It's light as air, gossamer, ethereal. But I can't keep the scowl off my face as I look at the price tag. Forty-five bucks for a scratchy scrap of green tulle and lace? Highway robbery!
"Not that one, love," Peeta's soft voice purrs in my ear. "The blue, definitely the blue." He backs away and smirks at me, gesturing towards another rack of diaphanous garments. I roll my eyes at him, but put the itchy green outfit back on the rail, in favour of its itchy blue counterpart.
"What's so special about the blue one anyway," I grouse under my breath.
A perky pink-haired store associate appears out of nowhere, the stench of commissioned sales heavy in the air. "Don't you know, darling," pink-hair trills. "All of the little girls want to be the blonde princess, of course!" She gestures around the store and, indeed, more than three-quarters of the merchandise features the princess in blue.
"The perfect blonde princess and her dark-haired sister, how novel," I grunt, and Peeta snickers. Pinky smiles beatifically, undeterred by my lukewarm tone as she tries to strong-arm me towards the cash register where her sales quota awaits. Peeta beats a hasty retreat. Coward.
I mumble something unintelligible, escaping the sales monster and moving away to look for a few more things. When I've found everything I need, I choose a different cashier. I'm pretty sure the pink-wigged fiend mutters manners under her breath, so I glance around, trying to avoid her glare.
Peeta's halfway across the store, crouched down beside a little pigtailed moppet, listening intently as she animatedly gestures at a fluffy blue stuffed monster on the shelf beside her.
The sight nearly takes my breath away.
Peeta is great with kids. If anyone was ever meant to be a parent, it's him.
Instead, we're braving the mall and an overbright Disney store to shop for his niece.
His brothers are both married, with three kids between them, and Peeta is a doting uncle, showering them with attention and affection. He spoils our friends' children too. And little ones who come into his bakery are always met with a smile and a cookie.
And yet, he's never asked me for children. Not once in four years of marriage. Not once in a decade of dating.
Peeta and I have been friends since we were barely older than the little girl in front of him, and have been together since high school. He knows my fears. A dead father and absentee mother left me terrified to bring children into a world rife with instability.
He glances over at me and smiles, the smile he saves just for me. The smile that makes me feel cherished. Safe. Loved.
The moment is interrupted when the young cashier asks for my credit card. By the time she finishes my transaction, Peeta has joined me. "You know," he murmurs. "I prefer the dark-haired sister myself." And I laugh.
I'm fiddling with a ream of wrapping paper on our dining room table, watching Peeta fish through the Disney store bag, pulling out each item in turn. He snorts when he reaches the bottom.
"You know there's no way my brother will let us give this to Lila," he chuckles, fingering the tiny bow and quiver. The arrowheads are suction cups and the fletching is plastic, but the bow itself at least superficially resembles the recursive bow that my father gave me years ago. The one I still use on periodic hunting weekends with my cousin.
"I know," I tell him. "That's for another birthday." At his raised eyebrow I reach for his hand and place it over my still-flat belly. "In about seven months time."