Once again, I thank you for being so supportive, encouraging and kind with me :). As always, many hugs and much appreciation to my betas, bigbigbigday006, salander-jade, sponsormusings and jeeno2 who tell me what works and what doesn't and who are totally awesome girls!
I envisage one more chapter and an epilogue after this chapter. I really hope that you approve of the direction that it's taking. It was a very difficult chapter to write, so please be kind :) xxx
It takes Peeta almost forty-five minutes to arrive, and in that time, I shower, wash my hair, look at my mobile, choose a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, look at my mobile again, twice, turn it off and on, and finally resign myself to the fact that he has changed his mind and is not going to turn up.
Once I reach that stage, I also start to wonder whether I should preserve a tiny shred of dignity and call him up myself to tell him to forget it. After, all, it could be that perhaps I might have made a mistake in inviting him over, right? Maybe I'm better off alone and away from him. Actually, probably it's all for the best - isn't that what I was actually thinking when I confirmed my decision to divorce him? Being alone is not so bad after all, right?
But then I just look at his text and the picture he took of the cupcake, and I wonder why he's still not here and what I'm going to do if he has really decided not to turn up and to stay away.
By the time the buzzer rings I'm a nervous wreck, and as he climbs the stairs I stand awkwardly at the door, wringing my t-shirt in my hands, trying to force myself to act normally. But then he's staring at me from the hallway with a smile that is so happy and his eyes so ridiculously blue; and he's wearing clothes which I recognise and I'm so relieved that I nearly cry out until I remember suddenly that I'm just standing there not saying anything and -
"Hi," I croak.
"Hey," he replies shyly. We stare at each other for a second before his smile falters a little. "Can I - can I come in please?" he asks.
I blink at the "please" before stepping aside quickly and inviting him in. Always so polite, damn him. I feel myself flush in embarrassment as I look away. "I thought you were not coming. I was wondering … then you rang and … why? You still have the keys," I ramble on nervously.
What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Saying.
"Sorry it took me so long, I moved to the other side of town some weeks ago. I still manage to miscalculate distance and traffic," he explains sheepishly. "I wanted to let you know that I was running late but -"
"You don't text or call while driving, I know," I finish the sentence for him with a tiny smile.
He returns my smile a little cautiously and nods. "You still know me too well," he replies before looking down.
The word "still" stings a little, especially since even though I may know about his texting habits, I currently have no idea where he lives, which is admittedly, a detail of some importance. "How do you like your new neighbourhood?" I ask awkwardly. It feels strange not to know his address, what his apartment looks like; actually it just feels wrong not to share an address with him anymore. We've lived together since college, and all of a sudden it seems that nothing makes sense any longer in my head.
He lingers a little on my question. "Well, the rent is cheap," he finally admits with a shrug.
With his reply, I suddenly realise just how broke Peeta must be. The mortgage payments on our flat are still automatically deducted from our joint bank account, and that is enough strain on our income, without having to add rent to the expense. I wonder whether Haymitch made any provision on what to do with our flat in the divorce papers. But I don't want to think about divorce papers at the moment, because my husband is standing right in front of me and there is so much going on in my mind and heart that I don't know what I'm doing or thinking or feeling anymore.
All I know is that it's my birthday and I want to share my Birthday Cupcake with a man I've loved ever since I turned seventeen.
"Well, you're here and … thank you for remembering about the cupcake," I tell him softly as I walk to the kitchen with him in tow. The parquet creaks under his heavy footsteps and I grin at myself before I can help it.
He's back.
I'm just pulling out a plate and two forks when I see that Peeta is standing at the kitchen table, emptying his messenger bag and looking very pleased with himself. "I brought breakfast," he announces with a small flourish, as he starts unwrapping an assortment of pastries, yoghurts and, to my joy, a small box of cheese buns.
"I would tell you that you shouldn't have, but I'm so glad that you did," I reply as I enthusiastically peek inside the different packages. This feels like old times, and for a moment, at least just for this morning, I feel all the tension, anger, unhappiness and loneliness slowly starting to ebb away. And for the first time in many months, I actually feel ravenous.
"Shall I make some coffee?" he asks eagerly as he moves to the kettle.
"Actually, there's no coffee. I sort of switched to herbal tea a while ago," I reply somewhat apologetically.
Peeta's expression clouds at this but he recovers quickly before continuing to fill the kettle. "When did this switch occur?" he asks in a neutral tone.
I shrug, feeling slightly uncomfortable but not knowing exactly why. "I guess during...when I was pregnant, I cut down the coffee and yeah, well it stuck," I reply.
"I see. I never noticed. How could I not notice?" he answers, his expression a mix of disbelief and sadness. I stare at him in silence, not really knowing what to say, until the electric kettle signals that the water has boiled. "Herbal tea it is then!" he replies with mock enthusiasm.
I thank him as he pours the tea and once again, the awkwardness starts to dissipate slowly as we tuck in the cupcake. The familiar taste of it nearly makes me cry again and it takes all my willpower to not just throw myself in his arms. But I know that this is too much, too fast, too soon. I'm not nearly ready yet to take any decisions that go beyond having breakfast with Peeta, not when my mind is still in upheaval, and especially not when out of the corner of my eyes I can still see the manila envelope containing the documents that have the sole purpose of dissolving our marriage.
I decide to concentrate mainly on the task at hand and greedily grab a cheese bun while Peeta smiles at me gently. "Enjoy," he says softly as he dips a teaspoon in his yoghurt. I notice the label and look at him, confused.
"Coffee flavour? What the hell is that?" I ask in mild disgust.
"What's wrong with it?" he asks puzzled.
"Don't you usually have the strawberry flavoured one?"
"No, not really, I kind of discovered this some time ago," Peeta replies with a little frown.
"When is some time ago?" I demand with some vehemence. I'm not sure why I'm so bothered about it, but damn it, I really am.
"A year? A year and a half? Why are you asking?"
"For the same reason you asked about the tea," I reply curtly. "Why didn't you ever include coffee yoghurt in the shopping list?"
He suddenly looks very uncomfortable, which somehow bothers me even more. "I did," he answers, and his tone belies the fact that he's a little annoyed. "You just didn't notice and kept on buying strawberry. After a few times I gave up and bought my own."
Well shit, it's not like I don't hate myself enough already. "Oh," I finally let out after a few moments. "I'm sorry," I add softly.
"I didn't notice about the tea either, so I guess we're even," he mumbles contritely. We both set aside our breakfast, seemingly losing both our appetite at the same time, and look at each other sadly. "When did we stop noticing things, Katniss?" Peeta asks finally.
I cringe, and try to find some sort of solace in tearing a paper napkin into microscopic bits. "I don't know. I can't think of an exact moment. At some point, it seems like we stopped paying attention," I answer contritely.
Peeta winces a little at my words, but he nods, agreeing with me. "I never thought it would happen to us," he admits. "And I'm sorry," he adds.
"Me too."
"Does herbal tea even taste of anything?" he asks after an uncomfortable moment, flashing me a crooked grin.
The tense atmosphere lightens immediately and I smile back in relief. "It's delicious, and you lost your right to comment on anything the minute you admitted to liking coffee yoghurt. What the fuck Peeta?" I reply with a snort.
"It's delicious, and you don't know what you're missing," he teases as he scoops a big spoonful and licks it clean.
I roll my eyes at him and we bump shoulders jokingly as I feel my smile grow wider. It's been so long since I've felt so carefree and light around him, around anyone really. I want this breakfast to last forever. But speaking of which …
"Peeta, don't you have work to go today?" I ask suddenly.
He sobers up a little and looks down. "No, I took the day off … I don't work on your birthday," he replies shortly. I stare at him seriously, knowing fully well that he wasn't being presumptuous in taking an off day - just as I had not been planning to call him when I requested leave from work for today. Spending our birthdays together is just what we've always done since we've been together, and it seems that our separation has not yet become reason enough for us to miss out on this tradition.
"I see," I reply, and leave it at that.
Before long, Peeta refills my mug with steaming tea, and pours some for himself, eliciting a tiny smile from me when I see him sniffing at it suspiciously and with a grimace. Before long we are both hunched over our mugs, our heads bent conspiratorially towards each other as we unconsciously draw comfort for ourselves from the steaming drink, or perhaps from each other.
"How are you, Katniss?" he suddenly asks, and from his tone, I know that it is a loaded question. In fact, before I automatically reply with a "fine", he speaks again. "I mean, how are you really? Are you eating? Are you in touch with your family and the girls? Are you dealing with … everything?"
I mull over the question seriously and take my time in answering. "I work a lot. I eat regularly; I'm never hungry though. I guess I'm ok, getting by," I reply dully. "What about you? How have you been?" I add hastily. It's much better to deflect the conversation back on him.
He frowns a little, but if he's realised that I'm deflecting, he doesn't show it openly. "I'm getting by too, I think," he replies hesitatingly, "I'm working more shifts, playing more soccer, listening to Let Her Go by Passenger constantly and crying and thinking of you all the time. Oh! and I caught up on Game of Thrones."
"You caught up on Game of Thrones? All three seasons?"
"Is that the only thing that you heard out of my speech?" he asks in mock indignation.
I look away with a blush. "No, I heard everything," I mutter, as I feel myself smile, "but...you said you were never going to watch Game of Thrones! What made you change your mind?"
Peeta shrugs. "I know you like it - I wanted to see what the fuss was all about and well... I got hooked. One Saturday I watched eight episodes, back to back. By the end of it every time I saw a tampon commercial I was thinking in terms of bleeding flowers!"
I laugh, loudly and heartily, and I can see his face light up in pleased surprise. "You haven't watched that much TV since you stayed awake all night waiting for the election of the new Pope," I tease.
"Yeah, some things are important to follow Katniss," he replies with a snort.
"Speaking of important things, what do you think of the Red Wedding?"
"What the fuck was that?"
"I know. Your cousin Lore's wedding was really tame in comparison," I point out with a chuckle.
He pretends to scowl at me and takes a sip of his tea before pulling a face. "By the way, I'm also going to therapy," he confesses softly.
I gape at him in surprise. I imagined Peeta speaking to Father Plutarch, praying perhaps, or attending some sort of church group shit thingie, but actual therapy? That's quite a big step for him. One that I haven't even considered taking to be honest. "Why?" I finally sputter.
"I had a fight with my wife and ended up in the apartment of another woman. What does that say about me?" he replies bitterly. I wince. It's the first time we openly mentioned this episode since I kicked him out and I don't particularly like it. "I want to see what else I'm capable of fucking up, and perhaps learn to try and prevent any more damage," he explains.
"I see," I reply, "well, good on you, I guess."
He turns to look at me seriously. "I was thinking, maybe one day, we could try go for a session together?" he asks nervously.
What?
Therapy means opening up a lot of doors which I have kept comfortably closed for a long time. It means going down emotional roads that I'm quite sure I'm not nearly ready to explore yet. It means reliving Gabriel's death, the pain linked to it, the responsibility, the blame. "I don't know, Peeta," I finally murmur hesitatingly and I take a bite of a cheese bun to keep my mouth occupied, and to provide with me an excuse to stay silent.
When he sees that no further reply is forthcoming from my end, he frowns and stands up quickly. "I need sugar with this," he announces with a huff, and makes his way to the kitchen counter, where I realise, to my horror, that I have left the manila envelope containing the divorce papers. His face seems to mirror mine when he suddenly sees it and stops short. "Are these … ?" he asks tonelessly with his back to me.
"Yes," I reply after a beat, not really knowing what else to say.
His expression is pained as he turns to me, his eyes so hurt. "I thought that...since you called me this morning, I thought..." he stammers, his voice breaking.
"I haven't looked at them yet," I answer uneasily, "I don't know what I'm going to do …" The small bit of the cheese bun that I was still munching on suddenly tastes like sandpaper in my dry mouth.
His stiffens and reaches out for his mug before rinsing it slowly under the open faucet in silence. I watch him warily when he moves to grab his bag and fling it over his shoulder. "Let me know when you figure it out. I...I think I'd better go now." he finally says sadly. I'll text you my home address...for the papers," he adds softly.
No. No no no.
NO.
"Peeta please wait!" I cry grabbing his arm. It's the first contact I have with him in many months, and I'm floored by the feel of his skin, his strong, steady warmth, in my hand.
He turns around, his eyes bright with tears that are aching to be shed. "Katniss, just decide," he finally pleads softly. "Just tell me where we are, what is going to happen, but don't keep dragging on this situation. I came here hoping that it was a first step, but then I see that you have divorce papers lying around in our kitchen. You know I'm sorry. You know I love you more than anything in this world, but if that is not enough for you, then let's just sign these divorce papers now, and call it a day."
But I don't want that. And that thought, straight and unequivocal, is the first clear thought I've had in months. I'm still not sure what I want, but I am absolutely certain that I don't want to sign divorce papers and for a long moment I look at my husband. I really look at him, and I see the boy I fell in love with at seventeen, in his ill fitting t-shirts and worn jeans, rushing to serve Mass on late mornings on Sunday and running back to apologetically help me out during the busy brunch shift. I see the man I married, the earnest, serious, loving father that he would have turned out to be. And the only thing I want to say slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
"I'll do it, Peeta. I'll come to therapy with you."
I'm not exactly sure what to expect from Peeta's therapist. Admittedly, knowing my husband, I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't be comfortable with a stern man in a sterile office with a leather couch and a notebook. However, I wasn't expecting Cinna Lewis to be a handsome, dark skinned man wearing linen trousers and a loose sweater, and holding his sessions in the front room of his town house. Neither was I expecting to be asked to make myself comfortable on massive cushions strewn on the carpeted floor and be offered Oreo cookies and hot chocolate. I know that I agreed to therapy and consequently agreed to make the effort, and that this is definitely a step forward from Father Plutarch, but this setting feels far too invasive and intimate for my liking.
"Doesn't look very 'therapy-ic' to me," I whisper to Peeta as I wiggle my ass on one of the cushions. It's extremely comfortable, but I'm not very keen on admitting that.
He shrugs and munches nonchalantly on a cookie. "Cinna likes to keep it casual. Gestalt Method or something," he explains. He notices my sceptical look and quickly adds, "it works!" with what he probably thinks is a reassuring smile.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms automatically before turning to Peeta's therapist, feeling my all too familiar shell clamming up around me. Cinna seems to be amused and grins widely. "Defensive I see," he remarks. "But Katniss, the wall you're building around you is so thick that I can't hear you breathe. I need you to breathe my dear, it is very important that you keep breathing throughout the whole session."
What the actual fuck.
"Thank you, I'll make sure to remember," I reply coldly, "it's kind of hard to forget when you have functioning lungs though."
Peeta frowns at me, a cookie still hanging out of his mouth. I scowl back at him and look at the clock wistfully. It's in the shape of Salvador Dali's melting clock in the Persistence of Memory. Fifty-seven minutes left. Fuck.
The first half of the session is actually very difficult, stilted and awkward. Cinna tries hard to engage me, and while I do well on the harmless questions, like my job, my education, and even how I met Peeta, the minute he approaches the subject of family or my marriage, my replies become surlier, shorter. He doesn't try to bring up Gabriel yet but I hope that if he's as good as Peeta says he is, he'll be able to interpret the glares I'm giving him and lay low on the subject. At least until I'm ready to speak about it myself. Which will probably happen at the end of never.
After a series of one word answers from my end, Cinna suddenly stands up and brings a large chest to the centre of the room, which he covers with a rather flamboyant scarf. "Let's try something different," he announces with a flourish. "Katniss, I sense that there are some things that you and Peeta need to say to each other. I want you to choose something from this room that symbolises your husband and place it on this little altar. Then I want you to try and externalise what you are keeping bottled up inside you."
I stare at him in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious? You want me to speak to a box? I don't even do well with real altars, let alone with fancy ones!" I turn to Peeta angrily, who is witnessing this exchange with a sheepish look. "Seriously Peeta?"
"Your husband has actually embraced this method in his previous sessions, and has achieved a number of breakthroughs," Cinna explains, ignoring my glares. "Peeta, perhaps you would like to go first?"
Of course Peeta embraced this method - Peeta embraces everything and everyone. But I keep that thought to myself as my husband nods and pulls himself up, purposely avoiding to look at me. He strides to a bookshelf with the air of someone who has repeated the same action many times and grabs a notepad, which he opens and sets on the chest. It is a picture of a bird in flight, that, to my confusion, is wearing armour. Even though I had never seen this particular sketch, I know his style well enough to know that it is his. The lines, the strokes, the shading - they are similar to those which made up the picture of our child.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to pull myself back together.
Peeta sits close to the chest, giving me his back as he looks at the picture. There are a few moments of silence before he starts talking, his voice so low and strained that I actually have to lean forward to hear him clearly.
"I - I drew this picture of a flying bird to symbolise Katniss because - "
"Peeta, remember, you have to address Katniss," Cinna whispers encouragingly.
He nods and takes a deep breath. "Katniss ... I drew you as a bird because … because that's how I always considered you. A free bird that is always ready to fly away from me, and which I cannot ever stop. And I'm too slow to ever keep up with you - too cautious and scared and boring to reach you. And I always felt that like there was nothing about me that was good enough to keep you with me, and that one day I'd wake up, and find that you had flown away in the night leaving me alone. I wondered every day why exactly you chose to stay with me, when we were so different. I was selfish when I begged you for a child, hoping that would be a reason for you not to fly away... and then when we lost him you put on your armour and you did push me away just as I always feared...I knew that you blamed me for your unhappiness. And I hate myself for placing you in that situation. I hate myself for asking for something that you were not ready to give, to have caused you pain, and for not being the man you deserve. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry Katniss." HIs voice breaks at this point, and for a whole, long minute, the only sound in the room is that of his heavy breathing.
I reach out and embrace him from behind, burying my face between his heaving shoulder blades until he calms down. I'm shattered, overwhelmed, confused, guilty. But for once I'm not speechless. "I want to tell you some things," I tell him earnestly, "even if it means using Cinna's shit method and his random junk. So don't move ok? I'm going to take my turn."
I feel Peeta's back relax a little as he releases a small chuckle. "Not going anywhere," he mutters as I look around to find something that might help me speak to my husband. His confession has truly thrown me. I never realised that he felt that way, never even imagined that he thought that I blamed him for Gabriel's death. And now that I heard it being spoken out loud, the ridiculousness of such notion reverberates in my heart with intensity. I don't blame him for Gabriel's death. I thought I did. Actually I was sure I did. But I was wrong.
My eyes close on a picture hanging on Cinna's wall, and even though I'm pretty sure he didn't intend it to be part of his arsenal for his therapy method, I remove it from the wall and place it on the chest next to the sketch. I lower myself down on the cushions again, and this time I'm the one to give my back to Peeta, even though I reach behind me to link my fingers with his. "I chose a picture of a dandelion because it reminds me of you," I say slowly. "You've always been my Spring, and my hope, and I don't know why you think that I'm the bird who will tire of you and fly away, because honestly, you leaving me has always been my greatest fear. In fact, I know that it's only a matter of time before you tire of me, especially after I failed to give you the child you wanted so much." I falter at this point and my eyes start spilling tears. "It's my fault that Gabriel died. Mine, not yours, and I hate myself so much for it that I decided to push you away before you could start hating me yourself and leave me. And.. and that night, after our fight, I realised that I had managed and that you were really gone and it hurt so much that I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again in my life. But I didn't decide to leave you because I don't love you. I never stopped loving you." At this point I'm blinded by my own tears but all I know is that I'm suddenly in my husband's arms, locked in a tight embrace while he whispers that he loves me back, and that he doesn't blame me, and that is it really his fault and that he is sorry.
The feeling of his arms around me feels so overwhelming that I cry out in relief as I cling to him. After a few minutes, I hear Cinna clearing his throat behind us. We shift to face him, still in each other's arms. Our faces are flushed in embarrassment, and also perhaps as a result of too many emotions that I cannot describe.
"It's a first step, and you both did very well," he says with a smile. "But I want you to both realise that your placing each other on a pedestal is causing you both a lot of insecurity, as well as misplaced anxiety and blame. There is a lot of work to be done, separately and together, before you can start to see yourselves as worthy of the other, as equal partners. And this game of blame that you are playing with each other needs to stop - neither of you, and no one else, is to blame for your baby's death. And until you both accept that, you will never be free to learn to forgive yourselves and move towards each other. It's a long road, but if you allow it, I would like to take this journey with you."
Peeta doesn't say anything, but he nods as he pulls me closer to him. Cinna looks at me earnestly, fully aware that I am definitely the more resistant from the two of us; but there is no doubt in my mind when I meet his gaze seriously, my face is covered in tears, and nod. "I'll allow it," I finally sob.
The session ends soon after, but by that time, I'm in no shape to drive. Peeta offers to take me back home himself, and to hitch a lift with his brother to pick up my car later this evening. I'm so exhausted that I do not even try to decline. I curl up in the passenger seat, and try to make myself tinier as Peeta adjusts the seatbelt around me, feeling so drained that I don't even care that he's treating me as if I were a child. He squeezes my hand before turning on the car but we both remain silent for the first few minutes of the ride. The more I think of his words during our session, the more I yearn for his touch, but since he drives manual shift, I cannot reach out for his hand. It upsets me even more.
"Do you still have the picture of Gabriel?" I suddenly ask. In the silence of the car, my request, even though made in a low voice, sounds loud and amplified. Peeta's hand stiffen on the wheel, but he still shifts to reach for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, and he hands it to me.
"Yes, I keep it there now," he replies softly.
I nod and and pull out the picture. The paper looks a bit worn now, and the lines that show where it's been folded are actually tearing up a little, but the picture of our baby, with his big grey eyes and his happy smile, is as clear and bright as I remember it. My heart fills with yearning as I look at him, and I wonder whether the feeling of loss will ever go away. Our sweet tiny baby. I wonder how accurate this drawing is; Peeta painted our son to be a miniature version of me.
"Peeta, why did you draw his eyes grey? Did you see them?" I ask curiously.
He shakes his head, his eyes never really leaving the road. "No. No I didn't. But that's the only colour I can imagine them to be," he replies.
"Why?"
"Because I love our baby as much as you. And I never loved anything so much in my life that didn't have grey eyes."
I don't know what to reply. All I know however is that I don't think I can live without this man anymore. "Please don't take me home just now," I plead. "Please just drive around for a bit. I want to stay here with you."
At this request Peeta drives down a quiet street to a side entrance of a tiny park, where he stops the car and leans in to kiss me softly. "I'm sorry that I ever made you think that what happened to Gabriel was your fault," he says. His hand moves towards my belly, and as he strokes it gently, I feel like my heart is going to burst from all the emotions that are taking over it.
"How can it be otherwise?" I sob, "I was supposed to keep him safe..."
"And you did keep him safe," he answers as he raises my shirt to press tiny kisses on my belly. "You kept him safe for nine months. All throughout his short life Gabriel was safe and happy and warm inside his mommy. How could I possibly blame you for something like that?"
I'm hiccuping so hard that I am hardly able to meet his lips when I pull his face towards me for a kiss. "I wish Gabriel could have met his Daddy," I whisper as his once more I feel his arms embrace me. I'm safe.
"I will meet Gabriel one day. I know it. Both of us will, but I hope and wish and pray that until that day comes, I get to spend all of my life with his mommy," he replies, moving back to meet my eyes. "I love you," he continues as he traces my jaw with his hand.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "I love you too," I reply, "but is it enough?"
He doesn't answer for a minute, but then he shakes his head. "I never stopped loving you, and I still fucked up, so no, I don't think so. There is a lot of effort and a lot work that we need to do. But I think we can get there one day, don't you?" he asks hopefully.
He's right, there is a lot of work to do. We need to start from the beginning, rediscovering each other, loving each other but also falling in love again. But as I look at his yearning, gentle face, I don't hesitate for a minute.
"Yes. I think we can. And we will" I reply.
Let anyone try to stop us.