In the days before I leave, Peeta does everything for me. He packs my bag, makes my favorite dinners, leaves notes in the kitchen for me to see when I get back from hunting. I appreciate it, but I don't understand why he's doing it until I ask one night before bed.
"You don't want to go and I'm the person who told you that you should," he says, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning over me. I've barely been able to sleep all week because I've been thinking about it so much. "Since you're dreading it, I'm trying to make up for the fact that I'm the person who encouraged you to go."
"If you think that you have to make up for it, then why are you so insistent that I go in the first place?"
"You haven't seen your mother in almost three years," says Peeta. "Plus you get to meet Annie's son. I think that it'll be good for you."
"I just don't understand why you went through the trouble of getting me permission to leave the district just to do something that you think might do me some good," I tell him.
He shrugs and lays back down. "I know you're not looking forward to it, but you'll enjoy it more than you want to."
"I will?" I say. "Hanging out with the mom who abandoned me and the wife of a guy who died on a mission I designed. Sounds like a ball."
"Your mom did not—"
I roll over. "Goodnight, Peeta."
He sighs. "Goodnight, Katniss."
The morning of my departure arrives after a night of no sleep. Peeta's in good spirits. Probably because he's not the one going.
"You seem like you're excited I'll be gone," I joke weakly on the way to the station. He's carrying my backpack on one shoulder as we walk with our interlocked hands swinging between us.
"I'm not excited you'll be gone," he says, "but I'm excited that you get to go."
"You should be coming with me," I complain.
"We've been over this."
"And your excuses are useless," I say.
"Sure they're useless," he says, "but I'm still not going."
We walk into the station, which has a wooden roof and is completely open to the outside on all four sides. Only two tracks come into the station. Someone's smoking on a bench near us. An electric sign on the wall that looks like it's about to fall shows the arrival and departure times of the trains. Peeta goes over to it to check.
"The direct train to Four is on time and departing at 10:15," he says when he returns. "And we're already at the right platform. You've got the ticket?"
"Unfortunately," I say.
He smiles. "Good. You can board at 10:00. Just show the person at the entrance your ticket and they'll stamp it."
"I think I can figure out how boarding a train works," I say.
"I'm just helping," says Peeta innocently. "You've never done this in the 'new Panem.' I have."
We stand there, watching a handful of people scurry around the platform. Travel between districts has gone from strictly forbidden to a normal occurrence. Ordinary people can now visit family in Two, do business in Three, and vacation in Four all while living in a district on the other side of the country. It used to be odd to me that Peeta and I had grown so accustomed to train rides from two Games and a Victory Tour, but now it doesn't seem so outlandish.
"I'm not going to see you for a week," I say abruptly.
"I know," says Peeta. "But you can call me every night."
"I don't want to wake you up," I say, "if you're two hours ahead of us."
"Chances are I'll be awake anyway," he says grimly.
"Peeta—"
"But it's worth it," he adds quickly. "I'd rather be awake while you're in Four than sleeping soundly with you beside me—"
"So you do want me gone!"
"—when you could be in Four," finishes Peeta, emphasizing his last words. "You'll enjoy it as long as you try to enjoy it."
I'm hesitant to believe him. The thought of what awaits me in the night when I'm alone is overwhelming. Still, I nod in understanding if only to appease him.
I have the weird urge to cry when I board the train by myself. Peeta's still standing on the platform, looking around at the growing number of people seeking to board the train, and waving at me every once in a while. I watch him until the train begins to move and he's out of sight.
The journey is supposed to be ten hours. Ten long hours of dizzily staring out the window with my backpack in the seat next to me. Peeta packed a notebook in the most easily accessible pocket just in case I was driven to journal on this trip. Every once in a while one of us will have an idea for what we call "the book," so I'm assuming he packed the notebook as a precaution. I'm tempted to crack it open and write about how resistant I am towards going to Four, but I realize that I don't have the energy.
I pull my hoodie up and doze on and off for a couple of hours before I dream that I'm falling and jolt awake. I blink a few times and look around. Everyone looks normal. Nobody has noticed me. The train is still speeding along. For now, everything is okay.
I watch a movie over someone's shoulder. I fiddle with my backpack, checking to make sure everything's still there. My clothes. The dumb journal. A note I scribbled down with our home phone number and Haymitch's number. Two letters from Peeta, one for Annie and one for my mother.
Somehow the entire journey passes without anybody noticing that Katniss Everdeen is in their car. Four's station is huge, busy, and crowded, but somehow my backpack and I weave our way through masses of people until we're in the blinding sunlight, staring at the streets outside.
I recognize the ocean in the distance from when Peeta and I came here on the Victory Tour. It was the only thing we saw in District Four before we were herded by the Peacekeepers into a car. Peeta, I remember, was in awe of it.
There's a map of the district at the entrance to the station, and I squint at it until I find 'Victor's Village.' It looks like it's along the ocean and only a mile or two away.
I find it by following the main road that was in front of the station. The people I pass stare at me incredulously because of the hoodie I'm wearing in this heat. I don't dare take it off: it prevents them from staring at me for a different reason.
The Victor's Village of District 4 is colorful, cheery, and lively. Obviously: it's had residents basically since the Games were first instated. Annie's told us in letters that she has neighbors even though she's the only victor from 4 left. Haymitch, Peeta, and I had neighbors, too, when 12 was first being rebuilt. Eventually, everyone moved out except the three of us. Once, Peeta volunteered to help one of the families move their furniture and asked why they were leaving. The stiff, grand houses didn't feel like home to them.
The houses in 4, though, are nothing like the drab prizes we were given back in 12. They're all lined up on one side of the street so that the beach is their backyard. Each one is brightly painted—yellow, green, red, orange, blue. I already know that Peeta would love it here.
Annie said that her house is the green one on the far left. I spot it down the row—there are more houses than in Twelve, but still not very many—and begin my trek over to it. If I were at home right now, Peeta and I would be sitting on the couch in the living room maybe talking about the bakery, or Haymitch's drinking phases, or maybe working on the book. Instead, I'm exhausted from doing nothing except sitting and walking a couple of miles.
It takes all of my energy to be in a good mood when Annie answers the door. She immediately engulfs me in a hug, tells me how excited she is to see me, how good it is to be reunited after a few years. I'm not caught off-guard by this welcome, but it's still a little surprising—maybe she doesn't realize how little I'm in touch with her and how much of the letter-writing Peeta does. Peeta's far closer to her than I am. But it's still nice to see her.
Behind her is her two-year-old son. He stares at me and I stare at him. I can tell he's his father's son in his face and I almost gasp aloud. Why did I think this was a good idea? I'm not over Finnick's death, I'll never be over it, seeing the son that he never knew will never help me get over it—
"This is Nick," she says, scooping him up into her arms. "Can you say hi to Katniss?"
"Hi," he says shyly, burying his face in Annie's shoulder.
"Hi," I say, almost equally timidly.
"Do you want some cheese and crackers?" asks Annie.
"My mother's coming at eight," I blurt out. "To take me to her apartment."
"Then you have time," she says.
I look at a clock on the wall: it's 7:15. The sun has just begun to set over the horizon, which I can see through a back wall of windows.
"I like this room," I tell her, walking over to the glass and barely restraining myself from pressing my face against it. "It must be bright during the day."
"It's nice," says Annie. Balancing Nick on her hip, she swoops around the corner with a tray of snacks. I sit down in the chair closest to the door, which gives me a view of the kitchen and the sunroom I'm seated in.
The walls are adorned with photos, seashells, and colorful stained glass. I notice a picture from Finnick and Annie's wedding in Thirteen; another of Nick as a baby; and another of Annie and a slightly younger-looking Nick down on the beach. Annie chatters on while I examine my surroundings. Her house is so much more spirited than mine and Peeta's.
"—to take Nick sailing, but I should wait until he's at least three," she says. "I don't even know if they make lifejackets for kids younger than that!" Her words are gibberish to me, but I nod along anyway and pretend like I understand what she's saying.
The sun has set by the time my mother arrives at eight o'clock on the dot. I'm conveniently in the bathroom when she comes. When I finally force myself to come out, she greets me as if I'd just come home from a successful day of hunting with Gale. As if seeing her daughter for the first time in more than two years is a casual everyday occurrence.
I thank Annie for the snacks and promise that I'll return sometime tomorrow. Annie closes the door behind my mother and I too quickly, leaving the two of us alone too soon. I've had years to prepare for us being reunited and I'm nowhere close to being ready.
My mother's apartment building is only about twenty minutes away, but the route is twisty and along backroads that all look the same. I'm glad I went to Annie's first—her house was much easier to find.
The apartment is small, with one bedroom and an open kitchen and living room. My mother offers me her bed, but I'd rather sleep on the couch. Less like home. It'll remind me that I'm not there if I wake up disoriented in the middle of the night.
I settle into a chair in the living room, and she offers me wine but I turn it down. She pours herself a glass anyway and makes herself comfortable on the sofa before she begins to ask me about Twelve's rebuild. I tell her it's going well, that we're still small but more and more people are coming. We're Capitolizing, too—that's what the newspapers Peeta reads call the phenomenon of entertainment spreading around the districts. Movies. TV shows. Fancy restaurants. Concert venues. District Twelve is more alive than my mother and I have ever known it to be.
"How did you get permission to leave Twelve?" she asks eventually. "I thought your sentence was confinement there."
"Peeta made some appeal that my guardian lives in a different district and I've been making progress," I explain passively. He wrote the letter from my perspective, without describing the details to me until he had sent it. Miraculously (and disappointingly), the appeal was accepted.
My mother nods. "Good."
We sit there silently. I fidget with the hem of my shirt until I eventually wrap it in my fist with finality. "I want to go to bed," I say.
"Of course," she says quickly. "You've had a long day."
She stands and begins to bustle around the room, her glass of wine still in-hand. The next thing I know, the sofa has a pillow propped up against its arm and a blanket draped across it. She says something quietly about being glad I'm here, then goes into the kitchen and cleans for a few minutes before she retires to her room, too.
The only thing I do before I call Peeta is change clothes. I find the phone, which resides on the kitchen counter, and am surprised to find that it's removable and not limited by a cord. Odd. I take it out and carry it to my bed, carefully dialing the number.
The phone rings and rings with no answer. I should be glad—that means Peeta's asleep—but I selfishly wish he were awake. I'm so confused by everything I'm feeling and everything that's happening that I just want to tell it all to him. He helps me figure these things out.
But he does pick up at the last second, and hearing his voice on the other end makes my heart pound. I haven't even been gone for a day but it feels like I haven't seen him in months.
"Hello?" he says groggily.
"Peeta," I say. "Sorry if I woke you up."
"Don't worry about it," he says. "I wasn't sleeping very well, anyway."
"Sorry."
"Katniss, you don't have to apologize," says Peeta firmly. "It's not your fault. It's just how things go."
"Okay."
He waits a moment before speaking. "How are you settling in?" he asks eventually.
"I just want to go home," I groan.
"I'm sure it's not that bad."
"There were pictures of Finnick hanging in Annie's house. My mom has a photo of Prim on the mantle," I say. "It made me glad that we don't have pictures like that around the house."
"Isn't it like the book?" he says. "There are pictures of them in there, too."
"I don't have to see the book every day," I point out. "Prim's picture is in the room I'm sleeping in. Watching me."
"I'm sorry," says Peeta, and that's the end of that. "How's Nick? And Annie?"
"They're good," I say, my throat beginning to burn. I blink repeatedly. "Annie's different. She said she goes to therapy."
"And your mother?"
I break now. This shouldn't bother me as much as it does. I should be happy for her but I can't find it in me. "She's moved on," I sob quietly, not wanting her to hear me. "She's happy, and things don't bother her like they do me, and she's different, too—I don't know if she did therapy or—" I catch my breath, gasping for air. Crying has become second nature in the past few years, but it still suffocates me no matter how accustomed to it I am.
"It's okay," he says. "That's good for her, right?"
I manage a "Yes" while trying to muffle the awful, vulnerable noises coming out of my mouth.
"Try to be happy for her," says Peeta. "I know it's hard because you're not completely content with where you are in your recovery—"
I compose myself just long enough to admit, "I don't even try anymore."
"I know," he says gently. "Maybe this shows you that you need to. They have therapy here in Twelve now. We can afford it."
"I don't care about that," I say. "I just don't want it to bother me so much."
"Therapy will help."
"You don't go to therapy and you're completely fine."
"I'm not completely fine," says Peeta coolly. "I'm still recovering, too. I actually had a flashback this afternoon. But I'm not pushing down my problems and my guilt and my grief and trying to ignore that all of that's there. And I talk to Capitol doctors once a week."
Neither of us speaks for nearly a minute as his words sink in. He's right: I'm not actively trying to handle anything. It's defeating me. Annie and my mother are the success stories that I believe I can never come close to. I'm easily allowing my nightmares to consume me.
"You'd like it here," I say finally. "You'd like the village. For the victors. Their Victor's Village. It's colorful. And the ocean's right behind it. It's really pretty."
"I remember the ocean," he says distantly.
"You begged Effie to let us go," I say, hoping he remembers our visit from four years ago. "But the Peacekeepers wouldn't let us."
"And then we had a view of the beach at the dinner that night," says Peeta, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that the memory's returning to him. "But it was dark and we could only hear the waves." He thinks for a second, probably trying to recall more details. "Real or not real?"
"Real," I say. "You kept glancing over at the banister like you were going to jump over it into the sand."
"You probably would've joined me."
"Probably," I say, smiling a little. "How was the bakery today?"
"The same as it always is," he says. "Though it was especially disappointing to come home and know that you were on a train across the country instead of just upstairs."
"I would've given anything to be upstairs instead of on a train across the country," I grumble. "I still would."
"How was the train?"
"Boring," I say.
"Did you deliver my letters yet?"
Shoot. "No, I forgot," I say. "I will tomorrow."
We say our goodbyes and somehow I go to sleep pretty quickly. To my surprise, I'm not plagued by any nightmares. But I do wake up on my side facing the hearth, and just above the fireplace is the picture of a grinning Prim.
My mother's already in the kitchen, clanging dishes around as she cooks breakfast. I sit down at the kitchen table, muttering a low "Good morning" as I enter.
"Did you call Peeta last night?" she asks matter-of-factly, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.
"Yes," I say immediately. "Did I wake you up?"
"No," she says. "I just saw the phone on the table next to the couch."
"Oh," I say, relief flooding through me. She didn't hear my outburst. "He, uh, wrote you a letter. It's in my backpack. I'll go get it."
I retrieve it quickly, and my mother sits down at the table across from me to read it while I eat. Her eyes scan it hungrily for a few minutes—it's a long letter—but she doesn't tell me what he wrote when I ask.
As resistant as I am towards the entire visit to 4, I do get into a routine for a few days. My mother works Sundays through Fridays at the neighborhood apothecary and makes me breakfast before she leaves. I go to Annie's during the day and am eventually able to look at Nick without my heart skipping a beat. Walking along the ocean makes me imagine that Peeta was here. And Prim's face smiling down on me every morning almost becomes a comfort.
I return to my mom's apartment for dinner every night. It's a silent affair until one of us thinks of a question to ask the other. Usually I answer her questions. How Peeta's flashbacks are. What time I get up to hunt. How Haymitch is coping. What things I do during the day. How often I have nightmares. What my favorite cake is in Peeta's vast repertoire.
One night—Wednesday—our conversation takes a turn. She starts asking about my relationship with Peeta. How much he's at my house since he's always the one to answer the phone. How much he's really recovered. How much I'm leaving out about the time we spend together. I give her curt responses and nothing more. She didn't come back to 12 with her ailing daughter. She doesn't deserve to know what's happening in my life.
I have a nightmare that night. It's the kind that I can't wake up from. In the morning, I'm sweaty and my blanket is somehow on the other side of the room.
"Peeta," I whisper the next night into the phone. "What did your letter to my mom say?"
"I told her the truth about us," he says honestly. "Not everything. But I told her that I'm still improving and...you are, too."
"I'm not, though."
"I was being generous," teases Peeta. "I didn't tell her too much."
"She was interrogating me about it last night," I say. "About our relationship."
"Is that so bad?"
"No, it's just...weird," I say. "Even Haymitch knows us better than she does."
"Haymitch knows me better than my entire family did," says Peeta. "He cares about us more than he wants to admit. So don't use him as a standard."
"But we've never really put what we are into words," I say. "People at home just know that we're together. But are we dating? Are we picking up from where we left off and we're engaged? Are we just sleeping together?"
He laughs. "Well, it's definitely not the last two. I think we'd both know if we were engaged. And 'just sleeping together' doesn't describe it."
"It's true."
"We're not just sleeping together," he says. "We live together, too. So it's more than that."
"We're dating?"
"Sure we are," says Peeta. "We're dating with the knowledge that we're never going to date anyone else."
I suck in my breath involuntarily. His words are completely true, of course—maybe that's why they're so shocking.
"Is that a surprise?" he says genuinely. "I didn't mean for it to be. I just meant—"
"No, you're right," I say quickly, swallowing. "That's just...I don't know. Saying it aloud makes it sound...official."
"That's okay, right?" Peeta says, suddenly nervous. "Making it official?"
I roll my eyes. "No, sorry. I'm going to run off with the guy I bought shrimp from today."
"Oh, ha-ha," he says sarcastically. He pauses. "Really, though. I've been thinking about this a lot this week."
"Labeling our relationship?" I say, frowning. "That's a waste of time."
"No," he says. "About us spending the rest of our lives together."
"Oh."
"It's late," says Peeta quickly. "I should go to bed. Goodnight, Katniss. I love you."
"Only one more night after this one," I say.
"Try to enjoy it," he says. "You don't know when you'll be back."
I don't say it aloud, but I'm almost positive that I'll be back here soon, this time with Peeta in tow.
My mother joins me at Annie's house for dinner on Friday night, my last night in 4. It's my last ocean sunset on this trip.
Nick goes to bed while I'm sitting in the sand down on the beach by myself. I don't get to say goodbye to him. He won't care. It's probably better that I don't. For my own sanity. I got to the point where I was able to look at him and see a toddler instead of his father. Saying goodbye will only revive the parts of Finnick that I see in him. He's only two. He doesn't need the burden of my stagnant mourning on his little shoulders.
Annie comes and joins me by the water, leaving my mother by herself on the porch. "You looked lonely," she says as she sits down. Her presence isn't unwelcome.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the waves on the shore just a few feet in front of us. Then, out of nowhere, the words come out of my mouth before I have time to think.
"How do you deal with it?"
She's not alarmed by my question. In fact, she looks almost at peace as she answers it. "I remember the happy times," she says dreamily. "I forget the bad ones." She closes her eyes, thinking. "And I have Nick."
Of course. Her son has probably been the greatest comfort to her. But I can't fathom how she even has an ounce of energy to raise him without her husband by her side.
"Peeta said in his letter that you're having a hard time," says Annie.
"Yeah."
She puts a hand on my shoulder. "You'll be okay."
Saying goodbye to my mother is uncomfortable. I could never live with her again, but I did grow used to her couch and the seafood dinners we shared. My train leaves early on Saturday morning and she walks me to the station, gives me a quick hug, and ushers me to the platform. Very few words are exchanged between us, but I think I see her wipe a hand at her eyes as I turn to board the train.
I remember the journal Peeta packed for me. About halfway through the ten-hour ride, I pull it out. I write about the water, and the sand, and how different being at the beach was this time than in the arena. I write about how different Annie and my mom are than when I last saw them. Nick's familiar eyes. Prim on the mantle. The telephone that didn't have a cord.
I'm not much of a writer, but maybe this is a start.
It feels like I never left home by the time the train arrives at Twelve's station. It's only five o'clock—my mother dropped me off at five in the morning in District 4 time. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and dart to the door, wanting to get out of here as fast as I can. The open-air platform is humid but familiar. I'm finally, finally home.
Only a few seconds pass before I spot Peeta, standing away from the platform. I don't think he notices me until I'm right in front of him, sliding my backpack down to the ground with a thud and throwing my arms around his neck before either of us realize what's happening. "I'm never going anywhere without you again," I whisper into his ear.
"Okay" is his response. We sway for a moment, his bad leg a bit caught off guard. But neither of us let go.
He kisses the side of my head, then steps forward to grab the backpack. "Shall we?" he says, motioning to the exit.
I follow him, and he interrogates me thoroughly about how my week was. I'm surprised that there are still things to tell him after speaking to him every night. But he asks about Nick. And the beach. And Nick. And the houses. And Nick again.
"You know, I was there with other people besides Nick," I say when he asks a third time.
"I know," he says. "But he's the one person I haven't met."
"He's also two," I say. "That might be why you haven't met him."
Peeta drops the subject, and I resolve to tell him about my journaling on the train. He's over the moon.
"This is great, Katniss!" he says excitedly. "You want to make progress now." He kisses me enthusiastically in the middle of the main path through the district. "This is going to be good for you. Less nightmares. Less grief."
I'm skeptical, but I agree if only to appease him. Maybe I will see changes. I hope I do. I'm not resistant to change, but I'm not sure if writing about the things I did and saw in Four are going to help me deal with the things I did and saw during the Games and the rebellion. But it's better than nothing.
The smell of my house is oddly refreshing. I never thought I would long for it as much as I did. We deposit my luggage in the entrance hall, kick off our shoes, and immediately head into the living room. Before I sit down, I realize that sheets are tucked into the corners of the couch and a blanket is neatly folded on top of them.
"You slept on the couch?" I say, surprised.
He shrugs. "I could hear the phone better. And sleeping upstairs by myself wasn't the same."
I frown, and he adds, "But I slept fine."
I plop down onto his makeshift bed and he follows suit. "You said you were thinking about...us. This week. While I was gone."
"Oh," says Peeta. "Yeah."
I wait expectantly for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.
"And…?" I prompt again. "You thought…."
He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's not a big deal."
"Peeta, clearly it means something," I say firmly. "You can tell me."
"You just got back," says Peeta, shaking his head again. "I don't want to bother you with it."
"Okay," I say cautiously. "But it's not bad, is it?"
"I don't think so," he says. He smiles weakly. "But you might."
"What?" I say. "Now you have to tell me."
"I was just thinking about having kids," Peeta blurts out. "That's all."
"That's why you kept asking about Nick."
"Partly, I guess."
I don't reply.
"We can just drop it," says Peeta immediately. "This is why I didn't want to say anything. I know you don't—"
"No," I say, my eyes boring into a random spot on the wall across from me. "No, I'm glad you said it."
"You are?"
I turn to him now. "You want kids."
"Yes."
"Then you deserve them," I say.
"What? No—"
I don't know why I'm saying all of this. But I do know that I don't want to spend the rest of my life denying Peeta the one thing he wants.
"You deserve to be happy, Peeta," I say. "But I'm not—I never—I can't have kids. I don't want them. I never have. And after I fell apart while I was in Four and since I'm definitely not where I should be mentally—"
"I'm not saying right now," Peeta says quickly. "I'm not ready for it, either. But sometime. Maybe. Just forget about it. I shouldn't have brought it up."
"You want it, though," I continue. "And I can't…."
He takes my hand into his and squeezes it. "If you don't want to, that's fine. It's okay."
"But—"
"Katniss, it was just a thought."
"Well, you said you thought a lot about the future this week!" I say angrily. "I guess this is what you were thinking about the whole time?"
"No," he says. "I thought about us. I thought about you. I thought about me. I thought about kids, too, but not only kids."
He lets his words settle in before he scoots closer to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer to him. "I'm perfectly happy with us the way we are," he says into my ear. "Just the two of us in this house, recovering."
"Three of us."
"What?"
"You forgot Haymitch."
Peeta laughs. "Yeah, well, he has very different coping methods from ours," he says.
"Geese aren't your preferred source of comfort?"
"If only." He kisses my temple. "I'm glad you're back."
"Me, too," I say, leaning into him. "Peeta?"
"Mm?"
I play with his hands, looping my fingers around his. "Let's not worry about the future right now."
"Okay."
Hope you enjoyed! I've got the rest of this at least drafted out; it's just a matter of finishing the unfinished and adding to the plot(s) based on how the chapters turn out. One down, fourteen more chapters to go! (We'll see how long this ends up taking….)