Chapter 1 – Michonne

"Thanks for coming, Rick."

"No problem."

Reaching my arm out to turn down the radio so he can hear me, I raise my voice a little. "Really. I mean… I know you probably had something to do with Lori or whatever."

"Nah, it's cool. She didn't come home with me. We're actually taking a break right now. She wanted to do spring break in Cabo, and I didn't."

"Oh? Why not? Cabo sounds fun. I wish my parents would have let me go to Cabo for spring break. Instead I have to go on this family trip to Europe. Who goes on a family trip for spring break when they are 18?"

"I would rather go there than to Cabo."

"What? Oh my god, you are such an old man already! You need to loosen up, Rick."

"I'm loose." Rolling his shoulders to supposedly evidence how easy going he is, Rick looks over at me and grins, "See?"

Frowning at his stiff movements, I lean away from him and burst into a fit of laughter. "What is that? What are you doing?"

"Showing you how loose I am?"

Laughing at his pitiful attempt at appearing relaxed, I shake my head back and forth with my dreads whipping in front of my face. "Nope. No."

"Too lose?"

"Uh, no."

"Not loose enough?" He asks with a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Schooling the mirth showing on his features, Rick shrugs. Relaxing his broad shoulders, and focusing on the road, he leans back into his seat again. Tapping his right hand against the steer wheel as though he gives up on the subject, he sighs and pulls his baseball cap lower on his head, down over his eyes. "Oh well. I guess you and Lori agree on that then."

I'm no fan of Lori's. Not even a little bit. Her and Rick have dated off and on since he left Atlanta for The University of Tennessee four years ago. The way Rick tells it they kind of stumbled into a relationship by accident, meeting up at a frat party when some drunk, obnoxious some guy was hassling her and spilled a drink all over her clothes. Rick, being his usual chivalrous self, de-escalated the situation and offered to walk her back to her dorm. After that she just kind of stuck with him. Asking him to walk her to her classes. Showing up at parties he was going to be at. Rick calls it the relationship that's not a relationship, but I told him after his sophomore year of her skillfully attaching herself to his hip that if it looks like a relationship, and you never call the police on your stalker, then it's a relationship. He never thought that was as funny as I did, but he never disagrees, and I think after four years he has just quietly relented to whatever the thing is between them.

If I could find something nice to say about Lori it would be that she's not bad looking if you like that skinny, waifish look. And she's tenacious. Good lord the woman is tenacious! She has easily waltzed her way into a four year, monogamous relationship without breaking a sweat. She sure knew how to pick her prey. Rick is simply too easygoing to cause a fuss, or to call a spade a spade when it comes to his level five clinger. Especially if that clinger is a pretty woman. And then there is probably the sex. I suppose when you factor in the sex, as my brother Glenn has reminded me, it changes everything. On top of that, and after meeting her the few times he has brought her home from school, and seeing the way she clings to him, dutifully keeping him with a cold beer, and a full plate, Lori clearly knows what she's doing.

His mom doesn't like her much either, but even she has to admit that Lori has her claws in Rick, and whether he likes it or not, she seems here to stay.

Given the deep frown, and the stoic set of Rick's features, there seems to be some trouble in paradise. "So you're taking a break from your girlfriend of four years because you didn't want to go to Cabo and be loose? That's dumb."

"Nah…it's a more than that. With graduation coming in two months, Lori's been telling me to loosen up and go with the flow. By the flow she means she's trying to move things between us along, ya know. I'm just trying to get through finals, Chonnie. I'm not ready to make decisions that will affect the rest of my life just yet. You know me, I don't plan that far ahead. One day at a time. But, she's pressing. Shane thinks she's probably already got the rings, and the white dress picked out, and I'm not even close to that yet. Not with her."

"She's infatuated with you." I blurt before I have a chance to school my tongue. I don't have a lot of experience with dating and relationships, but this one seems obvious. At least to me.

Rick doesn't even blanche at my statement, completely unbothered he shakes his head and releases a short disgusted snort. "Maybe. I think it's the idea of me, ya know? But not me specifically. Not really me. Who she wants me to be. It's like she has this infatuation with getting married, buying a house, having kids. She's got it all planned out, and me? I'm the interchangeable groom, the guy she can mold into what she wants. Hell, it doesn't have to even be me, I honestly think any guy would do. She says she loves me, but how? We never talked about love, or the future. I didn't."

Unsure of how to respond to this revelation, and maybe even a little uncomfortable with Rick divulging the cracks of things between him and Lori, a subject I have always attempted to keep my distance from, I steal a few glances his way and mumble. "Ah, I could see that."

"I know this is all my fault. I know that. My dad said I should have gotten rid of her years ago, but she's not bad. She just wants something that I'm not sure is what I want. Does that make sense? Like she planned out this Cabo thing, and just assumed I would go along with it. I don't wanna go to Cabo with her and her friends. I barely like most of them, and definitely don't want to waste the little bit of money I have on hanging out in a different country with them."

"Right. I get it, Rick."

"Does this make sense? The more I say it out loud I'm just like 'what the fuck, dude'!'"

"Yeah it makes sense. The girlfriend who's not your girlfriend, is trying to take your non-relationship to the next level, by force if necessary. Sounds crazy as hell, Rick, but this has kind of been her way all along. Right?"

"Yea, it is. I let everything with Lori just ride for too long, but now? I don't know…" His voice trails off, the last word dying as his thoughts drift into the cool breeze of the air blowing in through the open truck windows. For a moment we don't say anything. There's not really anything to say about that, except that knowing my friend, my best friend, as well as I do, he's struggling to figure out he ended up here, and how to fix things without anyone getting hurt. He cares about everyone. Tries to make things right for everyone around him. But what about him?

I understand exactly where Rick is coming from, and even though I don't answer him immediately, the nod of my head, and me leaning into his side is my non-verbal way of communicating that to him. We've never needed words to know what's on the other's mind, and right now is no exception. I can tell by the stiff set of his body in his seat as his head bobs to the music coming through the car's speakers, that he's trapped in his own thoughts, body barely moving to Dave Matthews' 'Crash into Me', the soundtrack that frames Rick's confession with its ominous lyrics.

"You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight tie me up again…"

If I were to give into my initial inclination to pick at him about Lori, like I have before, I would tease him about how appropriate this Gen X, flannel, stalker-ballad is for this conversation, but I won't. He doesn't need me to go there. My best friend is tussling with angst and uncertainty already, what good would a round of told you so's do right now?

Rick remains lost in his thoughts. Focused. Not so much on the actual road ahead of us, but more on the theoretical path forward. Wanting to ease some of the strain from what weighs on him, I try to change the subject again. Tapping his thigh to get his attention, I look up at him, "Hey, don't take me home just yet. Let's go do something fun. Just me and you. Like we used to. It's still early and I don't have to be home until 12. My parents thought I was going to be out with Mike for awhile, and it's only 8."

"What do you wanna do? You hungry?"

"I don't know. We could grab some snacks and just go chill in the treehouse. Maybe salvage the rest of the night?"

Rick rubs his hand up and down my arm, a comforting stroke that continues to settle my agitated spirit and remind me of the deep connection I have with my best friend. He pulls me in a little tighter and I can't help but enjoy the closeness of the person who probably knows me the best in the world.

Softening his voice, Rick doesn't answer my suggestion to hang out in our childhood hideaway, instead he changes direction a bit. "Chonnie, I know you don't want to tell me what happened with you and that guy Mike, but you can. I mean, I just vomited my shit with Lori at you. You can do the same if you need to."

"I know."

"I'm here for you. Always."

"I know, but I don't want to talk about that right now. Ok?"

"Ok."

Trying to move away from the heavy direction of our conversation now focused on me, I bring it back to what we should do next instead. "Let's get some beer and just hang out. I wanna have fun and catch up! It' been a while since we've done that. I have a new Black Panther comic I can read to you. Okoye is back kicking ass!"

Hesitating a bit before answering, Rick gives in to my lane change and utters a simple, "Cool." He nods, hitting his turn signal to lead us back towards our neighborhood. After a moment, he seems to have fully processed my request then frowns a little. "But wait, beer? You want me to enable underage drinking?"

"Yeah… I've already had one beer tonight anyway. No big deal."

Pulling his head back, maybe a little shocked by my admission, Rick responds, "Oh really? I didn't realize you were a drinker like that."

"I'm not. But I have a drink every now and then. I'm not a little kid, Rick. Loosen up, remember?"

"Yeah… Alright… since you're with me it's cool. But, listen, don't drink with people you don't know and trust. Ok? I assume you trust Mike, but, just be careful. I would hate to have to kill him if he did something to you, Chonnie."

"He… he wouldn't."

"You sure?" Rick asks, dragging his gaze from the road ahead of us, the tires of his pickup steadily speeding over the asphalt, to glance quickly over to me. The lighted glare from the streetlights and storefronts as we pass by, illuminate his face. I can see his eyes briefly study my face in my peripheral. I don't look back at him. Talking about Mike is dredging up the anger and hurt that caused me to call Rick to come get me from Mike's house party in the first place.

"I don't know." I shrug, feeling the slight haze from the beer I had earlier dulling my senses a bit. Forcing me to admit something that almost turns my stomach.

Cast in a stern frown at my droll and non-committal response, Rick looks over at me again, his white teeth making an appearance as he bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. "What the hell does that mean, Chonnie?"

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? That's what I've called you forever."

"Cause it's a kiddie sounding nickname and I'm not a baby or a kid, Rick." As I proffer my petulant demand to my friend, the words dance through the back of my brain, dredging up the way they were tossed at me with such disdain earlier. 'Stop acting like a baby!'

A soft chuckle rumbles through his body, his amusement at my protestation apparent, "Then what are you?"

"I'm a woman, Rick. I'm 18. And my name is Michonne, not Chonnie. No one calls me Chonnie anymore."

"Oh excuse me…Michonne. I was under the impression that you were the same girl I've known since she was five and my family moved next door to hers. Who used to play Star Wars with me, Glenn, and Jeffy and kick our asses with that wicked light saber your dad bought you. Or who used to have sleepovers with all of us in the tree house in our yard, reading comic books to everyone all night. Who beat up that little girl who pushed Jeffy into the deep end of your pool on Labor Day, and helped Glenn catch a frog in the creek behind my grandparents' house. Figured I'd earned the right to call you Chonnie still. Us going back to when you were a kid and all. Guess not."

Blowing out an exasperated breath, I have to admit, even through the frustration clouding my thoughts, Rick is right. I am that same girl. I remember when my dad bought me that light saber after seeing Stars Wars: Phantom Menace and I wanted to be Darth Maul for Halloween. Even though my mother thought Padme was more my speed, the ten-year-old tomboy in me was determined to be the evil badass with the double bladed light saber. Rick was Qui-Gon Jinn, with both Jeffy and Glenn being Anakin. Rick was also correct in that I beat all of them up regularly with my light saber.

We've known each other for thirteen years, with him and his brother Jeff being our neighbors, when their father opened a branch of their family furniture store in the city, moving them from King County to Atlanta. Our parents became fast friends, welcoming them to our middle class neighborhood in Ansley Park.

My little brother Glenn and I followed right along, becoming just as close with Rick and Jeff. Glenn and Jeff hit it off perfectly, both being pre-schoolers and barely out of pull ups, they were like peas in a pod. Which worked for both boys. Glenn was adopted by my parents when he was just a baby, right after his own parents, close friends and colleagues in the family medical practice my parents helmed along with the Rhees were killed in a car accident while out on their first date night since his birth. He was only four months old. With no other family in the states to speak of, my parents happily brought Glenn into the family when I was three. I don't even remember life without my pain in the ass little brother, and wouldn't have it any other way.

Jeff on the other hand was what the Grimes' called their late in life surprise, unexpectedly coming along nearly seven years after Rick. Him moving right next door to another little boy around his age worked out much better for him than trailing after his much older brother, who rarely wanted to be bothered anyway.

Despite the fact that Rick was four years older than me, he and I hit it off as well. Well, not at first. Not when we first met. My mother had sent me next door to invite the new kids over to swim in our pool the summer they moved in. When he answered the door, and his mother asked who it was, his offhand response delivered with a quick lazy glance my way, and a shrug, was that it was some little boy. When he turned back towards me, at his mother's urging, to see what I wanted, I stood up straight, balled up my tiny five-year-old fist, cocked back and quickly punched him in his long straight nose. At the loud yelp coming from the front door, his mother immediately made an appearance from somewhere in the house, alarmed at the sight of her son holding his palm over his nose, and of me taking off fast as a rabbit, back next door to my house.

Heading over to our house directly after, his mother and mine smoothed things over, with my mother explaining that with my short cropped fro, and tomboyish mannerisms, she understood why Rick was confused, and apologized profusely on my behalf. Even going so far as to make me also apologize to him, which I reluctantly did. After that, his mother stayed over our house with her boys for the rest of the day, getting to know my mother, and watching all of us play around in the pool. After finally accepting my apology for hitting him, Rick and I also found, over a game of 'anything you can do I can do better', featuring who can do the best jumps into the pool, make the biggest splash, or any other feat that I excelled at, that not only was I was indeed a girl. And a badass. But also, a pretty cool girl, and going forward his best friend, Chonnie.

Needless to say, when Rick says he has earned the right given our extensive history to call me Chonnie, he has. I'm still Chonnie. But I'm also not. I'm also Michonne, and that's a little different. At 18, about to be a high school graduate, I'm experiencing my emergence into real womanhood, and for the most part, Rick missed a lot of it. With him being away at college since I was 14, he has only caught small glimpses of my trek from pimply, brace faced pre-teen to a full breasted, young woman with a boyfriend. Rick's recollection of Chonnie is heavily influenced by his memories of me secreted away hiding in the tree house his dad built, sketching drawings, and reading comics, divulging all of my pre-teen angst and secrets to his happy to listen ear. While we have kept in touch via phone and email, my blossoming body and social life has kind of pulled me in a different direction. Into a more grown up version of myself. Michonne. Not Chonnie.

Grumbling a little at having to apologize and explain myself, and also a little embarrassed for snapping at my oldest and dearest friend, I raise up a little and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. Offering Rick a hug, a gesture I've used over the years to convey my sincerity and to connect with him, I soften my words. "Sorry, Rick. I'm still Chonnie. Just…no one calls me that anymore."

"I still call you that."

"Yeah well, I guess you can still do it. But not around other people. Ok?"

Turning his head towards me, he places a quick peck to my forehead, the same way he has done so many times before. I admit, if only to myself, that it does feel good to sink back into the comfortable familiarity of our friendship. Our expressions of friendship still there between us, even though our time apart has strained our bond.

"Alright. As long as I can still use it I'm good."

"Fine."

Gently, almost with a modicum of hesitance, Rick take the conversation in reverse, still trying to figure out this thing from tonight with Mike. "So, now that we are passed that, you sure you don't wanna tell me why I had to come pick you up from that house party with your boy Mike?"

"Not really." I huff, easing my way back across the bench seat to my side of the truck again. Leaning up against the passenger window, the sting of the memory of Mike's taunts and teases, his face twisted in displeasure, hits me hard again. I don't want to talk about it. Especially not with Rick. While I may be able to toss around my newfound womanhood to Rick with little effort, Mike knows better. He has tested my stance, and found it…for a better word…lacking. I suppose that's how he would put it. Or what was the other word he used? Frigid. Or was it scared? Juvenile?

Pulling up to the gas station, Rick puts the truck in park then studies me again, a hint of frustration clouding his face. He doesn't get my reluctance to discuss Mike with him, and I know him. He's not going to let this go. That's not how we roll. We tell each other everything. Always. He was the first person I told when I got my period. Not my friend, and fellow cheerleader Rosita, who had gotten hers a few months prior and told me immediately. Not even my own mother. I told Rick, who at 16 evidenced his own adolescent immaturity, and wasn't exactly sure what to do with that information other than to ask me if I was going to be moody now or still cool.

Internally I chuckle at the memory, and how casual and open we usually are with each other. This wall of silence between us right now is pissing him off. My reluctance to be with him how I have always been is a quizzical piece of this new mature woman. Michonne. But, remembering that he is no fan of Mike's I simply don't want to add fuel to that fire. Especially since his dislike is based on the one time they met at Christmas and Mike gifted me with an expensive gold ring with a small amethyst, my birth stone, in front of my family, as a 'promise ring'. Rick, using his big college words, called it pretentious and assumptive, noting that at 17 and 18 we shouldn't be promising each other anything that we don't know we can actually deliver on. I didn't understand his angst behind those comments, and not until I discussed it with my mother did she explain that Rick has always been protective of me and just doesn't want to see me get into something too serious too soon, did I even get a little perspective on his odd response to the gift. Her explanation was sparse, bare, but to the point and knowing that she's right, and recalling the many times that Rick has looked out for me, I let it go and decided to just keep Rick and Mike away from each other.

With Rick away at school it has been easy to do. To keep them apart. And to fall, hopelessly, nose wide open, into Mike. How could I not? He's the embodiment of a teenaged girl's dream. Tall, dark, handsome, smart, athletic. We had AP Chemistry together at the beginning of this year, and when the teacher made us partners, things just bloomed from there. We became a couple, and though it seems too classic and cliché, the cheerleader and the football jock, it felt meant to be.

Until now, I haven't had a lot of experience with boys. My parents wouldn't let me date until my senior year, and outside of the kid stuff I know from growing up with my brother Glenn, Jeff, and Rick, I didn't really know what to expect with Mike. I just knew that he had a good sense of humor. That he always had jokes. People liked him, he was popular. More importantly, other girls liked him. A lot. But he chose me. The day he turned that handsome grin of his, full of mischief and mirth, on me, and asked if I wanted to hang out after this upcoming Friday's football game, was something I will never forget. It felt foreign, odd. Exciting. Like I had been plucked from obscurity and thrust into an exciting new existence as one of the cool kids.

I may have been a cheerleader but that was only because I was flexible, had good rhythm, and was one of the only girls who despite having no formal gymnastics training, was a natural at tumbling and stunts. I wasn't popular. Michonne Anderson wasn't known for being gregarious or outgoing. Studious? Yes. Serious? Yes. Nerdy even? Absolutely. But popular or pretty? No. With my dark skin and natural puffs, I wasn't considered pretty by most guys' standards, at least none of them ever made me aware that I was. I didn't technically fit in like my beautiful friend Rosita, with her caramel complexion, and loose silken locks, thanks to her Hispanic mother and Black father. I wasn't tough or cool like my girl Sasha, who seemed to move so effortlessly, with an air of indifference of others' approval, through the halls of our private high school, Piedmont Academy. And with her boyfriend Abe, three years older, and enrolled in the army, Sasha was truly above the childish dynamics of high school society.

I suppose if I really think about it, there was also a bit of curiosity that drove me to succumb to Mike's attentions. Curiosity about the highest social strata of teenaged society, and about Mike. About boys. About sex. But now, now that I'd danced so close to that fire and gotten burned, chickened out when it mattered, I realize I was completely out of my depth.

From the corner of my eye I can see that Rick is still staring, and obviously trying to understand my unwillingness to share more about Mike, which is very unlike me, especially with him. I squirm a bit under the focus of those blue eyes, looking away when the heft of it becomes too much. Scoffing at my reluctance, Rick exits and I turn back to his side of the truck to watch his steady, unhurried gait carry him into the store.

Over the time we have known each other, I'm not the only one that has changed. At least in appearance. Rick's face, now almost completely devoid of the baby chub that used to round out his features, showcases that he is all man. From the skinny, bow legged kid, with the curly mop of dark brown hair, who taught me how to pop a proper wheelie on my bike, to this man. Man. Yes, Rick is definitely now a man. It's a transformation I became aware of years ago when he started dating and I watched with youthful amazement and wonder as he courted one blonde or brunette after another, but due to my own inexperience with men and being younger, I didn't process it until we had been apart for a few months and he came home for Thanksgiving last year.

In his normal uniform of t-shirt and jeans, Rick though always lean, has filled out. His upper body bulking into a broader frame, stretching those t-shirts snugly over his chest and back. The sleeves hugging around his biceps. Curls loose and dusting his nape. He's a good looking guy. It's not an uncomfortable realization by any means, but it is odd to acknowledge that my friend with the dark scruff bristling across his masculine jaw and cheeks, is more guy than goof.

I'm not the only one who has noticed. As I continue to track his movement through the glass of the convenience store, I take note of the blonde behind the counter smiling brightly at him. Tossing her hair about as she's chatting him up, eyeing him wistfully as he gives her that Grimes grin that I always tease him about, then walks away. Back to his truck. Back to me. I get an odd thrill at that. At him not taking her bait. That little voice in the back of mind though? The one that held a secret crush on Rick the year he turned 16 and I was a pubescent 12-year-old taking full on stock of every boy that crossed my path, that my father was sure to warn me away from. That crush was short lived though, and probably just a side effect my own burst of puberty taking over my hormones. But still, the way his face lights up when he catches me looking at him through the windshield…

XXXXX

"This is probably the best comic you've done. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks." I mumble around a mouthful of the chocolatey crunch of the Big Kat candy bar Rick got me from the convenience store at the gas station. Sitting up and turning towards him, I reach for the beer in his hand, and gulp down the rest of it, washing down the sweet treat. "Do you really like it? Like you don't think it's too crazy? A black, female samurai, wielding a katana and killing zombies?"

Flat on his back with one hand behind his head, and the other holding the latest issue of the comic series I have been privately working on for over a year, Rick's eyes scan the colorful illustrations I've drawn and scrunches his face as though he's giving my question serious thought. "Nah, I don't think so. I mean… it's different that's for sure. But that's what folks want. How many times can writers recycle stories about straight white male superheroes and still keep it interesting?"

"That's quite progressive of you, Mr. Grimes."

"Yeah well…" he slurs a little and shrugs, carefully placing the comic on the floor and reaching his hand back to me for his beer. Shaking it and finding it empty, he reaches to his side for another and twists the cap off. Tossing it across the wooden floor of the elevated tree house, it lands and skids into the pile of of beer caps we have already accumulated over the last two hours.

"No seriously. When I showed this to Mike he said it's too different to be widely accepted. He said it would be a niche thing."

"He's a dick."

"Rick! That was mean."

"That he's a dick, or that I called him a dick?"

"Both I guess. He's not as bad as you think."

"Oh no? That why you called me to come and pick you up from his house on a

Friday night?" he asks, his dark eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Rick leans up, resting on left elbow, and swigs down a long gulp of his beer. "He must have done something pretty dickish for you to need me to come get you."

"He didn't do anything, Rick. Not really."

"Not really? Or not at all? Which is it, Chonnie?"

Even through the dullness of my senses hiding behind the four beers I've consumed tonight, I recognize the telling blaze of those crystal blue eyes of his. I don't answer Rick. I don't want to feed into his temper, the unreasonable animosity he already has for Mike. And despite the fact that ninety percent of the time Rick is very laid back, there is that ten percent. The same ten percent that led him to his share of fights growing up. Instead, hearing the lilting chords of one of my favorite songs softly filtering from my iPod on a speaker dock on the other side of the small treehouse, I rise to my feet. Reaching my hand towards where Rick is still reclined on the pallet of blankets draped over the wooden planks of the floor, I nervously swallow down the truth of what happened with Mike tonight. After a beat, Rick takes my hand and joins me.

"Watch the sunrise
Say your goodbyes
Off we go
Some conversation
No contemplation
Hit the road…"

Towering over me, even without his boots, he stands in front of me, fingers rubbing together anxiously as they rest on the belt at his lean hips. He studies my face. "You gonna answer me?"

"You gonna dance with me?" Changing the subject I ease my hands over his shoulders, fingers bunching in the cotton of his t-shirt, then begin to sway a little, encouraging him to join me. "Hey do you remember when I was twelve, and you took me, Sasha, and Rosita to that Maroon 5 concert?"

Unwillingly, not moving much at first, he begins following my lead. Rick's body begins to slowly sway to the beat of the music. His feet starting an easy two step, conducting a back and forth of our bodies to the music. "Unfortunately yes, I do remember that."

"Remember how much I loved this song?"

A tiny smile takes over his face, curving his lips, and he gives me a single nod of his head. "You were too young to even understand what secret Adam Levine was talking about."

"I know a little more about that now. Those kinds of secrets."

"Car overheats
Jump out of my seat
On the side of the highway, baby
Our road is long
Your hold is strong
Please don't ever let it go, oh no…"

"What are you talking about, Chonnie?" his grip on my waist tightens. Sucking in a breath, I take in the scent of his cologne that is still fragrant in the fibers of his t-shirt, and gather the courage to confess to my friend. I'm ashamed. I don't know how to discuss this kind of stuff with him. It's not that we haven't talked about sensitive topics before. But somehow over the years of talking about school, family, movies, and music, the subject of sex has never really come up.

I remember when he started dating, when things changed somewhat with us. He was gone more. Girls would come by his house looking for him. He would be off with his cousin Shane more often, meeting up with girls at parties, at their homes. I was only ten, and I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. It was just another eroded part of our childhood friendship. It made the chasm between us grow wider, deeper. Once he hit puberty, hanging out in the tree house and reading comics wasn't really sufficient anymore. Not like it once was. Now, he and Shane spent more time whispering about who had gotten boobs over the summer, than hanging out with me.

At first it hurt, it bothered me. My juvenile brain couldn't figure out why Rick was changing, moving further away from me both physically and emotionally. And then it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. On a day when he was supposed to be home from school sick, I busted him on his parents' couch in the front room, making out with some girl who lived two streets over. Barging in the room, I couldn't at first make heads or tails of what I was seeing. Rick fully clothed, on top of the girl. His lips fused to hers. His hips pushing hungrily into her. For a moment all I could do was watch. Standing there in the doorway with a Tupperware bowl of soup my mother asked me to bring over for him in my hand.

Rick never spotted me. He never came up for air long enough. I eventually backed away, heading back the way I came from the side door by the kitchen. Retreating to my own home, I locked my bedroom door, and that was that. I couldn't talk to Rick, the one person I would talk to about things that didn't make sense. I was embarrassed for him, for myself, for the girl. Flushed and confused by what I had witnessed, and the odd way it made me feel to see him like that. In the end, there was nothing to say anyway, and throughout both of our adolescence it became a taboo thing.

Sex. We just never talked about it. We talked around it. Naively pretending that neither of us were aware of it physically for ourselves, or for the other person. But that doesn't change the truth. I know Rick has been with girls. But what does he know about me?

Looking away from Rick's wandering gaze, I study the space around us. The poster lined walls of the small tree house his father built for us kids. The size of a small bedroom, built in the aged branches of the strong live oak near the back center of the Grimes' large yard, it had been our childhood hideaway for years. Initially it was a project that his dad, a carpenter, had decided to undertake to teach his boys about the family business of general woodworking. But when Glenn and I took an interest as well, he made a fun activity for all of us, allowing us all to help with cutting boards, measuring, nailing. Since then this tree house has been a place for all of us to hide away. For playtime. For sleepovers. For secrets.

Tilting his head a little to the right, a mannerism he has always had, an indicator that he's trying to figure things out, he roams his eyes over my face. I can't see all of him, just the pale illumination of the moon's blue glow spotlighting him through the sun window imbedded in the shingled roof of the tree house.

With a few white lights strung across the ceiling as well, they add just enough light to add to the dreamy pall cast over us, making it seem as though we are dancing among the stars. Rick's grip tightens at my hips, perhaps as an indicator of his anxiousness for me to expound on my thoughts. He's communicating wordlessly through his long fingers, letting me know I'm safe here with him. And maybe it's that feeling, of being secure with Rick, but light and free, ethereal and otherworldly among the stars, that's making me feel calm enough to attempt an explanation.

"He wanted to. I couldn't." I sniff, emotion beginning to well in my throat. "I tried though. I wanted to try for him."

"Wait… you wanted to try what for who?" His body stiffens, his movements halt. The music continues to play.

"I know I don't know you
But I want you so bad
Everyone has a secret
Oh, can they keep it
Oh, no they can't…"

"I thought I was ready, ya know? I'm eighteen. I wanted to know what it feels like, but, I couldn't go through with it. I don't know why I couldn't. We were kissing, and he was on top of me…" I blow out a breath, trying to gather myself as the words rush out in a feverish flurry. "And I told him to stop, but he didn't want to. He kept saying this is what I wanted. He's right, I did want it, but I guess I got scared or something. So I tried to push him off. I did – I… I did push him off. And he got angry. Called me a baby and a tease. I grabbed my clothes and rushed out of the house. I- I-"

"Shh… you don't have to say anymore, Chonnie, shh..." Holding my head to his chest, Rick cradles me, hugs me close. The deep rumble of his voice lulls me, helps to settle my nerves as they feel ragged and frayed as I tell Rick about my failed attempt at losing my virginity tonight. "You never have to do anything you don't want to. Ever."

"I know. I just felt bad. I did want to. I do want to. It' time. I want to know what desire and passion are like."

Clearing his throat, voice a low rasp, Rick mutters haltingly, as though he's almost afraid to say it, "But not with Mike?"

"Yeah? I think so. I don't know… I didn't expect him to be so… rough."

"He was rough with you? Did he hurt you?"

Shaking my head a little I dispel the notion that Rick is questioning, and glance up into his face. "No he didn't hurt me. Maybe he hurt my feelings a little. I'm a grown up, why can't I just do it already?! What am I waiting on?"

Pulling his lips into a press between his teeth, Rick dips his head to latch on to my eyes. I can't sustain the meeting of our eyes though. I feel ashamed that I led Mike on. That I might have given him the wrong impression. That I had convinced myself that I was ready, but clearly I was wrong. Hell Sasha and Abe have been sleeping together since last year. And Rosita is definitely having sex with Spencer. They are practically fused at the lips more times than not. Then there's me, hanging on to something that I have been holding on to like a magical secret for so long. Wishing. Waiting for the right guy, the perfect moment. And just when I think this is it, I had found my guy and my moment? I froze. Mike's kiss was too hurried, with his tongue forcing its way into my mouth. Mike's movements were too rushed, with the way he fell on top of me, quickly dropping to my neck and lips a few kisses. His long, heavy body fully on top of mine with his hands shoving themselves up my dress. I can't forget the way he parted my thighs, the gruff thrust of his fingers through my folds, abrading me harshly without the lubrication of my arousal. I was too afraid to be excited. Too stiff to willingly open for him.

Rick's fingers haltingly tickle across my cheeks, and lightly tilt my face up to meet his. He's staring now. The full on depth of his gaze is on me, softening the blue of his eyes as they drop from my own to my lips.

"What?" I huff, nervously slapping my hands against the tops of my thighs where my flowered mini dress, skirts and flutters lightly against my skin.

"Nothing."

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I can't look at you?"

"No. I mean… I guess. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Quickly his brows furrow in confusion, and a short smirk tilts his full lips. "Like what?"

"Like that!" I assert, pointing my index finger and bopping the tip of his nose with my freshly polished nails.

Chuckling at my accusation, his grin grows wider across his face. "You're a beautiful girl, Michonne. Mike sees that, but he doesn't know you."

"What does that mean, Rick?"

"Maybe Mike isn't the right guy. Not for you."

Huffing at his brief declaration I can't help but get a little pissed. I know that everyone thinks Mike and I don't fit. I'm the nerdy girl in every teenage movie that gets a makeover and suddenly finds herself hot enough for the popular guy. I get it. Ridding myself of my thick glasses, squirreling them away with my love of Star Trek, Star Wars, and comics, along with making the cheerleading squad, and a strategically placed lab partner is what got me here. But that doesn't mean that I'm not ready, or that I can't have a guy like Mike. That I don't want to experience the same feelings that Rosita and Sasha, and countless other girls my age, are constantly raving about. I want to know what it's like.

"I know you don't like Mike, Rick, but this isn't about him. I'm the one who messed this up and chickened out. I ruined it. He was just upset, that's all."

"No, he's just a spoiled punk who doesn't deserve you. Sex is…" Shaking his head back and forth as though he's trying to find the right words, Rick looks away for a moment and takes a moment to finish his thoughts. "Sex is about more than just being ready. It's a way to connect with someone that you care about. Don't waste that on Mike just because you want to tick off the next thing on your meticulous little to do list, Chonnie. Save it for someone who appreciates you."

"Mike does appreciate me. I'm wearing his ring, Rick. This is serious." I raise my left hand to show Rick the ring that Mike gave me over Christmas that set him off on the path of hating Mike. Licking at my lips, feeling the buzzed effects of the numerous beers I've consumed, I continue to rebut Rick's proclamation. "As much sex as you're having I don't see you waiting for some special girl who appreciates you. Ya know, everyone expects that a woman is supposed to act like her virginity is this gift for the guy, that she should keep under lock and key or something. But that guys can whip their dicks out for any girl that passes by. Well I'm not interested in that. I'm ready for sex, Rick. I'm going to have sex with Mike. I just… I just need to ease in to it is all. Not so rough and rushed…"

"I don't know who told you how much sex I'm having or not having, but you're right, sex shouldn't be rushed or rough. You should feel safe with your partner, and trust them enough for you to let your inhibitions down, so he can pleasure you. That way sex can be fun for you, and it's something that should be enjoyed by both parties equally. Right?" Quirking an eyebrow, and rubbing his thumbs over the apples of my cheeks, Rick asks that last question, his voice a grade deeper, huskier, and for some reason a tiny jolt, a zing of something rushes up my spine. Tickles my skin. Maybe it's just the draft from this old tree house? It's early spring and the weather hasn't quite gotten to the heated stickiness of summer just yet, so it's possible that it was simply the coolness of the night air. Right?

Rubbing my hands over my arms, where my dress's capped sleeves leave them bare, I can feel the raised bumps. These feelings confuse me at first. Bring to mind more questions than answers, but they also light a fire in my belly. And lower. Cause a stirring of butterflies to take off in my chest. In that moment, with just those few words between us, I make a decision that will change everything between Rick and I.

As though my body is now possessed by a singular purpose, my right hand stretches out to Rick's waist, and rests my fingers on the waistband of his jeans. With initial trepidation they move tentatively to the belt and buckle, inching the worn leather from the metal clasp. Eyes focused on my task, I'm moving so quickly that I don't realize that my breathing is so labored, ragged, stuttering from between my lips pursed between my teeth.

"Michonne? Chonnie? What are-"

"Don't stop me. Please, Rick."

"I- I don't know what you're doing." He questions as he steps back a little and bends his legs to dip and try to capture my eyes, to make sense of my actions. Actions which are so out of character. So completely at odds with what our friendship has historically been about. I can't even tell him. Form the words to explain myself. All I know is that for the first time since I've known Rick, there is a spark of something else enlivened in me for him, and I want to follow it. I need to see where this goes. What it means. Because it's new, not just in terms of a new feeling for Rick, but for me at all. Mike's words, touches, have never emboldened me to action like this. Have never created a storm of lust and need coursing through my veins. No, this is…different.

Grabbing at my trembling fingers, Rick softly wraps his hand around my own and with his head lowered, speaks carefully into the downy curls of my tiny puff of hair. "Hey, Chonnie, listen. Don't do something you might regret, ok? I-"

"You don't want me?" Finally lifting my eyes to his, trepidation that this is not something that Rick wants, finally halts my movements. My heart nearly arrests at the idea that I have crossed a line that he would never breach. How could I be so stupid, I wonder to myself, the realization drooping my shoulders and stealing the confidence in my actions. "I'm sorry…"

"No! Hey! Of course I do, I would! Who wouldn't? Jesus, sweetheart!" Roaming his steady hands back to my face, Rick is near frantic in his assertions. "I just don't want you to make a mistake with me. We're friends. We've always been just…friends."

"I thought- you said safe." Gulping down my hesitation I want to explain. "I trust you, I feel safe with you. We always have fun. Why would this be different?"

"Chonnie, because it is. It changes things. Sex is complicated too, and feelings get…confused. I don't want me and you to be complicated. You are my oldest friend. My girl. My Chonnie." The confusion clouding his face pains me. His protestations and reasoning cut me low, shed light on the truth that my lowered inhibitions tried to suppress.

Wanting to remove the frown from his handsome face, I rush out the very same reasoning that led me to reach for him in the first place. That blossomed from his own utterance of a few key words. Laying my hand flat against his chest, I can feel his heart hammering a banging cadence. The planes of muscle found there, thinly concealed by his t-shirt, are familiar. It comforts me and livens my tongue to assert my point and offer clarity. "But we're not complicated, Rick. Me and you is so simple and pure. Who else would I want my first time to be with?"

"Someone that you love, Chonnie. I don't know!" Tossing his hands hurriedly through his long curls, he's pulling at the ends, disheveling the thick locks that taper away from his face. He's obviously fighting against my reasoning with his own. "Let's take a minute and think about this. I'm not the guy for you. You deserve so much better than me. I'm just Rick, sweetheart. You mean so much more to me than just sex."

He's right of course. He is my friend. My very best friend. I learned to skateboard with this guy, our bonds deepening over skinned knees, kick flips, and ollies. And despite our age and gender differences, we've shared our most intimate feelings and emotions with each other. Laid bare our true selves at the most vulnerable times. Rick is the guy who held me in his lap while I cried like a baby when my cat got hit by a car and died. He's the guy who spent nearly a month staying with us when his parents divorced and he simply couldn't deal with his mother's sadness. This is why I suppose he does have a valid point. Our friendship is a bridge that holds us together, that binds us, and should not be blown to pieces by the base, carnality of casual sex. I should have known better. This isn't just about me.

"I'm so sorry!" Stepping further back from him, out of his reach, I'm ashamed. Embarrassed. And even though I can feel the effects of the beer dulling it a bit, I can still tell that I've done something very wrong here. The words Rick spoke somehow dredged up the wrong inclinations and conclusions, and right now all I can do as I attempt to gather my things is to keep muttering how sorry I am. Rushing towards the door, I'm ready to head down the ladder and run back towards my house, shame enlivening me to move quicker than my buzz wants to allow.

Then I can feel him. The heat of his body, warm, close. His hands on my hips as I bend to pick up my purse. Gripping, tightening his fists in a claim of the lean curve of my body, then releasing slowly, as though he's uncertain. But then he pushes forward into me, and oh god, I feel all of him. Pressing, prodding into the cushion of my ass, and I freeze at the sensation. At the weighty heft, hanging stiffly at the juncture of his thighs.

"Michonne, don't leave." Rick breathes out, his voice gruff and throaty, fighting against the heave of his chest to push the words out. "Please, sweetheart, don't run away."

"I read this wrong, Rick. I just – I thought who better than my best friend?"

Wrapping his arms around my waist and torso, he lifts me to him, pressing my back to his front. With his face rubbing along the back of my head, he lowers his lips to just below my ear and whispers in a voice so low I almost can't hear him, "I don't deserve this gift, sweetheart. I don't. But… I can't let you give it to someone else." He's a man of few words. Always has been. Through the years I have always been the chatty one, with Rick satisfied to let me talk and talk, and him to listen. Only offering a few well thought out sentences here and there, but always so attentive and mindful of my words. Of me. It's why his declaration now, still straight and to the point, no filler, no beating around the bush, hits me so squarely in the heart.

"I don't want it to be anyone else. I choose you, Rick."

With that, all of the words that are going to be said have laid themselves before us. We could talk it out more, just to be sure alcohol isn't make the decision for us. But I know it's not. Yes, we have both been drinking. But that doesn't change how I feel. Though Rick and I have never crossed any sort of sexual lines before, my full self is telling me that doing so now is ok.

Turning in his hold, I find myself face to face with a red faced Rick. The scarlet hue has overtaken him, coloring down his neck and into his shirt. If I were more experienced with sex I might have known that this red flush is not from embarrassment or uncertainty, but from lust, want. Need. But I don't have to wait long to learn this first lesson, because Rick's lips swiftly descend upon mine. With masterful patience and care, his plush pink lips press into mine. Little pecks along the seam of my own lips are my first introduction to intimacy with my best friend.