Author's notes: Eternal love and gratitude to papofglencoe. Amazing beta and wonderful friend.
You need air. You need water. You need food. You do not need to see Cashmere.
Without thinking, I retract my hand from his. I do not dare look at him, afraid of what I'll see.
"You're a grown man, Peeta. You don't need my permission," I say, wishing I had something to set my eyes on.
"Don't do this," he murmurs, barely audible.
"Do what?" I snap, jerking my head up.
"Don't shut me out."
I stifle a snort. He's one to talk.
"What do you expect me to say? 'Yes, I would very much like for you to go and see your ex-girlfriend, the one you loved with your whole heart, and the mother of your child.'"
I feel like a teenager throwing a fit, and I regret what I said even before I see the hurt registering on Peeta's face. Why did I have to bring that up? I threw the most traumatic experience of his life in his face because I'm jealous of his ex. I'm a horrible person.
He doesn't say anything as his facial expression changes from pain to that of anger. I've seen him angry and remember thinking I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that look. Now I am, and it hurts like hell. Especially because I'm the one who caused it—and because I deserve it.
I don't say anything either, afraid I'll make an even bigger mess of this. I don't know what I could say to fix this. After a couple of seconds of silence he gets up, throws some money on the table, and leaves.
I'm frustrated at myself for what I said, but then how did he expect me to react? And leaving the table is just childish. Peeta's never been one to leave an argument like that; he always wants to resolve it as soon as possible.
I catch up with him outside the restaurant. His shoulders are tense, and I have to half-run to match his speed. "Peeta!" He doesn't acknowledge me, even though I'm sure he heard me. The street is empty; it's a small relief, knowing that no one sees me chasing him down. When I grab his arm he finally turns around, shooting daggers at me. "You can't just drop a bomb like that and leave."
"Why? What do you want me to do, Katniss?" he says, jerking his arm back. "I'm trying to do the right thing here."
The 'right thing' would be to forget Cashmere, and that's obviously not happening. I don't know what to say to him, so I keep arguing. I can't stop it. "You can start by acting like a fucking adult."
"Look who's talking." It's so out of character for him—to mock, even in the heat of an argument. I think he's about to leave, but he doesn't.
It's like pressing a button, and I say the first thought that crossed my mind when he first mentioned Cashmere. "I'm not the one trying to hook up with my ex," I say, crossing my arms and leaning on one of my hips.
He drags both his hand through his hair. "Really? That's what you think?"
"It's been four years, Peeta. Why now? Your timing is impeccable. Right when our relationship gets serious you want to cozy it up with your high school sweetheart." Why do the insults keep pouring out of me?
"Oh my god!" He balls his hands into fists and turns around. He takes a couple of breaths to calm himself before facing me again. "It's you! You're the reason."
His answer throws me off guard, and I don't know what to say. I was expecting him to say something like he's tired of me or that I made him realize he wants to be with her instead. I'm sure my confusion is written across my face. What does he mean?
His eyes soften, and there's a couple seconds of silence before he continues. "It's for you," he repeats, quietly this time.
I clear my throat, trying to buy some time because I don't know how to respond. Am I missing something obvious here? "What...?" is all I can muster.
"I can't live my life where everyone around me, you in particular, has to walk on eggshells, afraid of mentioning Cashmere or Charlie. Fuck, I can't even say her name without a stab in my heart." He pauses, gathering himself. "I need answers, and I need closure. You made me realize that. If there's a possibility for me feel whole again—for us—why shouldn't I fight for that chance?"
This is what's been going on inside his head? He has no desire to see Cashmere; she's the means to an end. I can't argue with his logic. It makes perfect sense. Why do I always think the worst of him?
Peeta continues, slowly shaking his head. "You're right. I shouldn't have left like that. I should have realized how everything looks from your point of view."
I should have been more sensitive in response to what he said instead of throwing a tantrum. If I'd given him the chance to explain his reasoning we wouldn't be standing out here yelling at each other.
I clear my throat. "You should do it."
"I meant what I said. I won't do it if you don't want me to."
I finally lock my eyes on his. "Peeta, if this is what you feel you have to do, then you should do it. My opinion shouldn't matter." I put my hand on his chest, as if testing the waters, searching his eyes for a sign that it's okay.
He puts his hand over mine. "Of course it does. You're the most important person in my life."
My other hand finds his cheek, grazing his light stubble. This man never ceases to amaze me with his consideration and compassion. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes. He needs this. I see it now. He doesn't want to see Cashmere because he still pines for her. He needs this because he needs answers. That's the only way to move on.
If I could go back in time to find out exactly what happened to Prim, I would. That's why I should support him and not let my jealousy do all the talking.
"I trust you. If I had the chance to get closure, I'd do it too."
He moves my hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. "I love you," he sighs.
"I love you too."
I put my hand on Peeta's leg. He's been bouncing it up and down for so long it's starting to get on my nerves. He's biting his nails, something he never does, and he keeps staring out the airplane window, seemingly captivated by the clouds.
"I'm sorry," he says, when he feels my touch.
I turn in my seat, leaning into him. "I know you're nervous, Peeta. Let me know if there's anything I can do, okay?" He cups my cheek with his left hand, grazing the skin below my eye with his thumb, and I think he's going to kiss me.
"Can I get you anything?" a voice behind me interrupts. I turn my head and notice the flight attendant.
"No thank you. We're good." It's a relatively short flight, and Peeta's too nervous to either eat or drink anything.
The woman looks over to Peeta, the corners of her mouth turning up. "It's a pretty short flight, sir. We'll be landing before you know it." Then she leaves, not waiting for a response.
"Am I that obvious?" The hint of a smile spreads on his lips, amused that the flight attendant thought he was afraid of flying.
I take his hand in mine, kissing the back of it. "Yes."
He and Cashmere are meeting tomorrow. I'm nervous too, but I'm trying not to show it. He offered for me to come with him, and I'm grateful that he asked, but this is something he needs to do on his own. To be honest, though, I don't know if I'll be able to focus on the conference when I know that he'll be meeting her. I don't doubt his feelings for me, but at one time he felt that way about her too. If he forgives her, what's to stop those feelings from resurfacing?
"What are you thinking?" Peeta breaks me from my reverie.
"What?"
"You're scowling."
"Nothing. I'm just thinking about the conference tomorrow," I say, hoping he'll believe my white lie. It's not that I don't trust him—I do, but I can't stop my thoughts from wandering. And he doesn't know how he'll react when he sees Cashmere.
He pulls me in for a kiss. "Don't worry about it. You'll do great, I just know it."
As the flight attendant promised, we're landing in no time. As soon as we claim our baggage we hail a cab that drives us to the hotel we're staying at.
We're standing in the elevator when Peeta grabs my hand, giving it a light squeeze. "You okay? You haven't said much since we left."
"I'm fine."
He doesn't press the issue, and the ride continues in awkward silence. He doesn't break it until we're inside our room and I'm unpacking my bag.
"Listen," he says, sitting down on the bed. He's got my attention, but I don't stop unpacking my clothes. "Can you...?" He grabs my hand, effectively stopping me. "Can you stop doing that for a second?"
I yank my hand back, resting my weight on my right hip and meeting his gaze. "What?" I don't mean it to come out like I'm irritated, but it does anyway.
He looks down at the floor, his head hanging. "I know I'm putting you in a difficult position. I don't want to drag you through the shit of my past, so if you've changed your mind, tell me now." There is no judgment in his voice, only understanding.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "I haven't. But she held your heart for such a long time. What's stopping her from claiming it again?" I'm ashamed for how my jealousy affects our relationship this way, but it's also a relief to have finally said it out loud. Now he knows how I feel, at least.
"I stopped loving her a long time ago," he says matter-of-factly. "And even if you weren't in the picture, my future wouldn't be with her. You have my heart for as long as you want it. I'm yours. Completely."
His words instantly put me at ease, but the weight of them and the way he speaks them are what strike me the most. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's confronting the woman who kept his daughter away from him, who denied him the fatherhood he deserved and who broke his spirit. And I'm moping around like a child.
I sit on his lap, giving him a light kiss. "Mine," I whisper.
"Yours," he repeats, mimicking my action and deepening the kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I let my hand slide over his chest, cursing the fabric of his shirt that keeps me from feeling his skin on the tips of my fingers.
He keeps grazing the skin below the hem of my shirt after we break apart, and I let my arms rest on his shoulders, my hands laced together around his neck. He locks his crystal blue eyes on me before speaking. "You have every right to feel what you're feeling and I understand that. But I promise you, I have no desire to resume any sort of relationship with Cashmere."
"I support you in this, Peeta." I kiss the side of his face. "I'm sorry I've been a little moody lately."
He moves his hand to my hair, combing it with his fingers. "Are you kidding? You've been more understanding than I could ever hope for. You should give yourself some credit." He kisses the tip of my nose. "How do you feel about tomorrow?"
"I don't know." I honestly don't. I don't know if the day will be agonizingly long or surprisingly short. Either way, Peeta will constantly be on my mind. "I don't know how to prepare for this."
"I'm talking about the conference. The reason we're here. Remember?" His fingers stroke the side of my face, and I close my eyes at his touch. With everything going on I kind of forgot that I'm giving a presentation tomorrow. It's not a very important one, and I doubt there'll be many listeners. But I'm always nervous about giving oral presentations. But this whole thing with Cashmere made that nervousness fade in comparison.
I clear my throat. "Right. I'm a little nervous, but I'm supposed to be, right?"
"I think so. I wish I could come and watch. I probably wouldn't understand a thing, but I'd love to see you." He starts kissing my cheek, but I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
"No. You're not allowed to come. You'd only make me more nervous."
"Me?" A subtle smirk spreads on his lips.
"You'd be too distracting for me to focus." He smiles again, taking it as a compliment. As he should. "Besides, it's a closed event. You have to be enrolled in a university to sign up for it." I'm relieved that we can talk about other stuff too during our stay here.
"Seriously, though." His voice is a little darker. And, as if he read my mind, he continues, "I don't want this whole Cashmere thing to take away all the focus. I want to be here for you too."
"Peeta..." I take breath to tell to him that he doesn't have to apologize for this. Him meeting Cashmere is a huge deal, this conference is not.
"Wait," he interrupts me before I get the chance. "I need to say this. You invited me to come here with you, and I'm running away to meet my ex. I'm not scoring any boyfriend points here, and I'm sorry."
"Peeta. You told me about your past on our second date. Not what it was, but that something was haunting you. I've seen how it affects you, and I want nothing more than to help you ease that pain. I accept all of you, and I love all of you."
He closes his eyes. "And you say you're not good with words."
We fall asleep not long after that. We're both exhausted, physically as well as mentally. When I'm awakened by the alarm, I immediately turn it off, hoping I didn't wake up Peeta. But, of course, he's not sleeping. He says it's because he's a baker at heart, but I've noticed it's during the early mornings his sleep is the most troubled.
"Hey," he says as soon as I've turned off the alarm.
"Hey." I give him a light peck on the cheek, wanting to spare him my morning breath. "Can't sleep?"
"No."
"How do you feel? Do you know what you're going to talk about?" I haven't asked him before because I feel like it's none of my business, but the silence right now is so weird I can't stand it.
"No, I don't. I guess I'll see how it feels when I see her." He looks tired, but it's not physical. It seems the weight of what will happen today is finally hitting him.
"Okay. But remember, there is no right or wrong way to handle this, so if you change your mind at the last minute it's okay to leave. You can leave whenever you want and no one would blame you," I try to reassure him, but I don't know if I'm successful. I wonder if anything can help him right now.
"Okay," he croaks.
I quickly change clothes and make myself ready for the day. By the time I'm done, Peeta's sitting by the edge of the bed, flipping through his phone. "I don't know if I'm hoping for her to cancel or not," he says when I sit beside him.
I put my hand on his knee, trying to be as strong as I can for him. "You can call me anytime. Whatever it is."
"Thank you." He kisses me on the mouth, his hands on my face. "I love you. Good luck today."
"You too."
It feels strange, wishing each other good luck, like it's a normal day and we're both going to work. But I don't know what else to say. I've told him that I'm here for him and he knows that. I don't know what more I can do.
The day passes by in a blur. My presentation goes great; the audience listens, and their questions are fair. I manage to answer all of them, and they seem satisfied. But apart from that, all my thoughts are on Peeta. Every five minutes I check my phone to see if I have a call or text from him.
He's meeting Cashmere for lunch, and before he left the hotel he sent a text, but other than that, nothing. I want to be supportive, and I meant every word I said to him, but it's hard not to feel a stab of jealousy despite Peeta's reassurances. They were together for so much longer than I've known him. What if he realizes that she was right for him all along? And that I'm just a distraction in the process of getting back together with her. No. Peeta loves me. He told me so, and I have to believe him. I do. I trust him.
It's almost six when I get back to the hotel room, and Peeta's there. He's sitting on the couch in front of the small TV.
"Hey," I say as soon as I spot him.
He doesn't say anything. This is not good.
I notice the photos strewn over the coffee table when I approach him, carefully placing my hand on his shoulder. He still doesn't say anything, but he covers my hand with his, squeezing it. In the other he's holding one of the photographs.
I sit next to him, and he gives it to me. It's Charlie on what I assume is her birthday, because there's a half-eaten slice of cake in front of her and her mouth is covered in chocolate. Peeta would've wanted to make that cake.
He picks up another one; it's of her sitting on a swing and smiling at the camera. Her hair is almost the same shade as Peeta's, and the joy in her eyes is undeniable. It's unbelievable how many memories there are in each of these pictures—three years of them. And Peeta missed them all.
"She had my eyes," he whispers, staring at the photo in his hands.
"It's just like your painting," I tell him, hoping it will give him a sense of comfort. That he knew her on some level, even though they never truly met.
A sad smile spreads on his lips. "Thank you."
I want more details about what transpired between him and Cashmere, but this is not the time. He'll tell me when he's ready.
"I don't know what to do with these," he says. "It's too hard to look at them, but I can't get rid of them either."
I cup his cheek. "Save them. Put them in a box for now, if it's too much for you. And when you feel ready you can take them out again. Maybe it'll be next week, next year, or never. Whatever it is, it's alright."
He leans into my touch, and I drag my hand through his hair as he closes his eyes.
"You want to go to bed?" It's still early, but I think we're both tired. I won't force him to talk about what he and Cashmere discussed today. The emotional impact of everything is probably weighing heavy on his shoulders and he needs time to process it.
"Yeah. Let me just hit the shower and I'll join you soon, okay?"
"Okay." He kisses my cheek before getting up from the couch. "Peeta?" I call out to him when he's at the bathroom door.
"Yeah?"
"Is it okay if I take a look at these?"
"Yeah, sure."
When I hear the shower I take a closer look at the photos. They're all of Charlie, in different stages of her life. In some there is an older couple—her grandparents, I assume. Then I see her. Cashmere. High cheekbones and luscious lips with brown eyes and her perfect, proportional face that is framed by wavy blonde hair. She's gorgeous. She's holding a newborn Charlie in her arms, and, despite having recently delivered a baby, she's picture perfect.
I can understand why Peeta's mother liked her. She and Peeta must have made a stunning couple—they have similar features, and Peeta's blue eyes contrast with Cashmere's brown. She's, however, absent in most of the pictures. I don't know if it's intentional or just a consequence of her being the one taking the photos. But it's so easy to take selfies nowadays I'm sure there are lot of photographs with Cashmere and Charlie that she apparently chose to not give to Peeta. I guess that's a good thing.
There is one of the pictures that stands out. It's of Peeta and Charlie from the hospital. Peeta's sleeping in a chair next to the bed. His head rests on the bed next to her slender arm, and he's holding her small hand in his. It looks like she's sleeping too, which, I guess, she kind of was.
We're lying in the hotel bed, my back against Peeta's chest, when he asks me about my day.
"It went surprisingly well. My mind's been occupied with other things, so I didn't have the time to get nervous. So it went better than expected."
He slides the fabric of the T-shirt I'm sleeping in to the side, exposing my shoulder and kissing it. "Sorry."
"Don't be." I didn't mean to complain; it was just a statement.
Neither of us talks for a couple of minutes, but Peeta's not sleeping, and nor am I.
"Do you… Do you want to talk about today?" I finally ask. I want him to feel like he can speak his mind, but I don't want to drag it out of him. It's a fine line to balance.
"I don't want to bore you."
"You're not boring me. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?" I try to lighten the mood a little bit. Maybe he'll open up.
He lets out a small chuckle, and it takes a couple of seconds before he speaks again. "We mostly talked about Charlie. What she was like. What games she liked to play, her favorite color, and stuff like that."
That must have been rough for him, hearing about everything he missed. "What was it? Her favorite color, I mean?" I can ask that, right? It's a safe question.
"Green. Like yours."
"And how did you feel talking about those things?" Fuck, I sound like shrink.
"I mostly listened. But it felt… better than expected. I feel a little closer to her. Does that make any sense?"
I grab his hand that's resting on my stomach and kiss his fingers. "Yes." Nothing about this is normal, so whatever he feels, no one can say that he can't.
He loops his arm around me again, pulling me closer to him. The small gesture makes me feel safer than I have in a long time, and it doesn't take long before we're both sleeping.
Peeta holds my hand in a vise-like grip. The cool October breeze is colder than normal for this time of year, sending shivers through my body, but even in the summer heat this would be chilling.
In front of us is the headstone of Charlie Washington. Peeta didn't think he'd be able to come here on his own. I'm relieved that he asked, that he feels that he can and wants to draw strength from me.
His collar is pulled up, shielding him from the wind, and he's in need of a haircut because his curls are hanging low on his forehead, almost reaching his eyes. It's long enough for the wind to get the occasional hold on it, temporarily messing it up.
His face is impassive, but his eyes reveal a storm inside. He hasn't shed a tear since we got here. To be honest, I think he's tired of feeling sad about this; he wants to move on. He wants to be able to think of her without a lump in his throat.
"If you want some privacy, I can…" He interrupts me by squeezing my hand tighter.
"Stay," he pleads. "Please."
"Okay."
He releases my hand and hunches down, swiping away invisible leaves from the stone. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to send him some courage as he takes off his gloves and traces her name with his fingers.
The grave is very well-maintained; flowers that can't be more than a day old stand in a vase, and there are numerous heart-shaped stones with messages of love written on them. Cherubs decorate the white headstone, and the lettering is simple. Apart from her name and date of birth and death, the text reads Forever missed – never forgotten.
It's beautiful, but if I were Peeta, I'd be taunted by those words. He'll never forget her, but how can he miss her? He's said 'goodbye' to her, but never properly said 'hello.' He met her only in death, and that must be devastating.
He doesn't say anything, and I don't either. Whatever time he needs, I'll give it to him.
I don't know how long we've been here when Peeta stands up again, enveloping me in his arms. The way he nestles his nose into my neck while firmly gripping my back reveals a fraction of the turmoil that's been going on inside of him—he's letting his guard down. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's the most beautiful thing in the world. And I know in my heart that I will cherish this moment forever. But there's also some finality to it. He doesn't want this part of his life to dictate everything else.
"I think I'm ready to go now," he finally says into my hair.
We leave the cemetery hand-in-hand, and I feel an odd sense of calm. I hate what he has had to go through, but it has strengthened us as a unit, and I feel a security in our relationship now that I hadn't before. Like this is how it's supposed to be. Me and Peeta. We're both in this for the long haul, and whatever the future holds, we'll face it together. We've managed to get through this, and we'll get through anything.
But there's a lurking thought in the back of my mind that if things seem too good to be true, they probably are. Most people would call me pessimistic; I'd say I'm realistic.
I wish I was wrong.
It turns out I'm not.
Author's note: I don't know how long it will take before the next update. It probably won't be until next year. I'm going out of town for the holidays and don't know how much time I will have for writing. But you're welcome to check in with me to see how it's going. As always, please R&R. You can also drop me a line on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace). Thanks for reading!