We Wish Real (Prologue)
A feeble cough echoed through the room as late morning sunlight filtered between slats in the closed blinds. A young boy, Asher Odair, occupied the bed in a partially reclined state. He sniffled as his nose twitched in that miserable position between completely stuffed up and running. He was young, only ten, and he couldn't stop fidgeting despite how lousy he felt. He tossed his hologram projector down on the bed and sighed in boredom.
"Hey, honey! You feeling any better?" the boy's mother called gently from the doorway.
Asher's voice was overly weak when he gasped melodramatically, "A little bit."
Rose smiled at her son, so much a combination of her mother and father that it still shocked her a decade after his birth. "Guess what?" she urged. "Grandpa's here to visit."
"Ah, Mom! Why? I'm sick. I just want to do nothing," Asher bemoaned. She entered the room bearing a tray covered in juice and cold medicine. Holding it against her hip, she cleared room for it on the nightstand and settled it there.
Rose smoothed her son's hair back from his forehead and leaned down to kiss him just under the hairline. "You're sick? That's why he's here."
"He'll ruffle my hair and tell me how much I look like you. I hate that."
"Maybe he won't," she shrugged and fought to control her sarcasm. Her son came from a long line of men who knew how to entertain crowds of people. It amused her that this particular trait was overtly present in her son's generation.
"But, Mom! Why can't I be like all the other kids and have two grandfathers? Why do I only have one? He's so strange. And that one-legged thing is creepy."
"Asher!" his mother scolded. "You know very well your dad's father died before he was born. What if he heard you talking that way? Do you know how much that would upset him?"
The boy hung his head and mumbled an apology. He loved his grandfather, but sometimes the man could be too much. He was affectionate, sometimes suffocatingly so, and everybody loved him. His mother called her dad charming, but Asher found himself growing jealous in his younger years any time other children referred to his relative as their grandpa, too. When his grandmother had passed away the year before, Asher saw his grandfather cry for the first time, and it had broken his heart. Since then, he'd kept a little distance between him and the older man, although he still wasn't sure why.
"Hey! How's the sickie?" The boy's grandfather entered the room with his usual flair, stumbling slightly with a wide smile and a calming presence that had eased tension in many situations. The blond curls he'd sported in his youth had all become silver streaks instead, and the blue irises were watery in his heavily wrinkled face. "You look so much like your mother…" he murmured before trailing into a thoughtful silence.
"Hi, Grandpa," Asher mumbled quietly and shot a pointed look at his mother as the older man ruffled his hair.
"Don't sound so excited, laddie. My old heart can't take it. I might have to have a seat and calm down. I've been through a lot, you know," the older man teased with a twinkle in his eyes.
Asher had lost count of the number of times people had told him he looked just like his mother, especially her eyes. Rose got those from her mother, and Asher had inherited them too—slate gray that turned to silver when he got excited or angry, which seemed to happen more often than it didn't.
Even at such a young age, it bothered him that he'd lost his temper so many times. He had a short fuse, just like his grandmother had, he'd been told. Like her, he couldn't stand seeing injustice in the world. When his older sister was able to do something he couldn't or stole one of his toys or ate slices of his bread without asking, he still fought the urge to yell at her. He was working on it, but he was only ten and cut himself a little slack. There were too many stories in his family of people losing their siblings, so he tried to be nice to his sister even when he didn't want to.
"I've got a present for you," his grandfather said, and Asher's gray eyes flashed silver at the news.
"Really?" He grabbed the proffered gift and ripped the elegantly painted paper eagerly. It was only then that he saw his mother wince and realized the covering must have been part of the gift wrap his grandfather had designed a few years before Asher had been born. He'd heard the story so often that every holiday memory included a discussion of the small fortune his grandparents had made after losing almost everything a few years before they married. Slightly chagrined, he attempted to smooth the paper and folded it neatly before examining the present itself.
When he did, he sputtered, "A book?"
"That's right, kiddo. When I was your age, entertainment should have been books, but it took a few years before that happened. Instead, we suffered through years of horrible television shows—really bad reality shows. Ones I hope no one's ever subjected to again," he mused before noticing his daughter's pursed lips. The older man's eyes clouded, and he swallowed hard before he could continue. "When your grandmother and I were old enough, we wrote our own book so we could make good memories. It felt good to remember how much better books can be than television."
When his grandson rolled his eyes, he grinned to himself. "Hear me out, Asher. The one you're holding isn't ours. That one's not really a story. No, the one you have is a really good book that I'm sure you'll enjoy."
Asher didn't seem convinced, which made the older man smirk. Clearly he would take a little bit more persuading.
"This is a special book," he argued as he took it from his grandson's hand. "It's the book I used to read to your mother when she was sick, and it's the book my father read to me. Your father's father read it to him, and we used to talk about it all the time. And today I'm going to read it to you." The old man barely felt any remorse stretching the truth if it convinced Asher to give it a chance.
"I don't know. I might just want to take a nap, Grandpa." Asher gave his best attempt at looking forlorn and frail.
"No naps! I haven't seen you in forever. Besides, there's so much that happens in this book. Lots of fun things—excitement, intrigue, interesting stuff galore. You'll be so entranced you won't be able to stop listening.
"Like what? Is there any action in it?"
"Are you kidding?" his grandfather scoffed. "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, games, mutts, volunteers, true love, miracles..."
"That sounds okay," Asher admitted in a self-important tone. "I'll try to stay awake."
"Oh. Well, thank you very much."
Asher watched his grandfather's face as he granted his approval. Despite his young age, he didn't miss the cloud that covered the older man's face.
Rose watched from the doorway with an ache in her heart. She harbored an inordinate amount of love for the two males in the room. Her father had suffered so much in his life, and he'd overcome it with grace, dignity, and a compassion for others that humbled her every day. He'd endured physical disfigurements and mental illness brought on by events she didn't allow herself to imagine and still maintained his humanity after rehabilitation and treatment.
The passion he'd had for her mother throughout her life had inspired Rose to settle for nothing less than a true love of her own, and she'd found it almost as soon as she was old enough to know what physical and emotional attraction was. Her parents had planned trips to visit their friend Annie every two years, and Rose had grown up viewing Annie's son Nick as an unattainable crush. It wasn't until Rose had turned twenty that Nick had given her the time of day as anything other than a close family friend. The decade difference in age was probably the reason he'd been hesitant, but since then they'd built a happy life together as well as created two beautiful children.
Losing her mother the year before had been devastating for both her and her father, but he hadn't lost his compassion. Rose had worried he'd give into the intense grief she knew he felt, but he'd poured his devotion onto her and her children—something he pledged to his life-long love on her death bed. Rose was so grateful her father intended to stick around so they could make more memories together.
Just as she had been once, Asher was too young to understand how important his grandparents really were, but he'd come to that realization soon enough. Until then, he deserved to have a normal life, replete with child-like innocence and scorn for the authority his grandparents had fought so hard to establish. Neither she nor her son had known the cruelty of the earlier regime, and for that she'd always be grateful.
A smile curved the corners of her mouth upward as she watched her father interact with Asher. She placed her hand over heart and turned to go back to her work.
In Asher's room, Peeta Mellark settled into a chair and crossed his left leg over his right, careful to keep his injured knee and prosthetic from creaking. He wet his fingers, opened the book to the title page, and began to read.
"The Tribute Bride, by Plutarch Heavensbee, Chapter 1."