Help wanted, the ad reads. Food truck, dishes, cleaning, chopping, part time, apply in person. It's not what I had in mind, but it's close to home and only part time. The paper rips easily as I tear out the information. I'll inquire about it tomorrow.
The parking lot is empty, the food truck sitting on the far side of it. The window is closed, so I knock on the back door. A pair of familiar blue eyes greet me, shocked. My name falls silently from his lips the moment he recognizes me. I can see the harshness of the K, the softness of the 'i' and 'ss' as his mouth forms the word.
I'm just as stunned. I never expected to see him again. He wanted things I didn't - love, marriage, children. Although I did love him, I had to end it. I know all too well how those pieces, especially in combination, can cripple a person. I watched my family go through it. Peeta never did. He couldn't understand. I ended it. I regret it.
His eyes travel down to my belly, the size of a soccer ball at five months pregnant, and I see sadness in them. My stomach drops - or the baby moves, I'm not sure - when I see a ring on his left finger. He found someone. That's good for him. I push back the thought of wishing it would have worked out between us. We're both married. Both off limits. It's no use going there.
We talk for a few minutes before Peeta gives me the job and points me around the tiny truck. We bump into each other a couple of times. I blush and he laughs. I've missed his smile. So genuine and warm. And when he laughs, the way his lips part and his head tilts back slightly.
He tells me he hopes we don't run into each other that much while we're working. I secretly hope we do.
My first day at work is eventful. Peeta's truck is wildly popular, with his freshly baked breads, slow-roasted meats, and perfectly-coiffed cupcakes. There is a hefty line for two and a half hours straight.
As a pregnant woman it's difficult not to be hungry around it all. I stuff a few raw carrots and red bell peppers in my mouth every now and then to keep my stomach from craving the delicious-looking food. It doesn't help.
The short day goes smoothly. No cuts, I was able to keep up with the rush, and I feel invigorated now that i've gotten out of the house and worked. It has nothing to do with being close to Peeta again, but his joviality has helped the time pass quickly. I'm disappointed that I have to go home.
I tell Peeta I'll see him tomorrow. He calls my work efficient and thanks me for my help. I walk out of the truck with a smile on my face, climb in my car, and chance a look in his direction. Peeta's eyes flit away.
It's been a week since I've been working with Peeta. We have a rhythm. I chop vegetables and slice meat while he cooks and handles the customers. We move in perfect sync around the inside of the truck. A kind of dance where we barely touch and our eyes rarely meet. Our arms brush together sometimes. Our shoulders other times. Our hands and fingers when we reach for the same utensils, or the oven door when the timer goes off. Peeta always says something cute, like 'tag, you're it' or 'we have to stop meeting like this'. I smile and he laughs that infectious laugh I love.
My husband wonders why I've been happier lately. I don't tell him I have a job. And I definitely don't tell him I'm working with my ex. Cato can be jealous, and mean. He accepts my answer, but seems to want to ruin my mood. He complains about the condition of the house. Asks me what I was doing all day. I tell him I'm tired.
He says he's tired, too, but he has to work twelve hour shifts to provide for me and our baby. He doesn't get a break. Why should I?
An argument that I never meant to have escalates with heated words, pointing fingers, and ends with him shoving me. I reel backwards. My balance is off with the pregnancy, and my back slams into the convex corner of a wall.
I cry out. The pain is searing and my breath is short. Cato crushes me to him, repeating over and over how sorry he is. I don't want him to touch me. I try to push him off but he's too strong. I finally yell at him to get off me. That he's hurting me. He backs up, an angry look in his eyes, storming off to our bedroom. I sleep on the couch.
My back is sore when I come in to work. I'm concerned. Confused about last night. Cato's reaction was unexpected. Sure, we've fought before. But shoving me was a first. It seems the longer we're married the worse things get. I don't know what's wrong or how to fix it. Or if I even want to.
Peeta asks what he can do. He's noticed I'm a little off today. I snap at him that I'm fine. We avoid speaking to each other until it's time to leave.
It's been a month now since I've taken the food truck job. I apologized to Peeta the day after snapping at him. He said to forget about it.
Things went back to normal - laughing, joking, little innocent touches as we maneuvered around the small truck. His hand would rest on my shoulder as he reached over me for sauces or condiments. My protruding belly would rub his as I moved between him and the counter. I swear he's jerked his hand back a few times after reaching out to touch my bump, and I've noticed frustration etched into his brow and eyes a few times. I didn't ask.
I didn't ask when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him grab the counter, knuckles turning white, head down in concentration. I didn't ask when he sighed and ran his hands in his hair agitatedly, pulling at his roots. If he wanted to share I would listen. Otherwise, I thought it was best to keep from mingling our personal lives together.
I also don't ask about his wife. She's come by a few times, and each visit turns my mood sour. My blood boils thinking he married someone like her. All blond curls and big boobs. She prances around him constantly when she's here, calling him out of the truck and making very public displays with him. I look around for children so I can warn their parents to cover their innocent little eyes. Inappropriate.
Peeta seems uncomfortable with it. He's even apologized a few times. I shrug my shoulders and tell him I'm happy for him, and not to stop on my account.
I do ask about children, though. I'm too curious not to.
He tells me he has none. Glimmer doesn't want them. I hear the heartache in his voice and I'm sad for him. I think how ironic our lives turned out without each other. I'm ending up with a child I never wanted. A child that's not Peeta's. And his wife won't give him the family he's looked forward to all his life.
It makes me mad that he married someone who didn't want them, when I also didn't want them. I ask him about it before I can stop myself. He tells me she changed her mind after they were married. I understand that. Cato isn't the person I married anymore, either.
I'm getting bigger as I approach my due date. It's so difficult to move around the truck without our skin or limbs brushing, and I've conceded that it's not possible. So we are literally connected for the entire four hours we're at work.
It's uncomfortable how comfortable we are touching one another, even though it's completely innocent. I don't even touch my own husband this much. In fact, we hardly touch at all anymore. Our king sized bed allows for a football field's-worth of space in between us. That's fine with me. I'm too big for intimacy anyway.
I turn around to grab a cutting board just as Peeta reaches over me for his bottle of secret sauce. I freeze, and so does he. We are close enough that I can smell his skin - the scent of mahogany and spices. My eyes flit to the perfectly smooth skin of his neck, and flutter closed as I inhale.
My heart is racing as I feel his head dip toward mine. My mind is telling me no. No, no, no! But I don't care what it says. The rest of me is winning out. His lips are just a breath away. I can feel the warmth from them. As soon as I wonder if it will feel the same as it did five years ago, the baby kicks. Peeta feels it, too. He jumps back, apologizing.
He shouldn't have done it, he says. He's not sure he can work with me anymore. He begins to berate himself - he thought he could handle it; he thought he loved Glimmer more than that; he's a terrible husband and person. You're married and pregnant, he tells me.
I say nothing. I bolt from the truck as fast as a pregnant woman can. Peeta calls my name. Footsteps pound the pavement behind me as fat droplets begin to fall from the sky, the clouds crying over what could have been. What is now. LIght flashes in the distance, thunder announcing the downpour about to happen.
Wait! Peeta calls out. He doesn't have to. I can't even begin to unlock my car and crawl in before he has a chance to catch me. Look at me, he pleads. I don't want to. Don't want to see the hurt in his eyes. Don't want him to see the fear in my own. I miss him. I want him. I can't have him. What's the point of it all? I never should have taken this job.
Peeta voices his thoughts anyway. He's never stopped thinking about me and he probably never will. And when I showed up on his doorstep he was angry with me. For having what I said I never wanted, and it wasn't with him. His heart has been ripped open these last few months, exposing him to the worst pain he's ever felt.
By now our clothes are shades darker and suctioned to our skin. My hair is flattened to my face, and Peeta's is sticking straight up after he runs his hands through it repeatedly in frustration. The way he's done so many times since I started working with him. Like he did when we broke up.
I don't hear him anymore. I can't control my urges. I launch myself at him and mold our lips together. It takes no time getting used to him. I remember. As soon as he begins to relax into the kiss, Peeta's hands find my shoulders, but it's not to pull me closer, like I want. He gently but firmly grips me and separates us. Confusion on his face, agony in his eyes.
He says it's not right. We're both married. He walks away and I know I will never see Peeta again.
I'm about to have a baby. I shouldn't be scouring want ads for another job, but I can't sit home and think about Peeta all the time. It's been a week since the incident, and I can't get him out of my head. I've been unable to sleep. I tell myself it's the baby's doing.
I stop breathing when my eyes land on the ad - Help wanted. Food truck, dishes, cleaning, chopping, part time, apply in person.
It looks like we're moving on again. I know what Peeta meant by his comment - about his heart being ripped open and feeling the worst kind of pain. I feel it now. Not that I haven't felt it all week, but realizing it is hitting me like a mack truck at full speed.
My eyes release a torrent of tears, a combination of heartache and hormones. I finally admit that I allowed myself the fantasy of Peeta and I together these last few months. I'm estranged from my husband, even though we live in the same house, separated by my very real affinity for Peeta Mellark. Affinity being a mild word for it. I realize I've never stopped loving him.
What a fool I've been.
The front door closing sounds like a shotgun going off at close range, and Cato brushes by me on his way to the bedroom. I roll my eyes behind his back, not wanting to deal with any of his antics tonight. I'm not in the mood, and things may go too far, so I leave him be.
A few minutes go by, and Cato storms back in, demanding his dinner. I tell him it's in the microwave. As he walks away I can't resist the urge to add that if he got home at a decent hour he would get to eat it when it's fresh.
It's becoming apparent to me by the crazy look in his eyes that was the wrong thing to say. Before I can react I'm lifted from the couch as his fingertips dig into my shoulders. Cato is easily three times my size, and I'm powerless to stop him from doing anything he wants to me.
He screams something incoherent at me, and I can smell cheap wine and even cheaper perfume on him. It's terrifying how I can be a rag doll to someone.
He sees I've been crying, and lets go of me. I drop to the ground, barely staying on my feet. He turns to leave, but a spark inside me wants to keep at it. Peeta would never do this. And just because I didn't choose to stay with him doesn't mean I deserve to be treated this way.
I follow him into the kitchen, incessantly asking who he was with, why he smells like a woman. He accuses me of not trusting him. We exchange unpleasantries as our tempers quickly heat up to boiling. I tell him I don't want to be married anymore. He asks me if there's someone else. There is, and there isn't. The thought of Peeta is there, but the reality is not. Regardless, I won't stay with someone who hits me.
I tell him so and stalk off to pack a bag. There's no way I can stay here tonight. I hear and feel him follow me. Before I can make it through the bedroom door he shoves me onto the bed. I try to roll over to defend myself, but I can't before strong fingers close around my throat. WIthin seconds I'm struggling for air. The only thing that stops him is an angry beating on the door.
Cato looks away for a second, but it's long enough for me to take a shot at his face. He looks surprised, and pissed. He tells me to stay right where I am, that he's not through with me. I can barely move anyway. The elbow to his jaw took a lot of energy.
I can tell Cato opens the door mid-knock. I hear a familiar voice from a week ago, years ago. I could never forget it. It's loud and strong, asking if Cato did this to his wife. I have no idea what 'this' is, but I have to get out there. I would be crazy to wait for Cato to come back.
I crawl on my hands and knees to the hall, gasping for air until my trachea finally opens back up completely. Peeta is focused on Cato, one hand on his wife's wrist, the other holding a baseball bat. I stare at her face, both eyes bruised, busted lip, black trails of mascara down her cheeks.
I hold on to the wall as I try to stand, and the movement finally gains Peeta's attention. His eyes are wild when he sees me.
He yells my name, dropping the bat, letting go of Glimmer and running to me. His hands are gentle on my face, his gaze imploring. I think I even see his eyes well with tears, and I can tell the second he sees evidence of Cato's attempt.
My husband growls at him to get away from his wife, and Peeta loses it. I watch, horrified and helpless, as he uses all of his momentum to knock Cato to the ground.
The men roll around, throwing punches that connect to jaws and cheeks, chests and shoulders. A burst of adrenaline kicks in as Peeta's head is knocked to the side from a blow. I grab the bat and wait for Cato to roll Peeta onto his back. When he does, I raise the bat and strike. Twice.
Cato falls limp and Peeta shoves him off. His lip is bleeding and his eye is swelling quickly. He gets up and reaches for me. I'm hesitant to embrace him. I can hear Glimmer whimpering behind me. She is his wife after all. But Peeta doesn't seem to care. He grabs me urgently but gently, asking if I'm okay. He looks me over, running his hands up my arms and over my swollen belly. It's so comforting how attentive he is.
The police arrive. They take our statements, arrest Cato. After they leave, Peeta escorts both Glimmer and me to the hospital for medical attention. Glimmer goes into the ER alone, while Peeta waits with me. I try to tell him to go with his wife, but he won't hear it. He says he wants to make sure I'm okay. I wish he would just go. It's too hard, him acting this way with me. The husband I'll never have. I know we'll have to be separated again soon.
The on call obstetrician says the baby is fine, and I'm released soon after with nothing more than some emotional damage and a ring of bruises around my neck. Peeta asks me to wait for him, and he disappears into another room.
A few minutes later he reappears, takes me to his car. We drive to his parents' home. I remember it well, and it hasn't changed a bit. I spent many afternoons and a few unchaperoned nights here. A smile breaks out as I remember.
On the way, Peeta told me I can't go home yet. Maybe not ever. He told me that when he arrived home today, Glimmer was crying in the corner of their bedroom, her face beaten. He asked who did it, and Glimmer told him she'd been having an affair with a man that turned violent when she tried to end it.
Peeta demanded to know where the man was, and that's how he ended up at my house. My husband was the man engaging in an affair with Peeta's wife. I never had a clue, besides today.
I asked him how long. He said he didn't know. Didn't care. That he only cared about a second chance with me, if I would allow it. I said I would. How could I deny both of us the happiness we almost missed out on?
As draining as today has been, I'm looking forward to the fact that I can rest tonight. Truly rest knowing I have Peeta. That it's real. That he'll be the father of the baby I'm about to give birth to, and the father of the babies he gives to me. Just as it should have been all along.
Talk to me! Was it too long? Too boring? I want to hear your lovely and (somewhat) unlovely thoughts. :) Pbg