A/N: For this chapter I've got a fun present for your eyeballs. I posted a link to the image I used as inspiration for the lake scene from chapter 10. Look under Links on my profile!
There's an OC that didn't make it into the list at the end of the previous chapter, but when I wrote that list I didn't know she would become significant.
Vesta Persons – the girl with whom Peeta shared his first kiss, a kiss that she has not forgotten
*Mature language warning.*
Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.
Chapter 11:
There are a lot of things I don't know about Katniss Everdeen. I don't know her middle name or what her favorite color is. I'm unaware of what kind of books she enjoys or if she even likes to read. I don't know her favorite flavor of cake or cookie (an important detail for a baker). But I do know when her birthday is. I could tell you how she gets past the electric fence. I've observed the how she adores her sister and misses her father. I can't explain why, but I know she likes dandelions. And I know what it feels like to be kissed by her. Really kissed by Katniss Everdeen.
What more do I need to know?
Of course, I'm still interested to learn all the facts and facets that make up Katniss, but in the last seven days I've thought of little else other than the kiss by the lake. And the way her clothes clung to her body on the walk back home. And the kiss under the maple tree a stone's throw from the fence.
Needless to say I've been distracted this week.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, careful not to smear any paint across my face. The clouds provide virtually no cover from what is surely the hottest day of the year thus far. I've been outside for the better part of the afternoon. And on my day off. Again. At least today's chore is less labor intensive than aerating the garden last week. I've been assigned to repaint the front façade of the bakery. Unfortunately, the paint went bad at least three years ago, but because my mom won't spare any money for new paint we—that is, I—have to do touchup every summer.
I stand back to look over my work the same way I would after icing a cake or working on a drawing. There have been paintings I've done, with frosting or otherwise, that I would be proud to take credit for, but this is not something I would brag about. It's not the building's fault. The building has halfway decent architecture what with the rosettes on the corners of the window frame and the moldings topping the façade. God knows where all that craftsmanship came from. The problem lies with the color. Bluebell. Now, this color doesn't work on several levels. First of all, it's inaccurately titled, seeing as bluebells are actually dark lavender-blue, and this color is closer to the shade of the sky when the atmosphere isn't clouded with coal dust. Secondly, the aforementioned coal dust causes a problem. It gets stuck in the nooks and crannies, just like it does with every building in Twelve, but because the bakery is painted with a light color it shows easier and makes the building appear dirty. And here's the kicker: the Bluebell is everywhere. On the door. On the doorframe. On the window frame. On the paneling and the moldings. Hell, my mother would have me paint the glass bluebell blue if it didn't block the view of the merchandise. The all over technique washes out the architecture into an indistinguishable light blue rectangle. Mom has absolutely no eye for art.
A woman and her pair of toddler sons exit the bakery with a large paper bag in hand. She makes a face of distaste, if it's from the smell of the bad paint or the awful color, I can't tell. When she sees me, covered in paint, she attempts a smile, but truthfully she looks sorry for me.
I turn away from the monstrosity, unwilling to look at it anymore. I balance my ragged paintbrush across the open can of the practically rancid blue paint, right next to the spare can. Great. There's extra.
The square is more or less dead, unfortunately. There will be more patrons later on when the hottest part of the day has passed. The grocer has been busier than the bakery. I've been hoping I might see Boothe come out for a break, but there's been no sign of him. I wonder if he's hurt himself with his box cutters yet. Suddenly, the door of the in textile shop bursts open and a flock of girls pour out. They gather in the front, taking turns tying one another's hair back with newly purchased ribbons. Red, pink, green, orange, and yellow. Not a bluebell in the bunch. Vesta Persons is amongst them. As is Christen, Delly, Jackeline and I think Madge Undersee might be trailing behind as well. Delly shrieks at Christen—something about her pigtails being tied too tight.
Even from this distance I notice a pair of eyes lock in my direction. Vesta. Then another. Delly. All five bring their heads together like they're huddling up during a soccer match. Then, in a spectacular movement of synchronization, the whole gaggle zeroes in on me. Somehow I doubt they're enthralled with the new paint job on the bakery. I quickly pick up my brush and a dish filled with paint and get back to the blue monster.
It's funny. Weeks ago I would have been excited by attention such as that; even encouraged it to a point. But even then, it wouldn't have amounted to much because all the while I would have been thinking, "What would this be like if the girl were Katniss?" I smirk proudly to myself. I know the answer to that question. In fact, I hope to gain even more intimate knowledge based on our last conversation.
Katniss apologizes for suggesting the swim for a third time. It was too late in the day for a swim it turns out. We've been dealing with damp clothes and water in our shoes for the entire walk back. Not to mention the chills caused by the severe drop in temperature when the sun began to go down. Wracked with shivers and chattering teeth, we press on. But Katniss need not apologize. I mean, what with that kiss, it's taken all my focus not to push Katniss against a tree to experience it all over again, let alone worry about catching a cold. When the fence is in sight, dusk has fallen and we run a much greater risk that the electricity might be turned on.
After she places her hunting knife back in its hiding place, we stroll slowly back toward the hole in the fence. I'm usually the one who slows us down due to my lack of hiking experience, but this time I'm doing it on purpose. I don't want to go back to Twelve. This afternoon has been like a dream, aside from the chafed skin on my thighs from where my wet shorts have been rubbing against my legs.
We pause at the fence to listen for the buzz of electricity. I stand a ways off at the edge of the trees, reluctant to leave. Katniss stands only an arm's length from the chain link. But even from here I can sense the quiet. Like always. It's the first time I've been glad Twelve so consistently deprives its citizens.
"It sounds safe," Katniss says, looking back at me over her shoulder.
Safe for us to pass? Sure. Safer than the woods? Undoubtedly. Then why do I feel like I'd rather take my chances with the bears and the wild dogs? Without putting much thought into it, I sprint from the forest's edge, grab Katniss' hand, and tug her backward under the safe cover of a thriving maple tree. "Come here," I whisper, holding tightly to her hand. Her forehead wrinkles with confusion, as she's already standing right beside me. How much more "here" can she be? That confusion works to my advantage as I hastily slant my lips over hers. She freezes, but just for a second. She doesn't see these things coming. Not yet, anyway. I hope we can change that.
My heart bursts when Katniss relaxes. Her lips become pliant, following mine with astonishing ease. My girl catches on fast. The skin where my nose touches her cheek is icy cold, but her mouth is hot and inviting. Oh, god. I want more. Screw low expectations! My muscles twitch against my will to remain composed. I want to wrap her in my arms, press my lips to her neck, and thoroughly run my fingers through her damp and tangled hair. I entertain the fantasy for a brief moment, then let it go, for now. We've fought through gossip, fights, and an archery injury to get to this point. I'll be damned if I scare her away.
With a stifled groan I pull back. I inhale a deep breath of cool evening air to calm myself. I press my forehead against hers, leaving us to stare at the way our hands wrap together. Even that is new to us. When you put it all together—the talk, the kiss, the touching—we've done a lot for a single date.
"So, next week," I mumble ineloquently. My brain has some difficultly forming words. I take in another big gulp of air, but blurt out something just the same. "Can I see you again?"
Katniss pulls back slightly, not a great deal, but enough to make me worry for her answer. "Yes," she replies while simultaneously shaking her head. I wonder which part of her response was done subconsciously, saying yes or shaking her head no. Luckily, Katniss is the type of girl you take at her word.
"I'll teach you how to bake a loaf of bread," I suggest. I need to assert my expertise somewhere in this relationship. Maybe I'll even get on her mother's good side. What mother wouldn't love a guy who knows how to bake? Oh, wait. That's not a good question to ask where Mrs. Everdeen is concerned.
Katniss shakes her head again more noticeably. "I know how to make bread," she says with a roll of her eyes.
"I'll teach you how to make croissants."
"We'll see how well that goes with tessera grain." Although it's said playfully, the laughter flickers out from her eyes. Then, as quick as a change in the wind, her expression grows impassive. A tessera? She needs a tessera? I suppose that isn't much of a surprise with her father gone. How many are we talking here? What might that mean about her odds in the…? Dammit. I don't want to think about that. I get why Katniss' attitude had such a sudden turnaround. We've been enjoying the freedom of the woods and now we have to go back to our dismal reality. It has quite a sobering effect. The mood is spoiled. Katniss takes back her hands. I touch the bark of the maple tree, just to have something to do.
"It's all in the keeping the fire properly stoked," I ramble to keep up conversation, although now it feels stilted. "You'd be impressed how long I can keep a fire going." Persistence is a skill that has served me well in several capacities, especially in pursuit of Katniss.
Katniss steps away, making her way to the fence. "You don't want to go to the woods again?" she asks thoughtfully.
Part of me will always want to follow her into the wild, but then again…"If I go to the woods with you again, I might not survive," I say, only partly joking.
I'm rewarded with her smile.
"Hey Peeta." A smooth and sumptuous voice cuts through my pleasant daydream. Vesta. That voice was the first thing that attracted me to Vesta. Even at age fourteen she spoke with confidence that made her seem more grown up than other girls in school. It wasn't until I spent a few hours alone with her that I learned confidence should not necessarily be mistaken for depth. Let's just say when I want news on gossip I can always depend on Vesta. I had no desire to repeat our dating experience, especially the kiss. What I would give to take back that kiss! And because I kissed her, and then, you know, never asked her out again, I feel guilty and uncomfortable whenever I'm around her. It doesn't help that she stares at me like Buttercup when he's about to pounce.
The rest of her gaggle of friends flutter behind Vesta, except for Madge, who looks wistfully into the bakery window, like she'd rather be anywhere but here.
"Hey Vesta," I reply. I nod to the other girls. They nod back and wave hello, twisting the new ribbons in their hair around their fingers. "Have you been enjoying summer break?"
"For the most part. Haven't seen you around much," she says in a leading fashion. She's not about to trick me into admitting where I've been hiding. As the town gossip the last thing I need is more attention from Vesta. I dutifully concentrate on my paintbrush and on what could be the eighth coat of paint going up on this woodwork.
"I've been working a lot," I say vaguely.
Vesta sidles up right next to me, in danger of getting dripped on with the evil paint. Brave girl. "I see that. You've already got a tan coming along."
I keep my eyes so focused on the paint job I don't notice her fingers sneak under the hem of my shirt. Vesta lifts it up slightly, looking for tan lines…I hope. I abruptly shrug her off like a bug, sidestepping away. Find a new spot to paint. I pray Vesta takes the hint because the façade of the bakery isn't that large and there's only so much more touchup left.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Vesta glance over her shoulder. The other girls have joined Madge at the window, expressing their delight at the treats and animatedly describing their plans for their future wedding cakes. Madge comments occasionally, but the other girls talk over her before she can say much. Vesta saunters beside me again and even though the rest of her group is no more than six feet away, I feel unnervingly cornered.
"I know you've had a rough couple of months," Vesta says quietly, like she's letting me in on a secret.
"What?" I grunt, confused enough to drop my gaze from my work.
"You never hang out with us anymore. You and Boothe haven't spoken in weeks. Your brother is in a mess of a relationship." She laughs, pulling the red ribbon from her hair letting it fall over her shoulders. I bristle at the way she lists my problems, my family's problems, as if it's some show for her amusement. Did she ever once reach out to me when all that was happening? It would have been a great relief if even one of my friends had stepped up. I mean, it's hard to exist between two opposing sides that never seem to merge. I can't vent to Katniss about Boothe or my other friends because she doesn't know them or like them. And I can't tell my town friends what I've been going though with Katniss because I risk being shunned. Although, being shunned wouldn't be all that different from the way things are now.
"And there's been all that talk about you and…you know…that girl." Vesta shrugs. Her face pinches up with disgust.
That girl?
I stare at Vesta with her white blonde hair and pale skin, supple lips, and a body to match. She's indisputably beautiful, yet I ask myself, what did I ever see in you?
Ironically, Vesta interprets my staring as interest. Her smile grows, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. The closer I get to Vesta, the uglier she is, whereas the closer I get to Katniss the more I am overwhelmed by her beauty. Tough choice, huh? "I want you to know, I don't care. I mean, she's just some girl from the Seam. She's nothing."
Funny, I don't care either. Not about what you think of me. Not about what you think, period. Anyone who would say a person amounts to nothing, particularly Katniss, is not worth my time. I have an urge to throw Vesta off the curb; however, making a scene would only add to my problems. I take a deep breath, sucking up too many paint fumes for it to be cleansing. Vesta smiles up at me, completely oblivious to my growing dislike of her. "Thanks for that," I say curtly. She notices. She frowns. Okay, so the girl isn't completely oblivious. I turn back to my painting, doing my best impression of a cold shoulder. "It's good to know who your friends are." Or who your friends aren't as the case may be.
"Right," Vesta says cautiously, unsure of the reason the tenor of our conversation turned cold so suddenly. "So, how about we get together tonight?"
I'd rather watch paint dry. "Sorry. Already got plans."
"Oh," she balks. Her face gets all pinched up again. I'd laugh, but that would make her angrier. I mean, I'm the guy who's slumming it with a girl from the Seam. Who am I to turn her down? Vesta takes a step back, then another, obviously annoyed by my dismissal of her offer. She opens her mouth to say something. If it's to tell me off I'll never know because she trips backward over the open paint can, knocking it off the curb. The separated paint contents spill out over the pavement like a bleeding bluebell. The other girls look over from the window with a soft gasp.
I dash to the curb, kneeling to pick up the can, but it's too late. There's barely a half inch of paint left.
The rest of the group surrounds Vesta. Delly tries not to giggle at Vesta's clumsiness, Christen and Jackeline trade eye rolls, while Madge observes the accident with quiet concern. "I'm sorry," Vesta immediately apologizes. I can tell from her voice she's sincere. She has her moments. Then again, the nervous way she keeps glancing into the window of the bakery tells me Mom must be working the counter. Mom's temper is infamous. I wouldn't put it past Mom to come out here to curse Vesta out, even if it was an accident.
"It's okay," I tell her. A part of me is glad to see the stuff flow down the storm drain, though I'm dreading explaining all this wasted product to Mom.
"Are you sure?" Vesta questions.
"There's another can." I gesture to the unopened can that Vesta hasn't tripped over yet. Yes, the evil paint lives on. Vesta sighs in relief.
"Vesta, we've got to get to the park to meet the guys," Delly announces. She can't help giggling when she says it.
"Sure. Come meet us later if you feel like it, Peeta," Vesta says before she makes a hasty exit. She doesn't even look back.
"See you," I mutter.
The rest of her flock skitters behind her, not bothering to get out of hearing distance before they start teasing her for being clumsy. I'd feel bad if I wasn't also hoping that might deter Vesta for any future pursuits. I wonder what Katniss would think of Vesta flirting with me. She doesn't seem like the jealous type.
"Need any help?" someone chirps behind me. Madge stands above me, her hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail with a pink ribbon.
"Nah." I push up off the sidewalk, slip in the tiny alley between the bakery and the building next door—only wide enough to slide in sideways—and grab a hose we use to wash down the sidewalk. The crank to turn on the water is rusted over from winter so I'm forced to put my whole body into twisting this tiny knob like I'm performing a wrestling hold. Madge looks at me like I'm insane or astoundingly weak. "Don't you need to catch up with your group?" I ask, hoping she'll look away.
Madge glances down the road with a rather apathetic expression for someone who's been left behind. "They won't notice if I'm gone," she says without regret. Madge has always been something of a loner. It's not entirely her fault though. Being the mayor's daughter separates her from people from the Seam and townies alike. She gets to live in that big fancy house without working a day in life, which adds to the mystery of why Katniss would eat lunch with her.
Finally, the corroded knob gives under my grip and rust-tinged water starts flowing from the hose. I hold my thumb over the nozzle and spray the spilled paint. There will still be a stain on the sidewalk, but I can't leave this mess for anyone to step in. The paint quickly thins out and flows down the storm drain.
All the while Madge watches like I'm doing something profoundly interesting, and not a mundane chore. That really goes to show how much fun she was having with the ladies of District Twelve. "How has your summer been so far?" I repeat the same question I made of Vesta, except now I'm interested in the answer.
"I've had better afternoons."
"You weren't enjoying the company?"
"My father says I don't get out of the house enough," Madge admits without embarrassment, only honesty. I guess she's similar to Katniss in that sense. It's not that they always prefer to be alone; it's just that they would rather be alone then hang out with people of poor character. I like women with standards. "How has your break been?"
"Mostly just working." With the mess cleaned up I return to the nozzle to turn off the water. Then I start looping the hose around my hand and elbow to put it away. "My mom doesn't let me idle in the house either."
"And how is everything with you and Katniss?"
I freeze mid-motion. No one has ever asked me straight out about Katniss like that before. Sure, Rilee asked about me and the "dark-haired girl", Miche called her the "Everdeen girl", and just now Vesta referred to her as "some girl from the Seam", but no one asks about Katniss without insinuating our relationship is a scandal.
Madge waits patiently for my response. I carefully wind up the hose the rest of the way and hang it on a hook while I consider what that response should be. Usually, I don't hand out information about me and Katniss beyond vague impressions. It's too chancy to do otherwise. However, Madge doesn't strike me as a gossip or a nark so she's not looking to ruin my reputation or get me in trouble with my parents. And while she and I aren't close, Madge is friendly with Katniss so I trust she's not trying hurt Katniss either. It seems possible then, that all Madge is guilty of is legitimate concern for a friend, which is, honestly, a bit baffling after weeks of disapproval.
"Good. Really good," I say, shaking my head in disbelief. The rush of emotions that flood my head when I make my confession surprises me. I didn't anticipate how freeing it would feel. To be fair, my confession is vague and does not begin to encompass the depth of my feelings, but I revel in the truth of it. Things are good with me and Katniss. She knows how I feel about her; she even knows how long I've felt this way. And when she kissed me…I mean…I've been thinking about it for a week now and I've yet to recover.
"I'm glad," Madge interrupts, a soft smile illuminating her face.
Oops. Got distracted again. How long was I gone that time?
Instead of indulging my fantasies, I decide to get back to work. I won't be able to meet up with Katniss until I finish. The spare can of paint is as rusty as the nozzle and takes some careful finagling with a screwdriver to merely get under the lip of the lid.
"Do you need any help painting?" Madge asks for a second time. An odd request. Townies tend to keep to themselves rather than lend a helping hand. And no one works for free. Plus, she's the mayor's daughter for cripe's sake. She's decked out in a wrinkle-free spring green blouse and tan knee-length shorts; not exactly painting clothes.
"I can't ask you to do my chores for me." I laugh. And what's weird is that she actually appears disappointed. The lid suddenly flips off the can and hits the sidewalk with a clang. "Whoa!" I exclaim when I see the contents inside.
"What is it?"
At first I think it's black, like liquid coal. I tilt the can so it hits the sunlight and there, clear as day, dark blue—the same blue as the aprons we wear in the bakery. And perfectly useable, not rancid like the other paint. "It's a different color. I thought all the cans were the same." And I can't help speculating if this color lies somewhere under the layers and layers of god-awful Bluebell.
"It would look nice on the trim," Madge suggests. I've only had that thought all day. It's clear to me that Madge and I are kindred spirits.
"Yeah. It would," I agree. Now, normally when it comes to chores I do as I'm told because it's never worth it to get in an argument with Mom, but to have the bad paint accidentally dumped and to find this new paint are signs I cannot ignore. I snag a clean paintbrush from my back pocket and hold it out to Madge. Her face lights up so quickly you'd think I handed her a plate of frosted cookies.
Watching Madge paint entertains me more than I expect. She's slow—I cover four times as much material in the time she does—but very precise with a steady hand. After some quick instruction she's careful to wipe off the right amount of paint from her brush and never lets it drip. Her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth when she concentrates. She's cute…and nothing like I assumed. She's one of the few townie girls that isn't a snob. That must be why Katniss likes her.
When we're finished, Madge wipes her hands on a rag from my pocket. She'll have to wash her face to get the smudge on her cheek. I offer her a cookie or two in compensation for her work, but she declines, contentedly saying goodbye and heading off toward her home. I've just about got the paint brushes rinsed when both my parents come out the front door to look over my work.
"Nicely done, son!" Dad exclaims upon seeing the changes. It was extra work, but the dark blue paint went a long way. The rosettes and the trim are highlighted, plus the coal dust in the niches will blend with the dark color. The building looks brand new. Even the Bluebell becomes less obnoxious when it's no longer the focal point.
Meanwhile, my mother's face scrunches up like she smelled something foul, which could very well be the scent of her beloved paint. "Where did you get this paint?" she snaps.
"I found it in the shed."
"And what a lucky find!" Dad says happily. "You know, when I was a boy we used this color, not quite in this way, but it's good to see it again. Who knew it was still in the shed all these years?"
Who knew? My mother, probably. She's the one who suggested the Bluebell a decade or so ago. She lives under the impression that light colors suggest wealth, which is idiotic because no one in Twelve is wealthy. And Dad, well, Dad has never been able to say no to Mom.
"Seems likely to chip if you ask me," she mutters.
And on that note, it's time for me to get home, take a shower, and head over to the Seam to see my girl. I've had this vision in my head all day I'm hoping to make into a reality. Katniss and I stand at her dining table, me behind her, while I instruct her on how to properly knead dough. From there, it will be so easy to lean in and—
"We're going to need you to work late tonight," Mom says as she huffs back inside. Dad takes a final appraisal of the façade, thumps me on the back once, and follows behind her.
Wait. What?
I shove the bakery door open so hard it bangs on the hinges. The bell on the door jangles violently. "What?" I choke out. Dad stops messing with the cake display; his bushy blonde eyebrow rise up with alarm. Mom doesn't look up from the ledger she's scribbling in at the counter.
I take a quick breath. I must have heard her wrong. I had to have heard her wrong. "I've been painting all day and it's supposed to be my day off," I say, trying to keep any note of hysteria out of my voice.
Mom scratches something out of the ledger repeatedly, turns a page, and then scratches out something else. "And we've made plans to meet with the Klee's this afternoon to discuss your brother's apprenticeship," she informs me while her pencil slashes across the paper.
I rush up to the counter and set my hands on the smooth wooden surface where the varnish has been rubbed off from serving generations of customers. "Does it have to be today? I made plans."
Mom looks up from the ledger, her eyes narrowing at me. Like I said, it's hardly ever worth it to get into it with her. However, this is definitely one of those rare moments. "You'll have to cancel them. We're backed up on orders and there are two weddings this weekend to prepare for." She goes back to the ledger simultaneously pulling a half of a cruller out of the pocket of her apron and shoving it in her mouth "Wedding season trumps whatever activities you have going on with your little friends," she says around the doughnut.
Okay. Stay calm. She's not going to let you out of this. Mom is not the kind of woman who responds to begging, particularly from one of her sons. I have to accept that and figure out a new tactic. "When are you going to get back?"
"Not until after dinner. You'll have to scrounge up something to eat for yourself." She swallows back the cruller with a disgusting gulp. I look over at Dad hoping he'll disagree or explain or say something, but he puts all his concentration on readjusting the cake display by mere centimeters.
"Why so late?"
"We have so much to discuss," Mom says haughtily, as if this is obvious. She obnoxiously licks her finger before turning more pages of the ledger, circling items now and again. "The work expected, compensation, and naturally, the relationship Rilee and the Klee girl have entered into will come into play."
This makes me lean back on my heels. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Connections are very important, Peeta. We need to know what we're going to get out of this deal." She slams the ledger closed. A dusting of flour puffs out from between the pages.
I lean over the counter again. "What you're going to get–"
My father calmly places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. "Son, I'm sorry about this being last minute, but we only just worked out the plans earlier today," he explains.
My mother picks up a paper bag and shakes it open, ignoring my question. She fills the bag with rolls and a few fruit-filled pastries. One might think this is done with generosity, but not my mother. The gift is meant to serve as a status symbol, demonstrating to Kendrick Klee and his wife that Rilee and Kinnian's match is more advantageous to her than it will ever be for Rilee, even with the job. Mom will expect to receive discounts on flowers if she doesn't get them completely for free, while in exchange, the Klee's will receive the intermittent stale pastry. And they'll take it because the truth is, you can't eat flowers.
I lean on the counter to keep from tilting over. I don't know why I'm surprised. This is what my mother does. She takes advantage of people. Miche and Rilee are lucky Mom has found things she can gain from the girls they love. If that weren't the case, she'd tell them to find someone else. There's no chance she will accept Katniss who is poor, fatherless, and the daughter of the woman once engaged to my dad. There's no profit in that connection.
I've often thought about asking my dad why he decided to marry to my mom, but I'm afraid I already know the truth, that she came into his life after he lost Mrs. Everdeen, when he was vulnerable, and he was too weak and heartbroken to say no.
"Tell you what," Dad says cheerfully to combat the tension in the room. "Rilee will take your shift tomorrow and you can have the whole day to yourself."
All of the sudden, I feel weighed down with exhaustion. The opposite of how Dad thought his gesture would make me feel. It's one thing to be late, but to now show up at all? Katniss will think I've changed my mind about us, or worse, she'll conclude that the rumors were true and everything that happened last week was a way of using her. I can't let her think that. I'm not like Mom. "I don't care about tomorrow. I'm meeting someone today."
"Oh, and they won't see you tomorrow?" Mom squawks, placing the last apple turnover in the bag for the Klee's.
"Mom–"
"You're not still seeing that Vesta girl, are you?" she interrupts.
"God, Mom. No." I wince.
"Good. Because that girl throws it around like a two coin whore," Mom clucks while primping her hair in her reflection in the display case. For all of Vesta's faults, that is not true. It's as true as my relationship with Katniss being nothing but a fling. Mom will believe any gossip that she doesn't start herself. Holy shit, I think with the realization of a disturbing thought. Vesta is a younger version of my mother. She even tried to slip in when she knows I've been on the outs with my friends. Thank God I ran when I had the chance.
"I saw the Undersee girl out there with you," Mom notes.
Oh, hell.
"She's in your section of school, right? Now she would be a first rate connection to make. Could you imagine a wedding at the mayor's house?"
That is seriously where I draw the line. The last thing District Twelve needs is my mother related to someone with political power. "Mom, please. It can be any other day," I plead one final time.
She bangs the sliding door of the display case shut, rattling all the contents inside. Her face flushes red. That's a bad sign. "Peeta, I don't understand what you're getting so worked up about. Your father already said you could trade shifts. You know how important this is for your brother. And we need you to look after things for tonight. I don't think that's an unreasonable request, do you?"
If I were to say I am meeting Madge or Delly or practically any merchant's daughter, I could tell her the truth. I could convince her how important these meetings are. But because it's Katniss, I have no shot, which isn't right. Katniss is the best person I know. "No," I murmur, admitting defeat.
Mom sets her bag of food aside to remove her apron and shove it into my hands. "Good. Miche is staying here as well. You two can decide how to split the work. Just make sure it gets done."
"Fine." I take the apron, but I don't put it on—enacting my own feeble protest.
"Good afternoon, family!" Rilee practically sings as he enters the bakery with Kinnian on his arm. Rilee's been in a sing-song mood since he had that romantic date with Kinnian in the dirt pit in our backyard. It was a resounding success. Rilee apologized profusely for being an idiot, Kinnian forgave him, then warned him never to pull such immature shit ever again, and together they planted a row of hydrangeas, which grow well in shade, according to her. At least something will grow in that sorry excuse for a garden. Kinnian stopped by the bakery every day last week to visit Rilee. I'll admit to being a bit jealous of that.
"Rilee! Kinnian!" Mom cheers. The ease to which she's able to switch on the charm is impressive, if also disconcerting. "Kinnian, you look lovely today. I like that color on you."
"Oh. Thank you, Mrs. Mellark," Kinnian says appreciatively while smoothing her hand over the front of her blue and white gingham dress. When Mom isn't looking, Kinnian lifts an eyebrow at Rilee, who shrugs back. I don't know who Mom is trying to fool, but Kinnian is no sucker. She's already well-versed at seeing through Rilee's bullshit and she'll have no problem deciphering my mother's motives. She'd be a great asset to have on my side when I eventually tell my parents about Katniss. Maybe I'll get everyone's support before I tell Mom. She can't fight all of us.
"Are you ready to go, Ma?" Rilee inquires. Oh, so he's known about this meeting all day and didn't bother to tell me. Jerk. He knows I would have made myself scarce and avoided my parents before they could ask me to stay late.
"I just finished putting together this bag of pastries for your parents, Kinnian. I know your father likes apples, am I right?" Mom asks sweetly.
"They're his favorite," Kinnian responds politely. "You'll have to tell my dad your favorite flower. He'll make you a bouquet." Just like when he gave a little bouquet of primroses to Prim, except he did that for Prim because she's genuinely kind, and not looking for some kind of creepy dowry in exchange for her son.
"I may have to take you up on that, sweetie."
Ugh. The sick satisfaction in my mother's voice makes me flinch.
"Alright, no sense in wasting the day. Shall we?" Mom leads the group out the front door. Rilee and Kinnian have their heads together, sharing an inside joke. Dad makes one more adjustment to a pink and orange painted cake. Then he follows along distractedly.
I stand frozen in place for several minutes after they leave. How do I fix this? I can't blow off Katniss. Our relationship is too new, too sensitive for a screw-up like this. We get into fights over goat cheese for god's sake.
I suppose I could always…leave. The concept is foreign to me. I never think of it because the consequences for doing so would be horrible. I've never skipped a shift, not even when I had the flu one winter. If I close up, run to Katniss' house, explain the situation, and sprint back I could return without missing much business, maybe none at all. But what if someone were to come while I'm gone, see the shop is randomly closed, and then casually mention it to Mom one day? She'd find out I left and she'd give me so many hours of work as punishment I'd never see daylight again. And what kind of brother would I be if I left Miche here to run things by himself? Miche!
I hurl myself through the door to the backroom. "Miche! Please tell me we can close early tonight," I say so fast the words run into one another.
Miche looks up from the mound of dough under his knuckles and blinks at me a couple times. When he finally makes sense of what I said he begrudgingly answers, "Aw, I don't know, Peeta. We have two weddings this weekend and we're already behind on the bread order for tomorrow." He pounds the dough weakly with his fists.
"Look, I wasn't supposed to work today. I made plans."
"And I've been here since four am. I was supposed to be done by now, but here I am." Now that I take a moment to study Miche, it's plain to see he's exhausted. He's got flour up to his elbows and yellow butter cream frosting in his hair. I'm covered in paint but at least I got to sleep in today.
"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really important," I beg.
"What's so important?"
I pause. Consider a lie. Then I remember who I'm talking to. "I'm meeting Katniss."
"The Everdeen girl?"
I hold back a sigh. One day everyone will know her by name. "Yes."
Miche releases a heavy breath. He rotates the dough a final time with his hands. Then he places it on pan full of loaves ready to be baked. Out of all of us, Miche is most like Dad. He's sympathetic and he doesn't like confrontation, which puts him in danger of being a pushover. This is why I'm thankful he found Grace—a girl without a mean bone in her body. You get a guy like Miche with a girl like Vesta and she'll have him run down so quick he'll choose to obsess over the neatness of the cake displays instead of looking at the world outside the window. Bread recipes will end up being the only topic of conversation he'll take part in while his wife belittles his sons.
"I feel for you," Miche says wearily. "I was planning to have dinner with Grace. So we're both missing out."
But Grace is your soon-to-be fiancée. She'll understand. Katniss is the girl I have been sort of officially dating for a mere week. "Not if we close early. Or just for an hour."
Miche reaches into a bin of flour and shakes it out over the surface of the work table where he'll roll out another loaf—one of the thousands he'll make in his lifetime. "Peeta, I'm sorry, but it's not happening."
The bell on the front door jingles, signifying that a customer has come in. It's after three, which means we'll get our usual late afternoon rush. My stomach sinks. Katniss is out there waiting for me. The one time she agreed to see me without any resistance and I'm missing it.
Miche detects the black shroud that promptly envelopes me. "I know it seems dire, but try not to worry. She'll be there tomorrow," he says with an encouraging, if tired, smile.
Oh man, do you ever not know Katniss. "Sure," I say, my voice hollow.
I might have been able to handle the disappointment if business picked up after that, but it never does. After the slight rush, it's basically dead. That's the point when I consider hanging myself with my apron. Instead, I go ahead and perform all the closing procedures. I sweep; dust a little. A kid pressed his nose against the glass of the display case earlier today and promptly sneezed all over it, leaving a nice goober to clean up. While I work I mentally compose ten different drafts of an apology to Katniss. They all say essentially the same thing; although, the later drafts have an increasing number of expletives concerning Mom in them.
When I add up the earnings for the day I'm especially disheartened. According to the ledger, we sold eight loaves of wheat, two dark rye, one light, six scones, a cheese danish, a half dozen lemon muffins, and received an order for a yellow birthday cake. A slow day by business standards. I should have left when I had the chance.
I add in one loaf of marble rye to the ledger, since there's several leftover. I'll take it with me to see Katniss.
When I'm done in the front I join Miche in the back, which makes me long for the boredom of working the front. We bear down to get caught up with the bread order. Halfway into the frosting job on one of the wedding cakes Miche realizes he read the order wrong and we've been frosting in the wrong color. It's the first occasion that has ever pushed my normally even tempered brother to curse and if I weren't so miserable I'd find it funny.
When we near the end of the day, we aren't as far as we need to be, but Miche is so tired he can't even walk straight, let alone make the frosting details the cakes require. I'm hungry and tired myself. Spending the day in the sun coupled with my simmering anger at Mom saps most of my energy. Miche finally relents to calling it quits, but it's a mere fifteen minutes earlier than closing. I rush out of the bakery before Miche changes his mind, only pausing to splash cold water over my hands and face and to grab the bread I set aside. Unfortunately, I'm fully aware that I'll be working tomorrow despite Dad's promise of the day off. We didn't get through enough work and those brides are expecting painted cakes. Mom will make me do it. God knows she can't paint.
A feeling of unease slinks into my stomach when I reach the Everdeen residence. Dusk has fallen. The house is dimly lit with barely any light coming from the window. I imagine Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen sitting on the couch. Prim at their feet playing with Buttercup. They share an evening much like the others they spend together. But what Katniss is feeling, I cannot fathom. I've never mistaken Katniss for a forgiving person. Hugging the bread a little tighter, I reconsider going in. Maybe I should wait for tomorrow and give Katniss a chance to cool off? I think better of it. Time is not in my favor. The longer I let her be mad the more time she'll have to convince herself not to forgive me.
Lady snores away; tied to the fence as usual. I knock gently on the front door a few times so as not to wake her.
The door creaks open a smidge, and while I prepare myself for Katniss' scowl, I'm pleasantly surprised to see Prim with her hand on the door. However, she doesn't seem equally happy to see me. "Hello," she mumbles lowly.
I sum up the last remnants of energy I have "Hey Prim. How've you been?"
"Oh. You know, okay." Prim shrugs.
I've never known Prim to be so…not chatty. Which means she must know. I hate myself for letting Prim down just as much as I do for letting Katniss down. Prim deserves at least half the credit for getting Katniss and me together. "That's…good." I awkwardly shuffle my feet. "Is your sister home?" I can't see inside of the house with the way Prim keeps the door mostly closed.
"Um…yes. She's here." Prim blinks rapidly. She does a little shuffle dance herself.
"Can I come in?"
"Um…I'm not sure right now is a good time," she says stiffly.
Shit. Katniss must be pissed. "Look, if I could talk to Katniss for a minute I think I—"
"Prim, it's rude to keep guests out on the doorstep," Mrs. Everdeen chides her daughter. The door creaks open a hair wider to reveal Mrs. Everdeen standing behind Prim and blocking my view into the house again.
"Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen." Fatigue affects my attempt to sound upbeat. "I know it's late, but I thought I would stop by for a visit. I brought a fresh loaf of marble rye." I hold out the paper bag.
"That's very kind of you," Mrs. Everdeen says. Her voice sounds genuinely appreciative; not offended that it's a gift or that it comes from the bakery. Huh. Maybe the woman is warming up to me. "Come in and we'll share a few slices."
"Great," I reply, feeling more encouraged than I have all day. The door opens wide. My eyes automatically search for Katniss. The scene before me is not what I anticipated while standing at the gate. Two candles light the room. One on the table. The other on the television. Katniss sits at the dining table. A scruffy dark-haired kid in desperate need of a comb sits on the other side and next to him sits Gale Hawthorne. Great.
I must have stood there too long because Mrs. Everdeen snags the bread bag out from under my arm, waits for me to step inside, and closes the door behind me. Well, now there's no turning back. "Hi Katniss," I say, warily crossing the room. I glance at Hawthorne, but I don't bother with a greeting. We haven't spoken since he confronted me at school, and frankly, I don't care to speak to him now. "How are you?" For a week I've been picturing the enthralled girl I kissed by the lake; however, the Katniss who sits here with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea is a return to the norm. Serious and quiet.
"Fine," Katniss replies. She sips her tea and says nothing more.
You're not fine! I want to yell at her. You're mad, so be mad. Who ever thought I'd be wishing for her to yell at me? As much as I've lamented over her hurting her all day, this distant, indifferent attitude is worse than anger. It means she's already compartmentalized her feelings. When she does that it makes it much harder to get her to open up. I can only hope that it's only because Hawthorne and this other grubby kid are here that she's so calm.
"We were playing mancala," Prim cuts in. Sure enough there's a handmade mancala board on the table. The unlevel board, which teeters back and forth, appears to have been gouged with a blunt object, and not so smoothly. I could have done a better job. Nonetheless, the river rocks that fill up the cups are nice. "I got this board for my birthday. From Rory." She smiles at the kid. He shrugs back and kind of grimaces to compensate for the slight blush on his cheeks. Uh oh. "Do you know how to play?"
"I played when I was a kid. I'm more of a gin rummy player these days."
"Well, I'm a champion," Prim brags outright.
"You are not. I've beaten you," the kid, Rory, declares.
Prim remains proudly unaffected. "Sometimes Rory beats me, but I've won more games against him than he has against me. Plus, he cheats."
"Hawthornes do not cheat. We're honorable men."
Hawthornes? Oh. This must be another one of Gale's siblings. Now that I compare the two the resemblance is pretty obvious, as is the similar behavior. Only Gale's younger brother would think he needs to be overtly masculine to impress a girl. Kid will go much further with the handmade gift thing when it comes to impressing Prim.
Rory sits up straight, puffing out his chest for effect. Compensating, once again. This time for being about three inches shorter than Prim by my estimate. The kid needs to take it down a peg. I don't like all this testosterone being flaunted around Prim.
"Then how did that stone get in your shirt pocket?" Prim asks playfully. The kid opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it closed just as quickly, looking defeated. Prim laughs. Rory fights a smile. "Would you like to play?"
I glance at Katniss who puts special effort into avoiding eye contact. If she's not going to throw me out then I'm not leaving. "Don't go easy on me."
"No chance!"
There are only four dining chairs so Prim insists I take hers. I immediately decline of course, but then Rory offers his chair to Prim, and I have to give the kid a point on that. When all is said and done I'm sitting next to Katniss with Prim across from me. Rory leans on his elbows over the table, concentrating intensely on the game, probably taking note of Prim's winning strategies. I was never all that great at mancala and I'm rusty to boot, so instead of focusing on the game, I cast furtive glances at Katniss, hoping for an indication into her feelings for me right now. Unfortunately, she's way too good at keeping her face clear of emotion. Hawthorne isn't quite as adept. His feelings are quite plain. He wants to punch me in the face, but doesn't wish to do so in front of Prim and Mrs. Everdeen.
Mrs. Everdeen plunks down the now sliced loaf of bread on the middle of the table. She also sets down a cup of tea for me. "This bread is very good, Peeta," she says, taking a piece with her to the couch. There, she tends to some sewing on a delicate blue dress.
"I'm glad you like it. I made it myself."
Both Prim and Rory take slices. Rory practically inhales his. But Katniss and Hawthorne make no moves toward the bread. I'm not at all shocked Gale declines from taking the bread I brought, and on some level, I'm not surprised that Katniss declines as well. She's not one for charity. On the other hand, I've ego enough to think there is a deeper subtext to the action. She refuses the bread, she's with Gale. She takes the bread, she's with me. Or it could be that she's not hungry.
The tense silence continues, interrupted only by the plunking of the stones into the individual cups of the board. Prim scoops up a handful of stones in a major play that clinches victory for her, which is fine with me because I think the board gave me a splinter.
"I saw you with Madge Undersee today," Gale says over the rim of his mug.
Katniss perks up at the name.
I shift my eyes to Gale, trying to figure his angle. There's something accusatory in his eyes. Is he trying to imply something is going on between Madge and me? Anything he might have seen in the square was clearly innocent, unless he's got a mind like Mom and thinks if a guy and a girl stand near one another they're a couple. "Yeah, she helped me repaint the bakery," I mention casually. Prim claims another cup of stones.
"She painted the bakery?" Hawthorne repeats, his mug still at his mouth. His eyebrows come close to meeting one another in bewilderment.
Apparently Hawthorne didn't see much if he didn't put that together. What was he doing in the square anyway? "Yes. She did a great job."
Gale sets down his mug with a thunk. "Why would she do that? Are you seeing her?" he snaps. Almost immediately, he blinks and looks away, as if just realizing what he asked. Now I'm confused. Isn't that what he was implying in the first place?
"No," I answer. "It wasn't planned. She saw me in the square and offered to help. She picked it up quick, too. I didn't know you knew her."
Gale hunches over his mug in stony silence. Geez. Why so sensitive about the mayor's daughter? It's my turn in the game. I get one point. Then Prim gets six.
"We sell the mayor strawberries," Katniss explains when Hawthorne doesn't bother to speak up.
"You sold him some today, didn't you, Gale?" Rory says without taking his eyes off the game. He scratches the back of his head and I swear some dirt shakes out. Although, If I shook my head flour would come flying out of my hair.
"Katniss, I thought you didn't go into town today," Prim says.
The kids think they're making innocent conversation, when really they're giving me pieces of a puzzle. Katniss and Hawthorne must have gone hunting earlier today, simple enough. And they must have gathered strawberries to sell to the Undersees; however, instead of sticking to their routine and selling as a team, only Hawthorne went into town. This is where things get sticky. Why didn't Katniss go along? Did she not want to run into me while she was with Gale? And then, to add to the mystery, why does Hawthorne have all this concern about seeing Madge and I together? I mean, did he go looking for her when he didn't find her at home? The one thing I can be sure of: nothing good ever comes of Katniss spending time with Gale.
While I put all this together Prim makes the last move of the game. "I won," she announces happily. I don't bother asking for an official count. It's obvious she collected double the amount of stones I did.
"You're still the champion."
"My turn!" Rory jumps in to reset the game.
"Actually, I think we should head home," Hawthorne interjects. I almost pass out from shock. He's going to leave? He hasn't even subtly insulted me yet.
"Come on, Gale. It's not late," Rory whines.
"Honorable men make it home in time for bed. They have to get up early to work." Oh wait. There's the insult. I'd like to see him get up at four every day.
The Hawthornes trade farewells with the Everdeens. Mrs. Everdeen offers a message for Gale's mother and Prim and Rory stand an arm's length apart looking at everything but each other. Katniss and Gale share a hushed conversation at the doorway. The scene makes me uncomfortable. I can't picture my family having this kind of well-rehearsed, congenial back-and-forth with the Everdeens. And I thought I'd found every possible way to be jealous of Gale. Before they leave, Hawthorne casts another severe glance; this one is directed at Katniss. She casts her eyes down the floor. She nods. The door closes before she looks up again.
Mrs. Everdeen returns to the table to wrap up the remaining bread with a tight look to her jaw. Prim cleans up the game, throwing nervous looks at both her mother and sister. The tension did not leave with the Hawthornes. It's obvious that I'm disrupting their routine. I'm the rude guest who came without an invitation, except I did have an invitation that I missed out on. I stand up and join Katniss near the door. "Do you think we could talk outside?" I ask.
Katniss doesn't wait for permission. "Fine," she replies. Mrs. Everdeen puts the bread in the pantry cupboard, never saying a word. Katniss was right when she said her mother doesn't care what she does. It's unsettling to see it in action.
Prim comes out with us only to make sure Lady is comfortable for the night. She gets a stitched up blanket that's mostly made up of patches wrapped around her shoulders. I wonder how many times Lady has tried to eat it.
I recognize the path Katniss leads us on immediately. We're headed toward the Meadow.
"I owe you an explanation," I begin.
Katniss steps into the grass of the Meadow. I follow. Fortunately, we're moving slowly enough that I don't need to watch my step.
"For what?" she asks.
You know, I've pointed out a lot of instances in which Katniss is not like other girls, but it's just my luck that the instance in which she does behave like a girl is when her boyfriend does something stupid. Not only do I have to apologize, I have to first explain what I'm apologizing for. I should tell Katniss how typical she's being. She'd be appalled. "For not being here when I said I would be." I clarify. I gently wrap my hand around her forearm, forcing her to pause. She doesn't flinch or object. In anything, she feels like there's no fight in her. "It was out of my control. My brother is leaving the bakery to work for Kendrick Klee, the florist, and my parents planned to have dinner with the Klee's to hammer out the details, but I didn't find out till this afternoon so they made me work even though I was scheduled off." I take a much needed breath. I didn't mean to say it all so fast, but I'm relieved when the whole explanation is out there.
Katniss turns her head toward the road. We can't see it from here as we're tucked at the bottom of a hill, but just the fact that she's looking makes me think she wants to run. Her silence twists my gut like I swallowed a razor blade. I can't stand it. I need her to talk to me. I need her to look at me. Carefully, I put my fingers to her chin and turn her face back to me. "I would have much rather been here with you," I confess. "Do you believe me?"
"I believe you," she says flatly.
I wait for her to continue; perhaps unleash a scowl at the very least. "I was afraid you'd be upset, but…" Why am I continuing in this vein at all? If she's not upset I should be happy, right? It's just…no one is that understanding. Plus, the look she shared with Hawthorne left me feeling unsettled. "Thank you for understanding," I say. I slide my hand down her arm to clasp hers. Again, she doesn't draw back. I should be thrilled. Why doesn't this feel right?
"It's good that you came. There's something I need to say to you." Katniss twists her hand out of my grip. "We can't see each other anymore," she says dully.
"What?" I croak. I almost laugh. Will there ever be a day we spend together where Katniss doesn't try to push me away? "Katniss, I messed up today. I know I did." I say quickly. "I will do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't happen again. I promise."
"It's not because of today. I'd already decided."
So I was right. Something was going on between Gale and Katniss. He must have convinced her to do this. Last week was so perfect, why would she talk herself out of it? I step forward and take her hand a second time. It's important that she focus on me, on us, and not Hawthorne or whatever the hell is giving her second thoughts. "Katniss, come on. Why are you talking this way?"
"I'm not comfortable with it. It needs to end," she replies, but it sounds rehearsed. If she's sticking to a script then maybe there's a chance she's unsure.
"I get not being comfortable. This is all new to you. It's new to me, too. But I don't understand why it should end."
"It's too…it's…" She steps back, ripping her hand from mine. "I told you I didn't want this," Katniss says fiercely. Finally she sounds like her herself! And she unknowingly admits to being a big hypocrite. Katniss did tell me she wasn't looking for a relationship that day in the Hob and consequently I gave her to opportunity to stay away like she said she wanted. But she didn't stay away. She found me.
"And yet you took me hunting," I point out. "You brought me to a lake you've never shown to anyone else. You kissed me."
Her whole body goes rigid. "That was a mistake."
"A mistake?" I scoff. She's lying. She can't truly believe that. I felt her tremble in arms when we kissed beside the water, and it wasn't from the cold. I saw the shine in her eyes when she was fighting back tears. Those events were real. I didn't invent them in one of my fantasies. If anything is a mistake it's her toxic friendship with Hawthorne. Why was he there tonight? That should have been me. "Is this about Gale? Do you want to be with him?" I bark, my anger betraying what composure I still have.
"This isn't about Gale," she barks back.
"Like hell it is!" I shout. I know it's a misstep as I say it. Talking Gale down isn't going to help my case, yet I'm yelling anyway. "I saw you two sharing a look like you're pulling some big joke over on me."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she seethes, hugging her arms against her body.
"Just like Gale doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know anything about us."
"He knows enough," she says bitingly. That part of the argument is done, apparently.
I search my mind for another line of reasoning to pursue, but we're back to where we were three weeks ago. I did the only thing I could then. I forced her to make the decision about us. But I can't do that again, not after what's passed between us.
Katniss hugs herself tighter. I wish I had a jacket to offer her. Not that she'd accept it. She takes a few steps away from me, facing the woods. I've never seen Katniss in the moonlight. The angles of her features throw dark shadows across the planes of her face. Her skin glows luminescent in the places where the moonlight lands on her. The scars and the scuffs from her hard life wash out as if they were never there. I wish the moonlight could wash away the awfulness of this day.
"The reaping is coming up," Katniss says lowly.
My stomach sinks. We all know about the reaping coming up, but nobody mentions it because no one wants to dwell on it. Squirming with fear on the actual reaping day is enough of an experience. Maybe I would dwell on it if I were in a position like Katniss and needed to take out a tessera to survive and in turn had my name entered more than the minimum. I thought of myself as so enlightened what with my anti-Capitol views, yet I overlooked an important difference between Katniss and me—one she must have been thinking of since the first time we spoke. "Is this where you say we're too different?" I shove my hands in my pockets. "That you're from the Seam and I'm from town so there's no way we can be together," I grumble.
"We are different."
"You know that's bull. Look at your parents!" I gesture wildly at nothing.
Her gray eyes, as dark and menacing as a sky filled with thunder clouds, snap to meet mine. "Yes. Look at them. They chose each other and it brought them nothing but pain. And when you add in the threat of the reaping, there isn't any point." She looks away again. "None that I can see."
I close the distance between us in two strides, stepping right in front of her. "What about the lake? The whole time we were there something was happening between us. You felt it. You can't deny that."
Katniss bristles, her hands closing into fists. At first I think she's going to lay into me, but instead she scowls and storms off. Evidently, she can't deny it, but she can stomp off in a huff. "Katniss! Wait!" I shout after her. She doesn't stop. I move faster and cut her off. She tries to duck around me, but I'm just as quick. I was the runner up wrestling champion. I'm willing to put those skills to use if need be. "Listen to me," I plead. She stops trying to get away, but she's unmistakably unhappy about it. I try to clear my head of the noise and frustration. I'm out of apologies and speeches. "Please…" I pick up her hand to give me strength and to deter her from running away. I wait for inspiration to strike, but there's one phrase that keeps replaying in my head. One thing I haven't said. "I…I love you."
Katniss' scowl deepens. "Don't say things like that," she hisses.
"Don't tell me what I feel, Katniss," I reply sharply. "All that stuff I said to you last week about the song and waiting for you to notice me, I wasn't making that up."
"We're not kids anymore."
"Damn right, we're not! That's why this is so important."
Katniss treads up the hill back in the direction of the road. I follow in step behind her, speaking loudly so she doesn't miss a single word. "I loved you when we were five years old and I didn't know anything. I loved you when we were eleven and I was afraid you were about to die." I stumble as we go down the other side of the hill, but avoid falling on my face. That's all I need during my impassioned speech is a bloody nose. "I loved you two months ago when I took a chance on talking to you! And now, right now, in the same moment you're trying to convince me to fuck off, I'm in love with you!" Wow. I went two and a half months without saying I love you and now I spew it out over and over again like I've lost all control of my mouth. Then again, if there's anything in this world I know, it's how to love Katniss Everdeen.
Katniss comes to a slow stop. Her shoulders, which are tight with anger or frustration or whatever, droop as though she's suddenly worn out. "You can't," she moans. I move as though I'm going to wrap my arms around her. It physically hurts me when she's like this, strained and confused by her own emotions. "You've never understood…"
"Then make me understand," I whisper. Whatever it is, I'll accept it. Doesn't she see that my love for her isn't conditional? Gently, I turn her to face me. The moon reflects beautifully in her eyes. "I want us to be together and I think you want that, too." I can't stop myself from putting one hand at her waist, the other cupping her cheek. "Please, Katniss. Please. I can…I can take care of you…just as well as Gale can." Better than Gale can, I think. "We can take care of each other. That's all I want."
"I don't want you take care of me. I don't want anyone to take care of me," she whispers fiercely. Her body stiffens like it did when I first tried to kiss her at the lake. I let go then, but this time I hold tightly to her. I'm too afraid that this is the last time I'll ever hold her.
"I know it's scary to be vulnerable…to…to risk your heart." My voice wavers. I gulp at the lump forming in my throat. "But it's worth it. It's so worth it, Katniss."
Katniss lifts her hand to her face, covering mine. From here she could press closer, but she doesn't. I curse myself for believing that she would, even for a second. She removes my hand, letting it fall between us. "You're wrong, Peeta. It's not," Katniss states, without a tremor in her voice. She breaks free easily, probably because I'm not doing anything to hold her back.
It's not worth it? I'm not worth it? That's…wrong. That's unfair. Katniss has always been worth it for me. Why can't it be the same for her? Memories of the last two months flash before my eyes. Memories, not fantasies. "Tell me you were pretending!" I holler at her retreating form. "Tell me it didn't mean anything to you!"
The night is as quiet in Twelve as it is in the forest. There's no wind to trouble the grass. The mockingjays are at rest. The district has retreated to their houses, resting up for another day that will blend in with the rest. But this day I won't forget.
Katniss pauses to look over her shoulder. She speaks with the coolness and clarity of a well-trained hunter standing over her kill. "Don't come here again. Thank you for the bread."
The bread. From today. From years ago. That's all I am. I'm just the boy with the bread.
A/N: For those of you who have asked whether or not the reaping is a part of this story, well, now you know. I wasn't trying to trick anyone. This has always been true of the story. The Games have been subtly mentioned within the story and not-so-subtly mentioned in the story description at the beginning of the first chapter. The premise of the story is not what would happen if Katniss and Peeta weren't in the Games? It is and has always been what would happen if Peeta were brave enough to talk to Katniss?
I also feel compelled to mention, my lovely readers, that we're reaching the end of this story. There will be one more chapter for sure, maybe two. As always, thank you for reading. My readers are nothing short of amazing! *Ducks angry reviews*
P.S. Check out Always Trust Your Wingman Chapters 1 & 2 for sideshots taking place immediately following this chapter.