CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: NICE TO MEET YOU

"You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories."

Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

We don't wake the next day until mid-morning. Nor do we rise earlier than that for the next three weeks. In fact, the two of us rarely leave Rubicund House at all for anything other than the occasional craving for wild Capitol cuisine.

The morning after The Hot Tub Revelations (as I call them), Cato and I select a room on the second floor that we agree to share. Of course, he thinks it too small while I think it too airy, but eventually we reach an agreement – and by that I mean we fall on the bed and kiss until we're so breathless that the location of the room seems trivial in comparison to what we will actually be doing in there. A room is a room is a room, and a bed is a bed is a bed.

I learn more about Cato Elliot in three weeks than all the things I've absorbed from him in almost three months. By "all the things" I mean virtually nothing. Embarrassing but true. Honestly, can you really blame me? We've had other things on our mind. Weapons and self-preservation and imminent death. You know, the usual.

"So wait," I say a week later. We're attempting to bake those raspberry fruitcakes I love so much. After spilling half the batter on the kitchen tiles and accidentally pouring steak sauce on the fancy toaster, I've determined that it's not going too well.

I stop what I'm doing and stare at Cato. "You turned nineteen during the Games?"

He shrugs, lifting his feet and placing them on the kitchen table. "The first day, actually. Figured it wasn't a huge deal. Besides, I'd been training my whole life for that moment. It was a nice birthday gift."

My head tilts to the side, and I continue to stare at him disbelievingly. Sometimes I forget that he's a Career, born and bred. Cato is someone who wanted to fight, who wanted to win in order to earn glory for himself and his district. It will always be such an odd concept to me. "A nice birthday gift? Are you crazy?"

He shrugs. "It's what I know. From an early age I was taught that violence was necessary."

I shake my head and turn back to the kitchen counter. "Well, that's pretty awful. Didn't you want any gifts? Real gifts?" I amend quickly, in case he thinks winning the Games counts.

"I'm not very materialistic," he says mildly. "Just because I grew up in a wealthy district doesn't mean I agree with their standards for money, power, beauty…" He trails off.

"It must've been nice," I say softly, wondering at the life I could've had. Being raised in a mansion like Rubicund House, my closet filled with the best fashions and my pantry stocked with more than enough food to feed an army. No worries. No stress. No starvation.

"Sometimes," he admits.

I turn around and hand him the bowl, gesturing for him to mix the ingredients. As I clean up the kitchen counters, I allow myself to examine Cato while he's distracted. His hair has grown a bit longer since our time in the Games, and it's blonder too – more gold than honey now. His skin, free of freckles, moles, or any other blemishes, has a slight tan to it, thanks to the hours he spends in the small pool (which I didn't know existed until this morning). He's wearing jeans and a dark blue tee-shirt, which brings out the blue in his eyes and which in turn makes my knees weak.

"Do you miss your family?" he asks suddenly, and I tear my eyes away from his body before he catches me.

The question takes me aback, so I pause to gather my thoughts. "Yes, of course." That's the safe answer. A truthful one, but more than anything a safe one. "What about you? Do you miss yours?"

He smiles up at me then. "Not so much. I'm glad to be here."

I bark out a laugh. "What, in the Capitol?"

"With you."

My bitter smile melts off my face, and I lower my gaze, blushing despite myself. I'm still so new to this, the compliments and outright affection, that I can't help reacting with discomfort. But I know what he means is true – or at least I suspect it is – so I force myself to look past my initial response. "Well, I guess we do have a good time here."

He scoffs. "A good time? That's insulting." But the smile on his face is genuine. He's happy I haven't ignored or snapped back at him. For once.

Cato finishes with the mixing bowl and passes it off to me. I dump everything in a pan and shove it into the weird oven, hoping my lack of expertise won't somehow cause the kitchen to explode. I'd rather not have to explain that to President Snow. Setting the timer, I narrow my eyes at it and recall all the times Prim and my mother baked bread and other simple delicacies. I wish I'd paid better attention.

Cato's hands slide over my hips, and when I don't flinch or pull away he turns me to face him. The nights we've spent together in bed, tentatively touching and caressing and exploring, have familiarized me with his body. Now I place my hands on his shoulders with confidence.

"Cato Elliot," I say seriously.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says back, mock-serious.

I stare into his brilliant blue eyes, so focused and alive on mine that a thrill travels through me. "I'm a few weeks too late, but –"

Standing on the tips of my toes, I lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth. I linger there for an extra moment or two before pulling away.

"Happy birthday," I whisper, and wrap my arms around him.

Without hesitating, his arms enfold me too, and we stay like that for a long, long time. Until the timer goes off and I have to frantically yank the burned fruitcakes out of the oven before they catch fire.

Even amidst my panic and the screeching fire alarm, I register the warm hand on the small of my back and the reassuring kiss on the top of my head.

The days drip by like we're stuck in molasses, and I'm forced to wonder more than once if time works differently in the Capitol. It seems like it. I have so much time on my hands, it nearly drives me mad.

Cato accompanies me on my walks when he's not working out in the home gym or swimming in the outdoor pool (or maintaining the front yard, or testing out new hovercrafts, or fixing things that will hopelessly break again after another use), but our interests don't exactly coincide.

I enjoy peace and quiet, even isolation. Surprisingly, Cato loves to be in constant company. Whether that's with me or poor Feldspar, it doesn't much seem to matter. He'll talk to both of us – for hours, if we let him. But I know that the two of us aren't nearly enough, and I have to wonder if he was really so popular back in District 2. He must have been, if he's this needy for attention. It's not that he's clingy or whiny though. Trust me, it's not like that. But he's filled with this restless energy I can feel from clear across the room, and I know that he doesn't say nearly as much as he wants to for fear of disrupting the quiet and consequently getting on my nerves.

We spend so much time together – in the morning when we wake up in bed, our limbs entangled. At the breakfast table, during lunch, and of course during dinner, too. Late into the evening, when we usually sit out on the terrace and stargaze (among other things.) And, yes, at night. I don't doubt we spend at least half of our days together. Suspiciously enough, I don't mind. Cato acknowledges my need for solitude, and he respects it. We're slowly learning what's okay to say and what we need to steer clear of in our conversations.

I know Cato's nineteen, that he's six foot two, and that his birthday is the last day of September. I know that we have the same favorite color – green. I know that he craves meat all the time and abhors anything to do with seafood or exotic flavors. He loves snow, even though summer is his favorite season. He has a mother who's too into Capitol gossip, a father who's always been too hard on him and his two older brothers, Harrison and Grandis, and at least three egotistical best friends who treated him with jealous taunts because he was the youngest yet most desirable candidate.

"They barely deserve the title," he admits to me one afternoon. "We were friends, but I couldn't tell them anything important, you know? They were superficial. Easily discarded."

I told him that I've never been very good at making friends – wisely deciding to omit, of course, any mention of Gale Hawthorne – while secretly wondering if one day I might become so easily discarded too.

Cato hints vaguely at the number of girls he casually dated back in his home district, but it is precisely because of this vagueness that I suspect the number is high. Not that I mind overmuch. That's all in the past. He didn't even know I existed then.

(I'm jealous. Of course I'm jealous. How could I not be, when I know the feel of his arms and the taste of his lips and the secret smile he bestows on me and me alone? How could I not despise any girl he might have shared these special qualities with?)

Cato probably knows similar information about me too, but certainly not as much as I do about him. I've never been particularly comfortable with sharing my feelings or thoughts. Cato's very patient, which is shocking, really, but he's also very bold, which makes me feel cautious about exposing myself to him. I don't want to be rejected, and even though I know it's silly, I can't do anything to change how I feel. Not yet.

Like I said – this is all so new.

At night Cato's hands glide over my skin, skillful fingers dancing to a soundless rhythm only he can hear. Some mornings I wake with the heat of his lips still buzzing on my neck, while other days I look in the bathroom mirror and count the bruises on my hips, my wrists, and my upper legs – evidence of his desperation. He wants me, and I want him, but we must be careful. Too much too soon and this fantasy might shatter. So we have to settle for the simple intimacy of touching.

But believe me…we can be very creative.

Two weeks, five days, nine hours. That's how long it's been since the night of our Hot Tub Revelations. That's how long it takes me to speak of a day I promised myself to never, ever acknowledge again.

We're in the enormous backyard. Far beyond the pool. In among the scrupulously maintained gardens. It's nearing sunset; the sky shifts from shades of blue to bursts of yellow, orange, and purple.

Something that smells mouth-watering is cooking in the kitchen, and I occasionally see Feldspar's ember-colored head pass by the giant windows along the back of the house. I'm sitting cross-legged on an enormous picnic blanket, wearing shorts and a thin tank top. The brutal sun beats down on me, making my skin slick with sweat. Cato's on his back, ankles crossed, an arm flung casually over his eyes as he dries off from his most recent stint in the pool.

We haven't said much since we settled down, but Cato asked me here for a reason, and I sense whatever it is has been bugging him. He'll get to it when he's good and ready. If there's one thing I've learned while living in close quarters with Cato, it's that he can't be rushed. Also, that he's stubborn as hell. Reminds me of…well, me.

Five minutes later, I lean forward and tap his bare leg. "You awake?"

His chest heaves with a big sigh. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"Anything you wanna share?" Hey, I can't help it. Patience isn't my forte.

Cato moves his arm to the side so he can squint up at me. "If I ask you something, will you get mad?"

Immediately, my back tenses. "Depends what it is."

"It's not gonna make you happy, I can tell you that," he mutters, and slowly sits up, draping his arms over his knees.

"Is it a favor? Because I can swing with that." Aiming for distraction, knowing I don't want to hear whatever Cato's so nervous about asking, I scoot beside him and kiss his shoulder. His skin is warm, sun-kissed.

"Not a favor," he says, gently touching the corner of my mouth. "It's not something you'll like, remember? Pretty sure that omits all sexual services."

"Darn." I sigh, mock-disappointed, but my grin kind of ruins it. I kiss his shoulder again, noting the slight tick of his jaw when I do, before lying down on my back. C'mon, Cato, I plead silently. Whatever it is, just drop it. I'm in a good mood.

"Lie down with me," I demand after one…two…three minutes pass. Dread curls in the pit of my stomach, making me nauseous. If he's this hesitant to ask me, it must be bad. Like, I-really-do-not-want-to-deal-with-this bad.

Cato complies, lying close enough so that our arms and legs touch. I stare up at the mid-afternoon sky, free of clouds and Capitol hovercraft. For a moment, I can almost believe that we're alone out here. For a moment, it seems like I'm back in the forest outside of District 12, where the only sounds are little insects and the constant chirping of native birds. In a few minutes Gale will appear with an excited shout, triumphantly holding a nice, juicy rabbit in one hand.

But then I remember there's no way Cato would be there, and the vision dissipates like early morning mist.

"It's about the Games," he says finally.

"Okay," I say slowly, my heart beating just a little faster. "What, um, specifically?"

He takes a long breath before his hand covers mine. "Did you love Peeta?"

My whole body stills, and my next breath clogs in my throat.

He senses my shock and squeezes my hand firmly. "I know you played the star-crossed lovers act for Snow, but even at the end I couldn't tell. Did you love him?"

Time unfreezes long enough for me to say, "Why are you asking me this?" It comes out a gasp, and my chest tightens as if I've let something poisonous into my body.

Cato rolls on his side and cups my cheek lightly. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I told you this wasn't something you wanted to discuss, but I…" He looks forlorn, but in a flash the emotion is gone, replaced with concern. "I have to know," he finishes.

Anger flares through me, boiling like lava. I push against his chest, annoyed when he doesn't so much as budge. "Get off."

"I've angered you," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth sagging. But I'm too far gone to register this fully – or to summon any sympathy.

"No shit." I move away from him, my body coiling like a tiger's about to spring out of danger. Or like a serpent's, preparing to dart into the nearest crevice. I can't help it. Confrontations scare me, and invasive questions disgust me. There's no reason he should be asking me this. No reason that would be good enough, anyway.

"Katniss," he starts, then adds sharply, "If you run, I'll follow, and you know I will catch you."

"What's wrong with you?" I hiss, still poised to run. My muscles quiver, but the rational part of my mind knows there's no escaping this. We live together now. I can't avoid answering just because I'm too nervous, too furious. Too scared.

"I already told you –" he says tiredly, but I interrupt him as another thought strikes me.

"Are you jealous?" I blink at him, then narrow my eyes. It's entirely plausible. Cato's not above jealousy, especially not when his protective and, okay, possessive instincts make up about seventy percent of his personality.

Cato's jaw tightens, and his own eyes narrow in response. "You think that little of me? That I would be jealous of a dead man?" His voice is quiet.

My face pales. Maybe I've underestimated his capacity for empathy. Maybe he's not jealous. But then why…?

"Well, no. Not when you put it like that." I shake my head, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. Always, my initial instinct is to react with anger. It's the only surefire way I know of hiding my fear.

"I'm sorry." The apology sticks in my throat, but I push it out anyway. I'm in the wrong here, and it won't do me any good to drag this fight out. "It's just that – You…" Suppressing a sigh, I squeeze my eyes shut. "I was taken aback, that's all," I finish lamely.

When I dare to make eye contact with Cato again, his eyes have gone soft, and his hand is reaching for mine. Our fingers intertwine, and the furious voices in my head go silent.

"I understand. You know I hate to upset you."

I smile wryly. Only because I turn into such a bitch queen. But I acknowledge his words with a quick tightening of my fingers. Our palms meld together, our skin fused.

"So, Peeta," I say, forcing his name out, while Cato's thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of my hand. My exhale is a little unsteady. "We weren't in love. Or I wasn't in love with him. I can't speak for Peeta, obviously, and neither…can he." The realization hits me – I will never know if Peeta Mellark truly loved me or not. He might've been playing pretend, like me. But I begin to doubt that theory. I don't think he had it in him to pretend. With Peeta, emotion was always genuine.

I blink, only then realizing that we've been sitting in silence. My eyes fly to Cato's face.

"Is that… I mean, did I answer your question?" I'm nervous. Also still not convinced that he's not jealous. Such a response is just so Cato.

He nods, his gaze distant. "Yes, I think you did."

We sit in silence for another excruciating minute, a light breeze tossing sweet relief against my burning skin. Finally, I can't take it anymore.

"Tell me what you're thinking." I bring our joined hands up to my mouth and press a kiss to his knuckles, hesitant, searching. What's going through his mind?

"I've been trying to puzzle something out," he says slowly, eyes returning to my face, though they still seem distant. "It's bothered me for a while now."

"What is it?" I prod, desperate to know his thoughts.

"Clove," he says simply. "For the longest time I wasn't sure, but now I understand. How you feel about Peeta… That's what I feel for Clove." He nods once and disentangles his hand from mine. My fingers clutch at empty air.

A single, irrational thought grips me: He loved her.