Peeta seems so relieved to see me when I get home. He swoops me into his arms, holding me tightly and covering me with kisses. I try to put up a good act for him, kissing him back and smiling. But as Peeta has said before, I'm a terrible liar. And he knows me too well.
"What's wrong, Katniss?" he asks. His loving gestures only make things worse because of everything Gale said. And I realize now just how fragile my little world is. The slightest disruption in routine wreaks havoc on my emotions. All I can think of is the little bit of happiness I've gained might be ripped out from under me at the slightest chance. My baby, Peeta…what if I lost them?
I must have started crying, because Peeta's sitting me down on the couch, and wiping at my cheeks, asking me what's wrong? What's happened? Is the baby okay? And I can't answer because the baby is not okay, the baby, the baby…my baby…
I find myself some time later curled up at the end of the couch, my arms wrapped tightly around my stomach protectively. I can't quite remember how I got here, but dismiss it quickly because it doesn't really matter and I couldn't really care. I smell mint and raise my head to see Peeta waiting for me to stop crying with a cup of tea, looking incredibly worried. He's relieved to see my face again and hands me my cup. I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic and inhale as deeply as I can through my clogged nose. I sniff and take a sip. Instantly I feel better.
Peeta's watching me but I can't seem to get any words out. He deserves an explanation. But I don't know how to go about explaining it all.
Peeta sighs, and places his tea back down on the table. Cautiously, he scoots closer to me, and places a hand under my calf, tugs slightly. Without questioning him I let him stretch first one leg then the other out over his knees. Slowly and methodically he unties my hunting boots and removes them, then takes off my socks. He lifts my legs up and scoots under them, places them on his lap. His hand strokes my bare skin soothingly. He'll wait as long as it takes for me to find my voice.
You could live a thousand lifetimes and still not deserve him, you know.
Sometimes Haymitch is too right. It's annoying.
I take a few more sips of my tea. It's a good, strong, robust tea. Earl Grey, I think. With mint leaves and two sugar cubes. The sugar cubes remind me of Finnick. Maybe that's why I always buy them. And Peeta always remembers. The mint reminds me of my family. My father. My mother. Prim. It's like having them all with me, right in this cup of tea. Comforting me. Telling me it's all going to be alright.
"I miss them, Peeta," I whisper to him. A leftover tear runs down my face. I scoot closer to Peeta and snuggle into his chest. He wraps his arms around me and just holds me. Slowly I draw closer to him. Curl into him more. Take one hand off my cup and slide it around his back. Move my ear over his heart and listen to its steady pumping. His heartbeat reminds me that not all is lost. There is still hope. There's still the dandelion in the spring. Peeta. There's still life. Our baby.
When I give him a light kiss on the neck he knows it's okay for him to talk now. To comfort me fully. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and his thumb moves across my cheek.
"Do you want to call your mother?" he asks quietly. He knows that sometimes helps. When I miss them so bad it aches. And I do want to talk to my mother. I want to hear her voice. We are the only family we have left now, the only ones who fully remember Prim and my father and loves them and misses them. And we live thousands of miles away. I miss her so bad it hurts. I wonder if she would come for a visit. I am pregnant, after all. Maybe that will convince her to come home. At least for a little while. But could I put her through the trauma of coming back to District 12, where ghosts haunt our every step?
I nod. Peeta starts to get up to get the phone but I stop him. "But not yet. I owe you an explanation first." He slides back down into his seat and replaces his hand on my calf. I lean over and place my tea on the table, wondering how best to go about this.
"What happened, Katniss?" he says, waiting patiently.
"I met Gale," I blurt out. "In the woods."
His reaction is not completely unexpected. He stiffens, his hand tightens on my calf. His eyes become hard as he looks at me. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.
"And?" says Peeta.
"And we talked. He apologized for Prim. Uh . . . multiple times. He blames himself. He was really beaten up over her. He said he'd come because he felt like he had to set things right, and that he screwed up the most with me."
"Is that all that happened?" he asks. He tries to hide it, but I can sense the tone of anxiety in his voice.
"He looked an awful mess. He was so pale, his hair was a mess, his uniform was a mess, he was unshaven, and he looks like he's aged fifty years since I saw him last. He looked so sad, Peeta. So miserable."
I pull Peeta's hand towards me and start to fiddle with his fingers nervously. He wraps his hand around mine, keeping them still. I look back up at him. I don't think he's all that worried about Gale's wellbeing.
"All right, drop the bad news on me," he says tiredly.
Unable to look at Peeta anymore I examine his cuticles. "I threw up," I whisper.
"You threw up?" he says, sounding bemused. I nod.
"And my big fat mouth told him I'm pregnant," I finish, a lot braver now that he doesn't seem mad.
"Oh, that's all," he says, sounding relieved. I look up at him, slightly surprised and confused.
"You don't mind?" I ask. Peeta chuckles.
"No. Not in the least bit," he says, relaxing considerably. "In fact, I'm glad you told him."
"Why?"
"Why do you think, Katniss?" he says, his eyes twinkling in amusement . . . or is that victory? . . . Oh.
God men are idiots.
"What, are you marking your territory?" I say, only slightly mad. This only seems to amuse him further.
"I'd say you're already marked, Katniss," he says, laughing now.
"Oh, ha ha, very funny," I snap. I go to pull my legs away from him irritably but he holds on firm and stops laughing.
"Sorry, sweetheart," he says, trying to suppress his grin. "I don't mean anything by it. You know that."
I sigh and relax against him again. But that fear is still there and he needs to know about that.
"There's something else," I say, suddenly saddened by the reminder of Gale's misfortune. Peeta's lighthearted victory mood changes abruptly. In fact, he starts to look angry.
"What'd he do to you?" he growls. His hand tightens on my calf. I'm surprised by the ferocity. I start to ask him what he's . . . oh. So that's what he was thinking.
Men really are idiots.
"It's not what you're thinking Peeta, so stop turning so green," I say. I try to chuckle because if the circumstances weren't so sad and didn't strike so close to home and if it were anyone but Gale I would find Peeta's unwarranted jealousy highly amusing. A muscle twitches in his cheek. I silence my humorless laughs and sigh. I place my hand on his cheek and turn his head to look at me. "I chose you, Peeta," I say seriously. "I love you."
"I wish you didn't make it sound like such a chore," he says shortly. I sigh in exasperation.
"Well, right now it kind of is," I snap. He grimaces, seeming to realize what he said.
"Sorry," says Peeta.
"Me, too."
"So what else happened?" he asks.
"Oh, it's terrible, Peeta," I say. "Poor Gale. He started a family."
"Yes, poor him," says Peeta, confused.
"They died, Peeta. In a fire. His wife, his kids."
Any hint of amusement dies right then and there. His mouth falls open a half an inch. I see a touch of fear in his eyes. Apparently I am not the only one who is selfish enough to think of myself first. Then he checks himself.
"Poor Gale," he repeats seriously.
His eyes meet mine.
"What if that happens to one of us, Peeta?" I whisper, betraying just how afraid I am. Peeta, it seems, doesn't know what to say. I've accomplished a first. He pulls me in close, holding me a bit tighter than necessary. "There's other things besides the Hunger Games, Peeta. I was an idiot not to think of them. Fire, famine, sickness, war…any number of accidents that could happen..."
Peeta runs his fingers down my braid, thinking. "Here I am, trying my hardest to show you there's nothing to fear. That life can go on and must go on, and we should live well and be happy for them. I've done nothing but try to minimize your nightmares, my flashbacks, make us happy, give us some semblance of peace. We've been working on it for the past fifteen years. And one conversation with Gale sets us back a million miles." Peeta lets out a snort of humorless laughter. "What does that tell you about the guy? Either he's so much of a pessimist that everyone around him becomes miserable as well, or he still has too much of an influence on you. Still! I thought maybe…" he trails off, twirling the end of my braid between his fingers. He sighs, and closes my braid in his fist. His knuckles go white. "I thought maybe after all this time I'd have more of an influence on you than Gale."
I've pulled back to look at him during his speech, and his face is hard, concealing any emotion, looking away from me. Yet I know by this alone that he's angry. And disappointed. I'm worried I've hurt him. And I can't bear to hurt Peeta.
"Peeta," I mutter, slipping my hand to his neck and pressing my temple to his. He avoids my eyes, looking instead at my ear. "Peeta…Peeta…" finally he looks at me. "You're…you're my hope. You're my good. You're my dandelion in the spring." I might be trying to convince myself more than him, or rather, remind myself of everything Peeta means to me. Peeta means more to me than Gale. A lot more. Gale I can live without, hadn't I proven that over the past fifteen years? Peeta I cannot. I cannot lose Peeta. I cannot lose the boy with the bread. "I can't live without you, Peeta," I voice. "I—I suppose I'm not making much sense."
A see the hint of a smile. But it disappears almost instantly, and I feel worse than before. The boy with the bread is slipping away from me.
"Peeta, don't you understand what you mean to me?" I ask. My voice becomes more confidant and this catches his attention. "You mean so much more to me than Gale. If you think he has more influence on me than you do . . . then you have no idea the effect you have on me."
Suddenly Peeta's face hardens, and he drops my braid. His hand clutches in a fist instead and his knuckles go white. His eyes cloud over slightly.
"Peeta," I whisper, recognizing the signs. I pull him towards me and kiss him until he relaxes.
"I said that to you before," he says quietly when he's recovered. "That you have no idea the effect you can have. Before training during our first Games. Real or not real?"
"Real," I answer.
"I thought so. Then you attacked me."
"Not real," we both say at the same time. We both give a silly little grin at this small accomplishment of Peeta answering his own game.
Peeta pulls me closer, and places a hand on my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lips. My hand slides from his neck to his chest, pressing my palm flat over his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I should have trusted you. It's just, when you said you met Gale, my first thought was that you were going to leave me."
"Peeta, I can't leave you," I correct. He can't go around thinking things like that. Because they're not true. He sighs at my words. "You're my husband. You're the father of my child. And I can't leave you . . . because I belong with you. I don't know how to survive without you. I honestly don't think I could."
Peeta searches my gaze for a moment, then looks relieved. He tucks a stray hair behind my ear and gives me a swift kiss before lifting my legs off of his lap and picking up the two cups of tea to take into the kitchen. I follow him, perch myself on the counter opposite, and watch him as he washes the cups.
"I still haven't quite figured it out," I say to him when he turns around to look at me. "He said he wanted to make things right with me. But of course I suspect he wants more . . . he is Gale, after all . . . but what about his family? Surely he wouldn't want anything romantic with me because of that alone."
Peeta looks slightly amused. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. "Have you considered that he actually came because of what he said he came for?"
"Surely that can't be it though. There has to be strings attached," I say. Peeta smirks.
"Not everyone's like Haymitch," he says. I roll my eyes. "Maybe he's changed. It's been fifteen years, Katniss. He's probably not the Gale you knew anymore. Tell me, would you recognize yourself if you saw yourself as you are now, fifteen years ago?"
I have to think about that one. My name is Katniss Mellark. I am thirty-two years old. I am married to Peeta. I am pregnant with his child. Fifteen years ago the line went something like: My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I am a fire mutt. My sister is dead. I might as well be dead. Why am I not dead? It would be better for everyone if I were dead . . .
Peeta's right. I would not recognize myself.
Is it the same with Gale? I think it must be. If it's true for me, it must be true for him. And what about Peeta? No, he would definitely not recognize himself. That broken, scarred, highjacked boy that survived the war is not the healing, semi-content man I call my husband standing before me, looking at me with a steady gaze. But perhaps he would. He is Peeta. And Peeta is good. As Finnick said, he's deep-down better than the rest of us. And that has not changed.
Peeta crosses to me. His hand brushes along my thigh and down my calf in a loving gesture before he bends down and opens the cabinet beside me, takes out a bowl. He starts to prepare bread for lunch and I just watch him, feeling a strange happiness as I look at him, my boy with the bread. I belong with him. I know my place is with him.