I do not own The Hunger Games.

Trigger Warning: Minor character death.

GNO 43: Desperate Times

"I can't believe I turned him down. What was I fucking thinking?" I bash my head on the table for emphasis. I'm sitting in my booth at Peeta's—lucky number seven—which is done up with feathers and pinecones and branches and shit so it looks like a tree. A fucking tree. What is it with me and trees? Even the upholstery is this textured, brown pleather that looks like tree bark. All I want, given the lousy mood I'm in, is to take an ax to it and chop the whole thing down before I drown my sorrows in more of Peeta's apple boysenberry crumb cake. I'm sure there's leftovers stashed somewhere because Peeta's figured out by now how much he hates running out of stuff.

It's Parent's Weekend. Or, it would be, if Peeta hadn't been chased out of school. And since I'm still not really talking to my parents, and Madge's Dad couldn't make it out this year, I'm steering clear of the knot of geriatrics who are fangirling over Cinna's latest art installments and Brue's piano-playing.

Ugh. I can hear Effie and Angus from all the way across the room. I'm not sure what's worse: her tittering in a range that small dogs can hear or his booming laugh that would shake the rafters if Peeta's weren't made of steel girders.

Madge slides into my booth and rubs my back for a second. "You were probably thinking that you didn't want to play Russian roulette with your 'O', that's what."

I shrug off her hand before I glare at her. "Unless you brought more of Peeta's apple boysenberry crumb cake with you, you can just take those adorable little ankle boots and walk on by."

Madge holds out an ankle carefully, like she's considering the idea. Or the boots. "They are cute, aren't they? Too bad these boots aren't made for walkin'."

I roll my eyes at both her reference and her rhetorical question: she knows the boots are cute. Just like she knows the leggings she's wearing with little snowflakes and stripes all over them pair well with the chunky sweater and flannel shirt she's got on under it. The whole outfit makes her look as wholesome and adorable as a marshmallow snowman in a cup of hot cocoa. I just raise an eyebrow in her direction.

She levels me with that cool blue stare that must she must have perfected on dozens of nubile, service-oriented young men who did her bidding before Gale. "Why don't you just go talk to him? You know you want to."

"I do not want to." I drop my face back to the table. It still smells faintly of the savory-spiced lamb stew over Mediterranean couscous Peeta served tonight. I idly wonder if there's any crumbs from the cake left, and if it's worth a lick or two to check.

"Why is Jo sulking?" Katniss slides in next to Madge.

"I'm right here. And I'm not sulking."

Madge ignores me. "She turned a guy down for a hookup because she secretly wants to bone Brue. She won't admit it, and she's too chicken to go over there and talk to him. That about sum it up?"

I kick her under the table, but my foot hit's Katniss instead. I'm not even sorry, because she probably can't feel a thing in the weathered boots she's had since freshman year.

"Ouch! That hurt! You want me to get his attention?"

I peek up at Katniss, who's pulled out a slingshot and has it aimed at Brue. I know what a crack shot she is, so I grab at it before she can do something stupid that requires a call to 9-1-1. "Jesus, Brainless! No! I do not want you to shoot him." I mumble something about my luck being so bad that she'd probably put an eye out.

"Why are we huddled over here?" Of course, Annie joins us next. I swear, it's like these three are the Witches of Eastwick.

Madge ticks off on her fingers what's going down, including the fact that Katniss almost took off Brue's head with a dried garbanzo bean. Annie makes some sympathetic noises, but I barely pay attention. Because, with these three at my table, it's not long before we're joined by—

"Why's everyone here instead of mingling with the high-rollers in the other room? I hear Peeta's trying to butter them up for more capital."

Fucking Gale. Of course he couldn't be far from Madge. The leash and collar might be invisible, but it's still there all the same. I kick Madge under the table in case she's tempted to repeat her litany of charges against me. Not only does she ignore me, but she kicks me back as she recites them. Gale laughs when she gets to the part about Katniss and the slingshot.

Bloodthirsty bastard.

We reach critical mass as a party: Finn and Peeta join us while Gale gets over the chuckles. I glare at each of them in turn. "Did someone bring me more dessert? Because, if not, there's no room at this table."

"Sure there is." Finn slides in next to Annie. To prove his point, he scoops her up and settles her on his lap.

I roll my eyes. "You guys are disgusting. Look at all of you, so blissfully happy that my teeth fucking ache. Gale, you're so whipped I can see the marks from here. Why don't you just give it up already and succumb to married bliss like Finn? He and Annie are joined at the hip, like, all the time. And Peeta…let's just say that culinary and cunnilingus might as well have the same word root. But I'm the one who has to sit here and watch all of you put the cunt in contentment. Then, to add insult to injury, Madge wants me to go over and talk to Michael Buble."

"None of us even know who that is, Jo." Madge gets up to join Gale. She's probably right, but I don't even have a chance of getting a word in edgewise before she examines his back. "Not a mark in sight, by the way. I'd never be that crude."

Gale grins wolfishly. "It's not for lack of me wanting you to leave some, though. I'd love it if you staked your claim." He pauses for a second, as if gathering courage, which is ridiculous. The guy has more balls than a McDonald's PlayPlace ball pit. He'd have to, in order to let Madge put them in a vice the way she does. "What do you say to Jo's other idea, though? Would you be up for making it official, Princess? After graduation, of course."

Madge looks thunderstruck. "Gale Hawthorne, are you asking me to marry you?"

He shrugs and looks away. "More like asking if you're open to me asking."

I make a gagging noise as Madge grabs him by the shirt and kisses him. Hard. Seriously? Someone give the guy some testosterone! I'm in the minority, though, because Finn takes hold of Annie's hand and kisses her knuckles. "Speaking of weddings…Annie and I were thinking of getting married."

My head pops up. "Excuse me, Brainless. You're already married. Or did you forget?"

Annie doesn't look away from Finn's tender smile. "He means remarried. We want to renew our vows. We're thinking of a beach wedding, at sunset. Maybe this spring."

Immediately, Madge gushes about how awesome and romantic that is. I can't help but glance at the geriatric fan club, though. Finn's dad is over there, smiling and yucking it up with Angus and Haymitch. I have to wonder if this was his idea, another way to get some publicity in a way that will be good for his career.

"Annie, that's an amazing idea," Peeta chimes in. They're talking cakes and meal options and flowers before you can say "paparazzi magnet". Even Katniss joins in, giving opinions on menus that Peeta's used in the past. It's a good thing she's got them memorized. I can't help but think that, for everyone at the table, this is how it's meant to be. They all would have ended up together, anyway. Next thing you know, we'll be talking mortgages and tax savings, then investments and vacations, then how to get more fiber in our diets. I look around the table and append hair replacement therapy to the list of gross things I don't want to think about. Gale won't need it, but the jury's still out on Peeta and Finn. Scratch that. Peeta would go scalp-commando, throw on a dark turtleneck and rock that look like Steve from the Jerry Springer show. It'll be Finn who does plugs and that horrible, spray on hair.

I'm not ready for any of that. Not yet.

So I do the only thing I can think of it do to combat the vibe: I stand on the table and belt out a verse of Fun's "We Are Young". Brue doesn't seem to notice, nor does the crew that's hovered over there already talking about investments and fiber. Finally, one by one, my friends stop talking and I can hop down. "Are you all done talking about old-people shit? Because I'd like to know how we jumped from talking about how I can't get laid, to ensuring that none of you ever get laid again." Madge opens her mouth to rebut, but I hold up my hand to stop her. "Spare me the description of your pussy pyrotechnics: studies show that married Americans have sex two times a week, on average. Is that what you want?"

Gale gives Madge's mouth a lingering, practically pornographic look before shifting his gaze to me. "Well, that will still be two to three times a week more than you're getting it."

"Gale, you are totally an ass—"

"Peeta!" Two happy voices calling out interrupt the beginning of my forceful tirade. There's a bunch of high-pitched giggling, then a bouncy blonde girl—all curves and no brakes—hurtles herself at Peeta. To his credit, he doesn't fall over when, two seconds later, a guy who looks a lot like him follows her example and comes in to complete the group hug. "Delly? Rye?" He sounds stunned.

I'm surprised poor Peeta can identify his assailants, let alone breathe under all that wriggling flesh. And there is a lot of wriggling flesh. Delly is sporting a cropped, v-neck t-shirt that is so tight she probably doesn't even need the Wonderbra she's wearing to keep her girls strapped down. And her short, pleated skirt and thigh high white socks certainly draw the attention of the male half of the room. She looks like a lush Catholic school girl with those flaxen curls, guileless blue eyes, creamy skin, and curves, curves, curves. And Rye doesn't seem to care that she's wrapped around Peeta. Unlike Katniss, whose spine is so straight she could shoot it with her bow and kill something.

And that's when it hits me. Katniss still isn't over Delly and The-Great-Blowjob-Misunderstanding. And Rye… Rye is Peeta's older brother. If I recall correctly from my summer in Fairfield, he's Peeta's friendly older brother.

Now that they're both a little older, resemblance is uncanny, at least at first. It's not until I really get a close look that I realize that Rye is like Peeta's porny doppleganger: hot in his own way, but a little bit looser than Peeta in the cut of his jaw, the muscles of his chest, even his ass. Don't get me wrong, I'd tap Rye in a hot second. But it's mostly because he wears sexy like he was born to it, rather than Peeta, who forged his sexy through the fires of hard work, misery, and the self-confidence that comes out the other side.

Peeta introduces all of us to the couple. Most of us have met them, but Annie and Finn haven't had the pleasure. Delly hugs each of us in turn, which amuses everyone but Katniss, who tries to stay as far away from her plump breasts as possible. I'm too busy laughing out loud at her to notice that Delly and Rye take up spots on either side of me.

"What are you guys doing here?" Peeta looks happily from one to the other.

Rye shrugs. "Dad thought it was time for someone to check out what was really going on out here. We've been hearing all sorts of shit." His eyes shift to Haymitch standing by Brue's keyboard and talking with Angus before he looks back at Peeta. "He says you can come home anytime, by the way."

Peeta's already shaking his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm good here." I'm not sure if he even realizes it, but he pulls Katniss closer to him on the bench seat and drops a kiss on her temple before sliding out of the booth entirely. "Let me get you guys something eat. If you just got to L.A., you must be hungry."

"S'alright, little brother. We've been in town a couple of days already. Had to check out the nightlife, right? I'd love a beer, though. Del?"

"Yeah," Delly practically bounces off the bench seat. "A beer would be great. Or something stronger, if you have it." She giggles a little-girl, breathy giggle that has Rye grinning like a proud porn-star papa and Katniss scowling.

While Peeta rushes off to get drinks for them—and hopefully remembers to bring me some cake—Rye slides an arm along the back of the booth. "So, where's your date?" He leans toward me, not knowing what a sore spot my single status is.

"Oh, she doesn't have one," Gale's happy to answer for me. "She's free as a bird, our Jo."

Speaking of birds, I flip him one with a sarcastic smile. "Fuck you, Gale."

"You wish." He smiles back.

Fuck-nugget.

Delly drops a hand to my thigh and squeezes. "It's alright. Being single is great, right Rye? All that freedom to do whatever you want." She squeezes again, then leaves her hand there, on my inner thigh. Rye nods and smiles at her in an indulgent way just as Peeta gets back with beers and snacks.

"I say they both have their advantages. Embrace your options." Rye winks. I'm just not sure if it's at Delly or at me.

Pushing his beer toward me, Rye asks if I'll keep an eye on Delly while he has a word or two with Peeta. So, when she shotguns hers and shimmies toward the music, I do the same. Rye joins us two or three songs later with more beers and the three of us toast and drink. By the third round, I don't even care that Brue's playing the music we're dancing to. I'm buzzed, I'm grinding with a hot guy and a hot girl who are both into me, and I'm loving the fact that there are hands everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Delly's as soft as she looks, and she smells like beer and bubblegum lip gloss. Rye, on the other hand, is hard in all the right places.

I don't even know what to think when Madge joins us on the dance floor. She, Delly, and I grind away like a pillow fight waiting to happen. Come to think of it, if Madge was wearing all black and higher boots, and Delly was in a Wonder Woman costume, this would totally be a fantasy of mine.

Looking around the room at the guys staring, I'm not the only one. That's especially true when Delly swings around so her back is to me, grabs my hands and glides them up to her breasts with an exaggerated shudder that has her blonde curls bouncing in my face. "I'm so cold!"

I'm not. I've got a fistful of Delly and Madge is riding my back close enough that I can feel her body heat. I'm pretty surprised Gale hasn't freaked out by now. Then again, I'm sure he's not immune to the "girl threesome" fantasy. For all I know, he's choking the chicken in the men's room as we speak. Given that rubbing one out doesn't violate Peeta's "No-Lowering-Your-Fly Zone", I'm bummed that the thought hasn't occurred to me before. I generally like a little more ambiance and romance for self-love, though, but it's nice to know that it's an option.

Madge's leans close enough that her breath stirs the sensitive skin of my neck. "Are you too drunk to think clearly right now? Because I'm not sure you've ever been interested in batting for the other team, and I want to make sure you know what you're doing and stay safe."

"Maybe a little switch-hitting is what I need to get back in the game," I say belligerently, pissed that she's considering getting in the way of my "double-the-fun" possibilities. I decide I need to use the restroom after all, so I throw off her hands weave away. I'm stopped, of course, by Madge's other half. But not her better one.

Gale goes to grab my hand as I saunter by, but I dodge him. "Hey, can I talk to you?"

"Heading to the restroom." I point to the door like he's an idiot. Hey, if the shoe fits…

He scowls. "I'll wait."

"Suit yourself." I shrug. Once I hit the stalls, though, I can't settle into any fantasy that will get the job done. I curse Gale for being able to cock block even when I'm alone. He and Madge are like a mental chastity belt. As a result, I'm even more pissed coming out than I was on the way in.

"What the fuck do you want?" I demand the minute he waylays me coming out the restroom door.

"I want to know what you think you're doing."

"Nothing, yet. But if you'd let me get back to it, I might actually get laid tonight."

Gale shakes his head. "Come on, Jo. This isn't you."

"Why, because it's a threesome? Because he's a Mellark? You get that my vag is more of a timeshare than a cohabitation arrangement? There's no Property of Peen Reflexivity." At his blank look, I expound, "TDMA versus CDMA? I swear, it's like I'm surrounded by technical idiots." I sigh and try again. "Just because you and I fucked and I'm going to fuck him, doesn't mean your dick is tainted by Mellark jizz in any way."

"That's not it, and you know it. I don't care if you bang a giraffe at the L.A. Zoo. I'm telling you right now, though, he's not your type."

My eyes flit over to where Rye and Delly are grinding on the dance floor and I shrug. "He's got a dick, ergo, he's my type. And if Delly joins in, I might have to expand my acceptable parameters."

He rolls his eyes. "He's not your type, trust me. He's a pretty boy who's had everything handed to him. Take a look: you can see it in his face. Jesus, he didn't even hit on you himself: he had his fiancée reel you in. Does that sound like a guy who's worth you? You're better than that."

"So this is about you and your problem with Peeta being from a rich family."

Gale runs his hands through his hair, which falls right back into place as if it doesn't dare disobey him. "No. Look. I know that when I first got to know Peeta, I might have thought that. But Peeta's a good guy. He works hard, he's good to his friends. He has integrity. And he would never act like his brother. Just watch him for a little while before you make up your mind. Don't think with your little head." He taps me on the forehead for good measure before he holds up his hands in surrender. "That's all I wanted to say."

I watch him walk back to Madge, who's talking to Angus and Elizabeth instead of hanging out on the dance floor with Delly McHandsy and Middle Mellark. Peeta joins them for a minute. Angus claps him on the back heartily and laughs about something before Peeta breaks off to bring another beer to his brother, who doesn't even say thank you before taking drink. Sure, Delly does it for him, but I see what Gale meant: Rye assumes everything will fall in place. Peeta doesn't. Peeta's not a waiter, but Rye just treated him like the hired help. Even the way he dances has Delly doing most of the work. Suddenly, I can picture it: Delly and I servicing him while he just lays back and has a good time.

Do I really want to get with that, even if it's a two-for-one deal?

I'm most of the way to a "hell-no-thank you" when he and Delly break off from the dance floor crowd and approach me. Rye has hope written across his face. "Hey. So, Del and I were going to head back to our hotel."

"We were wondering if you wanted to join us?" I'm no longer sure if it's her exuberance that has her cutting in or if she even has to do the actual propositioning for him.

Without warning, Brue strides over to join our little group. "She's staying here."

I think my eyebrows just flew into orbit. "I'm sorry? I think I just heard you try to speak for me." I can't even process that he's standing across from me, looking like he wants to deck someone. Suddenly, I hear The Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" blare over the speakers. I turn to check out who's in charge of the tunes and gape. "And you left Haymitch as a guest DJ? Are you crazy? If he spins 'Turn the Page', I'm leaving."

"I had to make sure you're okay. Plus, I hid all the Bob Seger and Joe Cocker."

At least he hasn't lost the little sense he has left. Haymitch, plus alcohol, means sixties hard rock flashback. "I'm fine." I reiterate. I don't get why the whole world is suddenly interested in my welfare.

"Good. Then you're staying? I'll make sure you get home." He nods like it's all decided.

Rye doesn't take too kindly to Brue horning in on his fun. "Who are you, Nick Jonas?"

I snort loudly, because that would be pretty funny if I had said it. Or if Brue were even remotely jealous, instead of this being some sort of misplaced protective instinct.

Finn joins our group, all the other guys trailing behind. "No. Brue's a good friend. And we all care about Jo, here. We just want to make sure she's taken care of."

"Yeah," Gale adds, crossing his arms in front of him. And now I feel like a really big dog bone being fought over at the dog park, or like everyone might erupt into spontaneous jazz hands while singing something from West Side Story.

I interject on my own behalf, "Guys, I didn't open this up for internet voting. I'm the one who gets to decide if Rye and Delly get a rose at the end of the night."

Rye smirks. "If she wants to come with us, she should. The invitation's still open."

"We'll make sure she's taken care of and has a good time," Delly adds helpfully.

Finn raises an eyebrow, but Brue's the one who steps toward Rye and says, "That's not your job. It's ours."

I don't recall ever seeing his so puffed up. I'd be honored, if this wasn't such utter bullshit. But it is Peeta's place and I don't want a fight to break out, especially with a lot of Peeta's money guys in the room. Playing with the stereo is only going to hold Haymitch's interest for so long. So I hold up my hands and insinuate myself between Brue and Rye. "Whoa! Whoa! Hammer, don't hurt 'em! Rye, Delly, thanks for the offer. Maybe another time?" To Brue, I turn and grind out, "I'd like a word with you. Alone."

I hear Rye and Delly say goodbye to everyone else as I stride to the stairs and the second-floor storage room.

By the time we're inside, I'm seething. "How dare you cock block my night? You haven't spoken to me in months and then you just step in like you own me?"

"I'm not the one who stopped talking. In case you've forgotten, you're the one who decided that we were done talking." He's breathing hard, and his cheeks sport two round blotches of color. He's pissed. Really pissed. Gone is the quiet, polite guy I dated.

Good.

"So you have something to say to me? Go ahead. Obviously, you've been holding this is for a while. And since we're not doing this ever again, you may as well get it off your chest." I make a grand, sweeping gesture to the floor, like I'm allowing him to have his say.

He's quiet for a minute. I let him gather his thoughts while I study how the overhead light sparks golden and bronze glints in his dark curls. His hands curl into fists and he licks his lips, then dives right in. "You had no right to just shut me out like that. We could have talked our way through it. If you had cared for me at all, you would have heard me out."

A sound between a gasp, a laugh and a howl threatens to escape me and I bite down hard enough to taste blood to stop it. "Hear you out? What was there to hear, Brue? You weren't telling me what was really going on. You never told me that you got in touch with Katniss, never admitted that maybe you were mishandling things. Don't you dare put this all on me. I did what I needed to do. I cut my losses."

"You prioritized your friendship with Katniss over us. Is that it? Or did you just go into hiding at the first sign of trouble?"

Did he just call me a coward? My vision goes red at the edges. "Of course I put Katniss ahead of you. 'Chicks before dicks', and all that. You were just a sport-fuck." The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. They're not true, not even a little. I want to hurt him, though. Slice at him with words the way his silence cut me to the bone this summer.

His eyes widen at the direct hit for a second before his gaze travels over me. He must see something in the taut set of my shoulders, or the way my feet are planted wide apart in a boxer's stance, or the fact that my breath comes in gasps and my racing pulse is visible at my throat. I'm spoiling for a fight, and he knows it. Which is why I'm stunned when he walks closer, backing me into the wall, snugging his body up against mine.

His voice is low in my ear, tantalizing. After so many months of being alone, it's my undoing. "No, Jo, it wasn't. Not ever." One hand cups my chin and raises my face to his until he can see my eyes.

I'm not sure which of us moves first. My hands fist in the crisp curls of his hair, his slide underneath my flannel shirt to glide along the camisole I wear underneath. His lips don't devour, they coax; they don't dominate, they devastate with gentle tenderness. Here, in a storeroom that smells like beer, cleaning supplies, and a little bit like cinnamon, I can finally admit to myself how very right it is to have him there next to me. His hands warm my skin, reacquainting themselves with every spot he knows I like, inches he knows by heart.

The searing pain of it wars with the warmth of his hands against my skin. I come effortlessly, shaking and shuddering, wedged in between a pallet of water bottles and stacks of paper towels.

Catching my breath, I tug his polo free from his jeans and skim my nails up his spine, uncaring if I hurt him. I nip at his bottom lip when he keeps the pace more leisurely than I would like. I don't want exploration and the fake promise of a warm reunion: I want lightning and thunder and fire that leave nothing but barren wasteland in their wake. Like me. But he doesn't give it to me.

Instead, he laughs, a rumble against my lips. "I want to take my time, Jo. I want you below me, above me, spread wide for me while I lose myself inside you for hours on end. Is that your definition of sport-fuck? Because it's not mine. Even that first time, in the frat house bathroom, it meant something to me."

My heart twists and gives me extra strength. Either that or he isn't expecting me to swing him around as hard as I do – hard enough that his back scrapes the wall, hard. He sucks in a breath of surprise and hurt.

Good. We're on the same page, now. I hold his gaze while I shove his shirt up his chest, beyond caring if I'm too rough. When I feel the odd stubble where his chest hair should be, I kiss him one last time on the lips and then drop to my knees to nip a path down his chest.

"Jo? Jo, what are you—" He trails off when I pop the button on his jeans before easing his boxer briefs downward and taking him in my mouth. I'm not gentle, but he doesn't seem to mind: he grabs at my hand on his chest and weaves his our fingers together. I can feel the rapid tattoo of his heart under my palm. I want to memorize the feel of him, his taste, and the slightly chemical smell he gets from his time in the pool. Most of all, I want to remember how it feels to be connected to him. So I tug his hand to the back of my neck while I take as much of him into my mouth as I can.

"God, Jo. Your mouth…I could spend forever learning all about your warm, soft mouth." He groans. He lifts the hair off the nape of my neck, then brushes it down flat again carefully, as if he isn't sure what to do with his hands. "I love watch watching you do this. Do you have any idea what you look like when you're with me? You trust me not to hurt you. And you give so much. I can't believe you're like this with anyone else."

It's taken me four years to get used to the things Brue says when we are skin to skin. I want to cry at the intensity of his rough voice egging me on. Instead, I grab his hips hard enough to leave a bruise, bringing him more fully into my mouth. I add suction, then ease back until I judge by the uncoordinated movement of his hips and the tug of his hands on the nape of my neck that I've found a rhythm he likes. I steal a look upward and wish I could remember this moment forever: Brue's watching me intently, hair mingling with the shadows against the gray wall. His muscles are taut and strain toward me, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his tan skin. His eyes meet mine for long moment. I wonder if he sees desire or desperation on my face. Whatever it is, his hand flexes and suddenly he's tugging me upward, spinning me until I'm the one pinned against cold concrete.

His kiss is gentle with just enough rough passion to make me glad he's holding me up. "I want you. Do you want this?" I know he's trying to disprove that we're a sport-fuck. That's why this isn't a quickie. He's underlining that we seduce each other, and that's not a sport-fuck activity.

But it is. It has to be.

I just stare at him and he growls while his hands pause at the button of my jeans. "Say yes, damn it. Say yes. Say you want me."

There is no use in lying, so I nod. He breathes against my lips, gently sucking on them while his fingers slide my zipper open and push my pants down my thighs. His hands are everywhere: between my legs where I'm hopelessly soaked, tugging at my camisole. He touches me with one hand while retrieving a condom from a pocket of the jeans tangled around my ankles—I should be surprised that he assumed I had one, but I'm not—before he lifts me clear out of my jeans and suddenly thrusts inside me. I ignore the bump of hard, unforgiving wall against my back as I scramble for more leverage and a better angle. His mouth finds my breast and tugs warmly on it while his arm loops under a leg, spreading me wider.

"You're so wet." He mumbles it against my breast, but I hear it all the same. "And soft. I'm always amazing at how soft your skin is. I could lick you all day."

He does just that while even more moisture pool between my legs. I shift my leg higher against his arm and grind against him on the down stroke, helping him find that spot inside me that has my back arching and fingers flexing into his shoulders.

"Yes, Jo," he echoes. "Do you feel that?" He punctuates his words with a deeper thrust. My hips slide against his like they were meant for this and only this.

He kisses me deeply and whispers against my lips. "I dream about you like this. Wrapped around me and warm. Wide open, just for me. "

I can't help it. I clamp down on him tightly as I come again and he groans, sliding his fingers through my wetness and heightening the sensation. The earth could stop turning right now and it wouldn't matter. Nothing will matter, after this. So I take in as much as I can of his skin with smell of chlorine lingering like an aftertaste, his crisp curls against my shoulder, and the taste of his tongue as we kiss. I take it all in and I give him everything I have in return.

-o—

Brue rubs his hands through his hair as he gets dressed, probably because I've been silent since my legs slipped from around his hips. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

I nod. I know he doesn't mean it as an insult—we both really go out of hand—but I'm afraid I'll do something dumb, like cry. I tug on my jeans and rearrange my shirt. It's a hopeless endeavor. One look at me, and everyone downstairs is going to know what we were doing up here for however-long we've been gone. I laugh for a second at the image that pops to mind of Peeta's disapproving. "Peeta's going to be pissed. He's told me in no uncertain terms 'No fucking'."

Brue frowns, blue eyes watchful. "That's not what this was."

"It's not? We didn't fuck? Because it sure felt like your dick was inside me a minute or two ago. Or is that a new handshake you're learning as state champions for the water polo team?" I spy my keys and reach down to grab them before heading for the door.

He stops me with a hand on the elbow. "We still need to talk."

My throat closes up until I can barely spit out, "Closure's overrated."

His hand drops like he just scalded it. "Closure? Is that what you want?"

"This was a good-bye fuck, right? The bang that happens when you want to get someone out of your system?"

"Not for me." His voice is soft, pleading. It slices right through me.

"We could fix this, Jo."

My throat closes for a second in utter panic. "I can't."

I leave him there. The last thing I see is his frown as the door closes and I walk away.

I make it back to my dorm room in one piece. I change and brush my teeth, then stare at my silent cell phone perversely waiting for a text that doesn't come.

I didn't mean I can't. What I should have said was I don't know how.

Maybe I'm a lot like Rye Mellark: so used to things coming easily that I take everything for granted. My friendships, my major, my job, even the sports I choose are things where I don't face obstacles. I think again of Rye versus Peeta. Do I really want to be that guy? The one who everyone loves to party with but knows he has no depth? The one whose significant other has to do the heavy lifting? Maybe Brue was right and I ran at the first sign of trouble instead of downshifting for the climb uphill.

I flop back on my bed, realizing that I have no idea how to change this. So I stare up at the ceiling and realize some else: the panic I felt tonight when I left Brue is the same one I feel in my dreams when I can't find him. Except this time, I had him and then I let him go.

-o—

Madge joins me in the white seats lined up on the beach, looking ebulliently happy as she tucks her lavender sheath under her. And why shouldn't she? She and Katniss spent the morning getting Annie ready to get remarried, and she's been accepted to a dental school back east, close to where Gale will be going to law school. She's got her life lined up for the next five years, at least. The world is her oyster. She brushes her golden hair behind her ear and lets out a pleased sigh.

"Everything with Annie turn out okay?" Delivering the cake safely to the wedding site had gotten me out of girl-duty. Peeta had wanted to be with Finnick while he got ready, and couldn't be in two places at once. I'm all about the problem solving, so the cake became my job. The truly remarkable thing about it, though, is that Peeta left me alone with his three-tiered work of edible art.

Frankly, it's the best alone time I've had since November.

"Oh, Jo," Madge gushes, "She looks so beautiful. Wait until you see her."

"She should. She's wearing a dress that cost the earth." At Madge's raised eyebrow, I add, "What? It is. It's hand-tatted. Not that I even know what that is, but I envision an entire cloister of old nuns, bent over candles, hand crafting lace while they all go blind."

"I'm pretty sure no nuns were harmed in the making of Annie's dress." She pauses a minute, then looks at me through her lashes. "We missed you today. Come to think of it, you've been pretty scarce since before Christmas."

"Yeah, well, I'm allergic to all of this happily ever after stuff." I drop my eyes to her left-hand ring finger, to the dainty promise ring Gale surprised her with before they headed back home for Christmas break. It's two ropes tied in a knot, which I think is fitting for the two of them, and less obtrusive than a ring that looks like a ball gag. It's at least as fitting as the small pearl hanging from a gold chain that Peeta gave to Katniss for Christmas saying something about the pearl symbolizing beauty being a product of injury and hardship. The fact that Katniss rarely takes it off speaks volumes—it might not be a ring, but it's as good as. "It's hard always being the fifth wheel."

She snorts. "It never bothered you before. If anything, you used us like fly paper to attract the cutest guys."

"Fly paper? Nice analogy." I nod to Gale, who kisses Madge as he joins us. "Did you guys get Zoolander ready?"

"I see you're going to be a peach to be around today. And here I was all set to tell you how much we've missed your smiling face lately. Looks like you're missing it as much as we are." He says wryly, taking in my dark expression. "What's with you? We haven't seen you in forever."

"I was busy looking for a job, Hawthorne. Some of us don't have our futures sewn up like an old married couple."

Gale takes hold of Madge's hand and kissed her knuckles. "I wouldn't say we're like an old married couple. And yes, Finn is ready to begin a lifetime of loving, honoring, and obeying Annie."

"I'm going to vomit, I swear. I can't take another minute of your blissful togetherness. Besides, I'm pretty sure Finn didn't agree to obey the first time around."

Gale's eyes drop to Madge's lips. "If he was smart he did."

I make a gagging noise. "Seriously. Vomit. All over my new dress. And Madge's perfect pedicure."

"Not my pedicure!" She laughs, turning her dainty feet away from me. "I had it done just for the occasion." I'm sure that's true, since even I got a pedicure when I found out that all the guests were going to be urged to leave their shoes inside the tent where dinner will be served after the ceremony. Finn insisted on an old-fashioned crab and lobster bake. Frankly, I'm starving. And the smell of clarified butter that wafts over to me now and then isn't helping.

Gale levels me with a serious look. "Are you ever going to talk to us about what's been going on?"

"Nothing to tell. I'm looking for a job, finishing up my degree, working hard. Same as you. Well, not entirely same as you. I don't spend my Friday and Saturday nights yelling, 'thank you, sir, may I have another!'" Gale's about to speak again when the chamber musicians begin to play Pachelbel's Canon. I shush him with a poke to the chest. "It's starting! At least they're on time. I fucking hate it when weddings start late."

Finn's hired security to keep the paparazzi level to a reasonable one. Still, they're everywhere. I can hear cameras clicking over the music as I search the crowd for familiar faces. Haymitch looks rich, bored, and uncomfortable in the April heat. He must want a drink. Effie sits next to him, wearing a dress that looks like it's blossoms of actual live flowers. I wonder what she'll do if there's a swarm of wasps. Finn's dad is already standing at the fishing net and flower-covered pergola. It's hard for me to tell if he's standing up for his son or just trying to grab the only shade on the beach besides the tents. Then it dawns on me that it's probably neither: with all the papps around, he probably wants them to have a chance at some decent shot of him. Still, the guy does look handsome. As does Annie's uncle, who stands in front of her grandmother. At least, I think it's her grandmother—it's hard to tell, what with the glare from the diamond and pearl necklace she's wearing.

Peeta joins Finn's dad at the pergola, the purple of his linen shirt bringing out the gold of his hair and the blue of his eyes. He's barefoot, like I expect Finn is as well, and it's fortuitous that he looks good tousled, because he's already windswept.

"Did someone remember to tell Peeta to bring sunscreen?" Madge asks.

I nod. "Yeah. Guy's gonna burn redder than the lobsters we're eating for dinner otherwise." I spy Angus and Elizabeth over in the back when I turn to look at the dunes Finn had specifically created for the wedding party to crest. Angus waves, face bright red from the heat. I wonder if he also remembered sunscreen before I wave back at where they are both smiling. For a second, I feel guilty at the unanswered letters and emails he's sent me since January, including one with a tip for a job that he says would be perfect. I push that guilt off to the side, though, when I notice Brue and some blonde seated near the older couple. It's not until she turns and I get a good look at her face that my stomach plummets. It's Clarissa. He brought fucking Gloss to Finn's wedding.

I turn quickly away so he can't see me staring daggers at his date. But I can't help thinking about it—about her, in her rose strapless dress that makes her look beautiful and exotic and willowy. Suddenly, the crocheted sundress Annie helped me pick out feels wrong. Like I'm under-dressed, which is totally ridiculous.

"I like this one." Annie runs her hands over the intricate knot work of the gold dress. "You'll match me."

"I'll look naked," I tell her, skimming the rack for something in my price range. Which means I should be shopping in another store.

"No. This color is in right now. It'll look like the sand—all shimmery—and it will reflect the light when you move. And it will bring out the gold highlights in your hair and deepen the brown of your eyes." My hand pauses, although it still doesn't change the fact that I can't afford it. The sheath she's holding is almost my half of the rent for the month. She gives me a sly look. "Let's go try it on."

"I don't get why we're even shopping. It's not like I'm in the wedding party or anything." I try to hide the bitterness from my voice, but I must do a sucky job. She's the bride, and we're not supposed to go to her with our petty bullshit before the wedding. Even when the petty bullshit is about her.

She drapes the dress carefully over her arm, sighs, and turns to face me. "Jo, I've already explained why Peeta and Katniss are standing up for us this time." She cuts me off before can get a word in edgewise, "And it's got nothing to do with them being really photogenic. Finn and I agreed that we would each pick one person. Peeta and I have gotten really close, so Finn agreed that Katniss was the logical choice."

I push my way past her into the dressing room. Like she said, they've explained this already. But that doesn't change the fact that it feels like I got fucked over by one of my closest friends so that everyone could stay paired up. Wordlessly, I step out of my shorts, yank my 'SC t-shirt over my head, and hold my hand over the top of the dressing room door so she can hand me the dress that they're charging for by the ounce.

Annie waits until she hears the zipper. "How does it look? Amazing, right?"

She not wrong. I don't have a lot of bust, but the cut and design of the crochet make it seem less severe than it looked on the hanger. I almost look like I have cleavage. The back is nice and low, and the hem is short enough that my legs look long and toned—great. They'll look even better tanned, so I make a mental note to get out on the quad while I'm studying for the next few weeks. "I look alright."

"Alright? Not fabulous? I'm coming in." Annie opens the door, takes one look at me, and claps her hands over her mouth. Her eyes get misty, which I fucking hate. "Oh, Jo. You look like a golden goddess. We'll do your hair up at the nape of your neck—"

"Whoa. You're the one getting married. I've only got a chorus part, so stop worrying about my hair." I touch the tiny beads worked into the crochet that are responsible for the light catching every time I move. "I can't afford this one anyway, and there's no way I'm letting you buy it for me."

"Please? My grandmother and uncle are covering the cost of most of the wedding. One more dress won't matter to them."

I stop unzipping myself to stare at her for a minute. "Why is this so important to you, Annie? It's just a dress. I get that your family is rich as Croesus, but it's the principle of the thing. I pay my own way." I leave out that it feels like a pay-off for being pushed to the side, because I'm pretty sure that won't solve anything, and it might get Annie crying. And no matter how heartless I feel, that's one line I just don't want to cross.

"Consider it a thank you." At my blank look, she adds, "For not getting in the way in the very beginning of things with me and Finn." I snort. Like I could have stopped that freight train? She's giving me way too much power. "Seriously, Jo, you could have ruined everything for me so many times. You could have hated me. I was afraid of that—of you—in the beginning. You're Finn's family. One word from you and it would have been enough to make Finn to back off. I wouldn't have Finn, or Sam, if it weren't for you. After, with Sam…you were there for me. And I know for a fact that you didn't want me to stay with Finn, but you were supportive anyway."

"You give me way too much credit."

"Not true. I think you're the one who's too hard on yourself. So? Will you let me splurge a little?"

I look down at the dress in my hands. It really did make me feel beautiful. And what's an itsy, bitsy gift between friends? Besides, Finn owes me for all the pizza my family fed him growing up. That, plus interest, has got to be worth the cost of this thing.

Annie knows the minute I'm beat and actually hops up and down. "Yes! Now, let's go look at shoes."

I snap back to Madge's nails digging into my arm. "There she is! Oh, Katniss looks great. Doesn't she look great?"

I roll my eyes. Did I know that Madge was a talker at weddings? She's probably a crier, too. I hope Gale brought tissues, because the tiny clutch bag I have barely holds a two condoms, my cell phone, and lip gloss. I even had to forego breath mints, which is a severe party foul.

Katniss does look exotic: the frothy, sea foam green of her dress makes her skin and dark hair glow. If that's not enough, she's smiling. I have to wonder if Madge slipped something into her breakfast, that's how serene she looks, even with all the eyes upon her as she walks as steadily as possible down the sand dune to the pergola. I spare a glance at Peeta, who gazes at her with rapt attention. The smile on his face carries such love and pride that I have to glance away.

No tissues. Remember?

A minute or two after Katniss gets to the pagoda, there's still no Finn or Annie. The crowd begins to get restless. Even the papps start to snap pics of our faces, in case someone is a no-show and they need a reaction shot. I glare at one who has the audacity to break through the security line when a sound drifts over the music. It's out of place enough that even Madge shakes her head like she can't place it.

It sounds like…laughter.

Sam crests the dune by himself, smiling proudly, dimples flashing. Sunlight glints off his hair and he looks so much like a tiny version of Finn that my heart clenches. Next to me, I'm pretty sure I hear Madge's ovaries explode like the climax of a Bruckheimer film. Even Gale chuckles as Sam's eyes grow wide when he catches sight of all of us. He stops for a second before deciding discretion is the better part of valor, and looks behind him.

Finn appears suddenly, bending slight to grab the hand of his son. They smile at one another, identical dimples, and wind-swept hair in matching linen shirts and khaki pants. Camera shutters whir practically on command before Annie comes into view, her hand clasped in Finn's. It's her laugh we hear, a sound of pure joy, as the three of them trip down the center aisle, barefoot, heedless of sand, shells, and rocks. I hear the first sniffles coming from next to me by the time they reach the pagoda.

Madge sniffs before gratefully accepting a hankie from Gale. "They're so happy."

I side-eye her. "Then why are you crying?"

"It's true love, Jo. Look at them."

She's got a point. Watching the little family unit, it's almost impossible to fathom how much they've been through. Annie is practically incandescent. She doesn't even let go of Finn's hand when she turns to pass off her bouquet to Katniss. Finn looks like he can't wait for the rest of his life to start, and he's not about to let go of her hand. Sam barely fidgets. Instead, he stands proudly with Finn's dad. Although the bride and groom smile so hard that their cheeks must hurt, I swear I hear Effie, and maybe Elizabeth, as well as Madge cry when the officiant asks, "Who gives this woman and this man to each other, that they may cleave together as one family?"

Finn's dad and Annie's uncle come forward, and suddenly, there's a whole lot of hotness gathered together. Both men take turns kissing Finn, then Annie, then Sam. Afterward, Sam walks over to his father and plants a sweet, wet kiss on his cheeks before turning to Annie and holding up his arms to be carried. Annie smiles. Totally nonplussed, she scoops him up, kisses him soundly, and takes hold of Finn's hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Finally, the three of them stand, eye to eye and hand in hand, smiling like idiots.

And, I swear, there's not a dry eye on the beach.

Well, except for me. I'm fine. Clear-eyed, even. Okay, I get a little overcome when Finn says, in the most serious voice I've ever heard him use, "I will not lead, I will not follow, I will forever walk beside you." And if Gale hands me a tissue and I take it, it's just because I have sand in my eye.

Finally, it's over. Finn and Annie kiss through their smiles, laughing the whole time. And then Finn swoops Sam into his arms with a "Whoop!" and they each kiss one of Sam's cheeks.

-o—

"Nice spread, Peeta." I motion with my beer to the picnic tables spread around the tent, covered in red gingham and fishing nets. Glass votive candles hang at various levels from the ceiling, which is open on all four sides to the beach and ocean. Seashells are strewn everywhere in lieu of flowers: tangled in nets around the tent-posts, on the tables, as garlands with more netting to segregate the musicians from the guests. As wedding feasts go, the meal was messy, but memorable. We've all spent the better part of the afternoon gorging ourselves on lobster, crab, boiled potatoes, Peeta's cheese-buns, and, for the not-faint-of-heart, corn on the cob. I'm as stuffed as I can be in a dress that's two sizes too small, and I know I'm not the only one. I only hope the papps got some great pictures of us wearing plastic bibs, covered in clarified butter.

"Don't thank me. Cinna did most of it." He motions to the cake. "Thanks for getting that here in one piece."

"I didn't do too badly, did I? Only a couple of touch-ups." We clink bottles. It's three layers, decorated to look like the ocean. The top layer has an actual wave cresting on it that's so realistic, Peeta must have used voodoo to construct it. As if that's not amazing enough, there's a fishing net made out of spun sugar that fits around all three layers. "Are you ever going to tell me how you got that spun sugar here without it shattering into a zillion pieces?"

"Trade secret." He smirks. "You did great, Jo. I couldn't have done better myself." Although he sounds sincere, he looks tense. I'm pretty sure Peeta isn't going to relax until the cake is actually cut. Which is funny, when you think of it: Peeta doesn't want the cake to get wrecked before it's supposed to get wrecked.

"Thanks. It's amazing, really, how authentic it looks."

Peeta smiles and it lights up his whole face. "You think it's amazing? This is the first one I've done all by myself. My dad used to bake the cakes and help with construction, so it really means a lot that you think it looks good."

I gape for a second, realizing that Peeta's nervousness has nothing to do with how big this wedding is, or that someone might kick sand onto something he worked on for a week. He'd be this nervous if it were just Finn and Annie, alone, with zero chance of something happening to the cake. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry—"

"Why do you think I was so happy for the company when I was crafting it?"

I swipe at the frosting in the bowl at Peeta's elbow, flinching when he smacks me across the knuckles with a wooden spoon. I quickly retract the hand and look for bruises. "Ouch! Brainless, that hurt!"

He doesn't stop mixing color into another bowl of frosting. "My mother's moves finally come in handy. You don't want to get hit? Then stop making moves on my buttercream."

"How can you even joke about that?" I sulk back to my side of the worktable and sit on the stool, clutching my hand. Peeta's mixing frosting for Annie and Finn's wedding cake. He's already messy-frosted the three-tiered monster, whatever that means. To me, it looks like spackle, or the first layer of spray stucco.

"Her, you mean? Or my whole fucked-up family thing?" He shrugs, then keeps mixing. "I guess it's laugh or cry. I don't want to forget it, because it got me here, but I can't think too closely about it. I thought it was the worst thing to ever happen to me at the time. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Every day is a new opportunity to succeed or fail."

"So it gets easier? And do you ever get pissed at Rye for not having to deal with any of the crap?" I give up on risking life and limb for frosting, reach into my backpack, and pull out a Twinkie. The wooden spoon bats it from my hand, like a wiffle ball. It travels across the room to stick against the wall like an obscene spitball. "Hey! That was my snack!"

"What have I told you about faux baked-goods and my kitchen? Go into the refrigerator and have an éclair." He resumes mixing while I shuffle to the refrigerator to do as I'm told, trying not to jump for joy. Peeta's éclairs are better than the best oral sex. Not that I would have recent knowledge of that act, but I'm sure it's true. "And, no. It doesn't get easier. I would be lying if I said that. But I do feel like I'm better able to handle it. Like I said, every day is a new day." He sighs heavily. I'm pretty sure he'd run his hands through his hair if they weren't full of glorious, buttercream-y goodness. "Yeah. I do get pissed at Rye. I just have to remember that I can only do what I can do, here and now. That's what I can control. And, sometimes, when I really need a break from it all, I paint. Or bake. Plus, I can look around and see everything we've accomplished and I don't feel so helpless."

"We? You mean you." I take a bite of pure heaven that's like pastry cream porn, covered in chocolate. I have to bite back a moan of appreciation.

"No. We all worked for this together. If I hadn't had you and Annie to help, there's no way this would have worked. I wouldn't have even started without you guys."

I lick my lips and start on a second éclair. After all, Peeta didn't tell me I could only have one. "Yeah, well, you had other help. Haymitch…Angus…Effie…don't you ever get tired of selling yourself for the sake of this place?"

He thinks for a minute, the thumping of his spoon against the side of bowl the only sound. "No. It's…different. Before, I had to sell myself all the time, just to feel like I was good enough. Now, I look around and know I'm good enough. It's about getting better. I set the limits and decide what I'm comfortable with." He grabs a spoon and samples the frosting while I watch enviously. He knows damn well I could eat that entire bowl. "Have you thought about where you're living after graduation? I've got space upstairs. You could move in here."

I snort. "No way am I contributing to the rep 451 has as a commune. Besides, all this gray concrete isn't my style. I was thinking Katniss and I might move downtown. That way we could still be close to you and Finn. We haven't really talked about it, though." He's quiet for just a second too long. Or maybe it's the weird, guilty look he wears, or the red splotches on his cheeks that clue me in. "Wait. You asked Katniss to move in with you, didn't you? What did she say?" I grab his arm.

He looks away, but I can tell the answer the minute his blue eyes meet mine. They're clear and filled with what I can only describe as joy. "She said yes." He reaches to an empty pastry bag fitted with a star tip and plops a dollop of frosting as big as my fist into it. With a deft move, he twists the bag closed and hands it to me with a flourish. "Now, I need an opinion: caramel buttercream. Yes? Or No?"

Pushing away the memory, and the fact that it means I'll be completely alone come June, I pull myself away from the cake table and down the rest of my beer. "Caramel buttercream was an inspired choice, Mellark. I'm going to head back to the bar for another. You want anything?" He shakes his head, so I weave between the tables, so lost in thought that I don't see the wall of man coming my way.

Angus grabs my arm and pulls me into a full bear hug. "Lass! Ye've been avoiding me these past few weeks, haven't ye?" I paste on a fake smile that he sees right through. He thumps me on the back, hard enough that I almost stumble. "Ye need to humor an old man when he calls. Or emails. Or writes letters."

"You're not old. And I've been busy, looking for a job."

He mock-glares. "Ye wouldn't have to if ye would call the number I gave ye."

"I'm not taking another job that you've lined up for me. I've told you that."

"Lass, Tyrell was an ass. I made a mistake puttin' ye there, but I think this place will be a much better fit."

"Thanks, Angus. But I can do this on my own."

"Ye are stubborn as an ox, ye know that?" He's clearly frustrated. "And while we're talking, what's going on with ye and my grandson? I hear ye're being pigheaded there, too."

My eyes fly to his. What has Brue told him? I stare at him for a minute, trying to collect my thoughts as the announcement is made that Finn and Annie will be cutting the cake next.

"Did ye know he's releasing an album of covers? He swears it was yer idea."

I give Angus a one-sided grin that doesn't reach my eyes. "What can I say? I'm a regular inspiration. Besides, if anyone can update The Eagles or Foreigner and market it to our parents, it's Brue."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "What's goin' on with ye? Ye're different. Darker."

I close my eyes tiredly for a second and wish everyone would stop asking me that question. "I'm fine."

He speaks slowly, "No, ye're not. The two of ye aren't seein' each other anymore, and I hear that's ye're choice. I can respect that. But you don't seem that happy about it."

Behind him, Annie and Finn clasp hands while they cut into Peeta's masterpiece. "Angus—"

"Do you love him, lass?" His voice is gentle.

Annie takes a small bite from Finn's hand, her smile open and trusting. The intricate, kissing mermaid design tatted across the back of her dress wavers for a minute before I find my center and smile tightly. "There's no one left I love," I say flippantly.

Without waiting for him to ask me any more questions, I walk away.

Staring at the ocean waves as they crash against the shore for what seems like forever, I empty my mind of all the baggage and just concentrate on the sun, the ocean, and the sound of the gulls. I've almost found some sort of peace that makes the ache in my chest bearable when I hear the last voice I would ever expect.

"Hey, Jo. I saw you leave. Thought you might want a drink." Cato holds one of two champagne flutes out to me cautiously. Like he's not sure if I'm going to sweep the leg and kick his ass, or just say thank you. At least I know it's not obvious that I'm all out of ass-kicking these days.

"Thanks." I take a sip. If Cato knew me at all, he would have brought me cake instead. "I didn't know you were invited."

"Yeah. It's a small world, remember? Angus knows my family, and the Odairs have some investments with my dad, too, so…"

"Small world is right. Everyone knows everyone." I polish off my drink and jerk my head toward the Pacific Coast Highway, where I'm parked. "You want to get out of here?"

He gapes. "Wh—Are you sure?"

I nod. It feels like a good decision. One I make on my own, not because someone thinks it's a good idea, or would look good on a transcript, or because he's got the right connections. I'm so tired of all that. "Why not? You and I are the only unattached ones left, and we've known each other a long time."

"But you don't even like me. How many parties have you and your friends run me out of?"

I tilt my head at him. "Well, I'm not throwing you out of this one. Besides, liking someone's not really a requirement for what I have in mind. Are you coming?" I turn and walk toward the dunes.

"What about your shoes?" He catches up to my shorter strides and takes in my tan legs and the oh-so-adorable flowers on my plum toenails.

I long for the beautiful gold sandals Annie bought to go with my dress for a split second before deciding that she or Madge will bring them home. At least, I hope they will. But it's not like I'm ever going to wear this outfit again, so I shrug. "Fuck 'em. Let's saddle up."

-o—

Graduation comes, along with moving day. I try to be gone before Katniss so that I don't do something stupid like cry all over her. Plus, I know I'll see her at 451. It will be weird for it to be both her place and Peeta's. But change is good, right? We're all moving on. Growing up. I remember someone telling me that the friends we make in college are the friends we keep for life. I'm sure that Katniss and I will stay in touch. I mean, how do you live with someone for four years and not think of them occasionally?

My family helps me cart my stuff to the place I rented. That's weird, too, especially because the boys are huge now: Charles is almost sixteen, a young man, while Christian and Caleb are both pre-teens. Charles shaves. I feel the stubble that's longer in the spots he missed when he hugs me. And, when I whisper to him, asking if he's using condoms and being responsible, he blushes and gives a jerky nod before he rolls his eyes. That one gesture shows me he's not a total stranger, and my gut clenches at its familiarity even after all this time apart. Anyway, they help me move into a shoebox-sized apartment off the 10 Freeway. It's a small studio, but it's close to the job that I've lined up.

I had called Angus's contact at Weyland-Yutani, finally caving when the panic attacks were getting in the way of studying for finals. I didn't tell Angus, of course. I barely waved at him and Elizabeth on graduation day, and used moving as an excuse to skip 451 for that whole weekend in a bid to avoid everyone, especially anyone with the last name MacLeod. Then the job started, and things took off pretty rapidly. Unlike Tyrell's, this place is a great fit. They value what they call creative dissonance, which means there's a "survival of the fittest" vibe that Tyrell would have squashed like a bug. I love the environment so much that I'd sleep there if I could: I'm surrounded by geeks who love to argue a lot. They're only marginally intimidated by the fact that I have breasts, but I do add that to my arsenal with a few key people in management who can't seem to wrap their head around the idea of a bloodthirsty engineer who can know her stuff and still be a woman.

I don't really get to see much of my friends as I adjust to the job and my new, solitary lifestyle. The quiet gets to me sometimes. Although there are no nightmares, I have trouble sleeping, so I go home with random guys occasionally just for something to do. Everyone needs a hobby, right? And, if none of them taste quite right when we kiss, at least there's no one there to tell me "I told you so." The only other downside is needing to keep a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my car. But hey, if there's an earthquake or a zombie apocalypse, I'm all set.

I take to staying really late at the office. The other engineers—mostly guys—don't question it because they do it, too. And I get the added bonus of winning almost every match for a month after I teach them the 451 version of beer pong. In homage to Peeta, I use First Round Draft as the beer of choice. I think both he and Katniss would be pleased if he knew.

Time flies. I'm promoted after the first ninety days, and chosen to give a customer-facing presentation. Feeling on top of the world, I text Katniss who immediately wants to know where I've been all summer and if I can take time out of my busy schedule for the goodbye GNO Annie's planning for Madge.

Goodbye.

I'd almost forgotten that Madge and Gale are taking off soon for school back east. There's an uncomfortable pressure in my chest when I think about the fact that they're moving away, probably for good. I mean, who comes back to L.A. if they can help it? Their families are east coast. It makes sense that they'll settle there. We'll be lucky to get Facebook status updates and a Christmas card, and maybe meet up every five or ten years when someone heads to the other coast on business. It's too depressing to even contemplate that the next time I see Madge could be her wedding. If I'm lucky enough to be invited.

I text Katniss back that I'm in for sure and to have Annie email me the details.

I nail the customer presentation a week later. I'm still coming down off the high as I unlock my door and shove it open with one hand, clutching my venti iced green tea in the other, when my cell phone buzzes. I drop my work bag on the counter, pull off the suit jacket I'd worn in an effort to impress the client, and grab the phone from my purse. There's ten missed texts and a voicemail. I hit the texts, expecting them to be from Annie.

I'm not wrong.

I flip through them until I get to one which asks me if I'm alright. Another tells me that she and Finn are both sorry. The last asks if I they can do anything for me.

What the fuck?

So I scroll back and hit them in succession. One mentions a article, which I take as a clue. My phone's browser opens slowly, so I kick off my shoes and take a sip of my drink, wondering what could be so important. I glance at my phone mid-sip and freeze. It's not just an article. It's an obituary on the home page.

It's Angus's obituary.


A/N: Special thanks to Baronesskika, and Doc for beta-ing, and to Court and Chele20035 for pre-reading.

Yes, I know. Angus's death was in the original outline. I feel so horrible about it that I actually have baked pretty much non-stop in December, and had lunch with the person on which he is loosely based twice. Oh, and I cried ugly, sobby tears.

Last chapter is in the words. My original plan was to release this and the last one at the same time, but I fear that it's too much word count to digest properly. The next chapter is as long as this one. At least.

Thank you, all of you, who have read this far.