly.

"I hope you didn't mean that you don't want me to call this number back, never," Daryl offered.

"That wasn't what I meant at all," Carol said. She realized it was true even as she said it.

"Good," Daryl said. Carol could practically hear his smile. "So—no dinner. OK. What'd you—what you think would be good? I mean…for the first time, you know…since the other night don't count."

"Coffee?" Carol asked. "Do you drink coffee?"

"Coffee?" Daryl asked. "I mean—yeah, coffee. Great. I love—love coffee. Drink it every morning."

"Great," Carol said. "Coffee. We can meet at the Gypsy Rose Café. You know where that is?"

"Main street," Daryl said. "Fancy little café."

"Is it fancy?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Maybe not," he said. "Just—fancy to me, I guess. I usually drink coffee outta a mug at home or one of them travel cups in the car. Sometimes I drink gas station coffee. That's all I meant."

"You'll like the coffee there," Carol assured him.

"I don't think I'll mind, either way," Daryl offered. "When?"

"When do you want?" Carol asked. "Friday?"

"Friday was for dinner," Daryl said. "For not worryin' about runnin' late. But if we're just talkin' about coffee, I'd rather sooner than later. That way, if the coffee goes OK—and you ain't opposed to it—maybe we could still talk about dinner on Friday."

Carol's heart drummed out a response to the suggestion. It felt overwhelming. It felt like too much, too soon. But she understood where Daryl was coming from, and she didn't bother to shoot down the idea. After all, they hadn't had coffee, and that could change everything. Maybe, in fact, he wouldn't even want dinner with her once he'd seen her again. Anything could happen.

"Tomorrow?" Carol asked. "Is that—is it too soon?"

Daryl laughed.

"What the hell I got to do to get ready for coffee? Tomorrow's good. I clock in at 8:30."

"We can meet at 7:45," Carol said. "The café doesn't officially open until eight, but that's just a number. People are always coming in any time after 7:30."

"Sounds good to me," Daryl said. "You'll know me. I always wear a work shirt that's got my name on the pocket. Daryl. I guess—I'll see you tomorrow, Carol."

Carol smiled to herself. Her heart was dancing, completely out of rhythm, it seemed, in her chest.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she confirmed. "Goodnight, Daryl," she offered. She heard his wish of a good night before she hung up the call and sat, for a few moments, sipping her wine and thinking about the rugged stranger—who she now knew was named Daryl—whose face was about to get a lot clearer in her mind.

And she hoped, for the sake of her nervous heart, and her even more nervous mind, that she hadn't made a mistake.