(One Year Earlier... Continued)

Immediately upon entering the pristine beige haven I felt self-conscious. I rubbed my now sore throat as I dissolved into the scenery. Long ago the distant, elderly chaperons had quit the residence for a "simpler" life in the country, leaving their spoiled offspring a space to waste their money and his talent. An orange smolder had replaced florescent lights and the waxy vanilla scent present made me nervous. Several candles were lit and scattered about the room, offering minimal light and no heat. Peetas's sturdy figure was bent over the fireplace as he wrestled with a box of matches and several haphazardly placed pieces of wood. He had barely glanced at me when he had cracked the door open moments before, quickly turning back to resume his clumsy work.

"I hope you like Paella." I unzipped the dripping sweater revealing a steamy plastic container hidden within its drenched confines. I tossed the sweater on the carpet. I watched him turn at the sound of me dirtying the unpolluted shag ocean beneath us and a familiar pounding in my chest arose as I watched his eyes began the slow crawl up my body.

I'm not reminded of ravenous thirteen-year-old eyes. The ones learning how to mentally undress a woman following the realization that breasts weren't just there to properly fill out t-shirts or saggy monstrosities used by aging aunts as weapons at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Instead, his gaze re-dressed me. He squinted trying to reconcile my frail frame with the mass that had once tackled him on the playground in ninth grade. I shifted my legs, attempting to jut out my hip a little bit, but the waist of my jeans began to slide down the left side of my body ruining the illusion. I know it scares people, the way my clothes no longer fit, my boney ankles, the way my shoulder blade protrudes from my dress; but I don't really care enough to do anything about it. Food just doesn't quite interest me the way it used to. Spaghetti Bolognese, a sloppy dehydrated burger two weeks old, it's all the same to me. I never hated the way I looked, or cursed my curves in any way. Apathy had just finally overcome appetite. Besides, I'm the only one who gets to peak beneath the numerous cotton layers these days.

"You look…" I watched him wave his hand in circles. I could tell he wanted me to supply him with the right word, provide the easy way out; I let the silence build instead. "You look like you might be coming down with something."

"It's just a cold I think. My throat has been acting up lately." I coughed for added emphasis.

"You sounded fine just…"

"It comes and goes. Now give me those matches before you kill someone." I crouched over the brick fireplace and began rearranging the logs, relishing the touch of splintered wood on my skin and ignoring Peeta's hot breath on my shoulder as he crouched down beside me.

"How's the new apartment?"

"Pleasant actually," I was surprised to find that I wasn't lying. "I have this brilliant yellow kitchen and an old cat. He reminds me of you actually." I snorted while he rolled his eyes in disdain.

"I couldn't get rid of him if I tried. He's pretty demanding despite the fact that he just lolls about most of the day. He bats my feet around every morning when my alarm goes off. I know it's just because he wants to be fed, but sometimes I like to pretend that Buttercup sincerely cares for my general wellbeing and whether I make it to work on time."

His arm brushed mine as he rose. I managed to do in five minutes what eluded him all day and a rather substantial source of heat crackled before us.

"You better be careful, first it's a home and a cat and then, before you know it, you might actually have a life," he teased.

"Sounds dreadful." I could hear the logs burn and knew the food was getting cold. "So why did you really call me today? Was it the tree? I'm assuming it knocked out the power…"

"I missed you." He stared at the wall behind me as he answered.

"Right. The last time we were in the same room together you barely spoke two words to me."

"I missed you then too."

"I don't believe you."

His eyes didn't move from the wall.

"Look, I don't believe you." I was growing increasingly frustrated, trying to rein in my pent up anger, "at the reading, you acted like you didn't even know me, like you hadn't seen me puke by the tire swing in first grade, or beat up Cato in tenth grade after he told the basketball team I fooled around with him after practice. Good lord, you know more about me than I can stand and you treated me like a mere acquaintance."

"You brought him."

"Excuse me?"

"You brought fucking Gale to my first reading. That was my soul in those words and you brought Gale. The same Gale that...Jesus." He sighed, "I had waited so long for that moment but every time I saw you look up at him with those big gray eyes of yours like some stupid lost puppy I got dizzy. The room was spinning, and you wore long sleeves so no one could get a look at your spindly little arms, and I couldn't act as if I was happy you were there. So yes, I pretended I didn't know you because all I wanted to do was reach out and shake you and shake you and shake you. 'He didn't mean it, you'd tell me, he just really emotional right now. You started the fight. The accident has been hard for everyone.'"

"How many times do I have to tell you before you get it? It WAS an accident!" I tried to keep calm, but my rising voice gave me away.

"I miss her too but that doesn't mean I run around -" I cut him off quickly.

"Do we have to talk about this?" My voice cracked mid sentence, "It's over, and it's done with. He left town and I'm too tired to do this. I just won't do this right now."

"You started it."

"Oh that's real mature. Now," I stepped to the left so he was forced to make eye contact, "why did you contact me? If I've been nothing but a colossal fuck-up, why now?"

"Haymitch called." He let out the breath he had been holding. "He told me about Dr. Aurileius."

And there it was. His sentence hung in the air, twisting and curling about the two of us like veiled cigarette smoke. Our unspoken agreement suddenly violated, my thoughts turned to fantasies of bolting for the door. I was supposed to come over, make food, replace his mother for an hour or two, and then go about my business. That's how it works. No questions, no anxious looks, no interventions of any kind. I talk in my own time. He knows this. He is supposed to know this.

" Oh yes, Dr. Disingenuous."

"Dr. what?"

"He touched me." He looked startled. "Just on my shoulder once. He sort of reached over and set his hand there awhile looking at me with these horrible, watery eyes, like he was going to start crying or something. He also had ghastly teeth. They were too distracting. I couldn't talk to him. Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Must you be so difficult?"

"Yes," I quipped. "Must you speak to Haymitch?"

We just stood there awhile, shifting weight and memorizing walls. I thought about my wet sweater still on the floor, and whether I fed the cat before I left the house. I wondered how Peeta spent most of his time and whether he ever thought about me as he went about his day.

"Does it still hurt?" He locked his eyes to mine, ignoring the air between us pregnant with some unknown sentiment, some unwanted bastard child. Years passed before his calloused hand braved the dense atmosphere surrounding us. I struggled against the urge to flee, or at least avert my gaze. Cautiously, his hand paused beside the left side of my face. I flinched instinctively. I knew what was to come next but I feared the anticipated action almost as much as I desperately craved sincere human touch.

His fingertips brushed aside the limp hair hanging next to the side of my face and began traveling across the brilliant bruise that spanned the wide expanse between the corner of my eye and my hairline. I could feel him lightly trace the deep purples and the spot of navy only to move on to trembling greens and finally resting on the muted mustard border. There was a confidence in the way he held his hand to my face, an unwavering refusal to give into fear or politeness.

"Have I ever told you that yellow is my favorite color?" He breathed the words over my face as I put the fact in my pocket. "Yellow isn't an easy color to pin down. There aren't really any good yellow acrylics out there, but this…" he turned my face from side to side,

"this palette you're sporting here is pretty striking..." I should have hauled off and slugged him in the stomach the way I used to before his disconcerting growth spurt our sophomore year, but instead I let the corners of mouth turn up ever so slightly.

"You can be a real jerk sometimes you know that?"

"Well, that makes me just your type doesn't it?"

"Watch your mouth."

"We were together once, it's not that big of a stretch."

"We were in Kindergarten" my smile made a rare appearance, straining the side of my face, "and you were far too needy."

"Eat a cookie." He finally lowered his hand. "You won't survive the winter looking the way you do now."

We let the moment simmer, basking in a snug silence. Then, just as I thought he was about to make a swift retreat into the kitchen he lowered his head and pressed his lips against my forehead. Suddenly, I am six years old. It is the Fourth of July and I'm afraid the fireworks will rain booming scorching terror down upon me. Everyone stares up into the heavens except for Peeta whose lips graze my furrowed brow. It is that glorious time before breasts, bikinis, hormones, and heartache and my forehead tingles in the aftermath of the completely unselfish act.