Fairy Tales & Happy Endings
By: always-andshewrites
Chapter 2 – Nightmares
– Katniss –
"HAYMITCH ABERNATHY, I SWEAR TO THE HIGH HEAVENS I AM GOING TO KNOCK YOU INTO NEXT WEEK THE NEXT TIME YOU ARE RENDERED UNCONSCIOUS DURING YOUR NEXT DRUNKEN STUPOR! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I REITERATED THE IMPORTANCE OF MY SCHEDULE BOOK? DO YOU THINK I WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN FOR THE FUN OF IT? BECAUSE I ENJOY MAKING MYSELF CRAZY ABOUT RESERVATIONS?" Standing on the other side of the kitchen island, I listened to this 'Effie' screaming, nagging, and letting her husband have it — all while trying to hide my own amusement and the phone wasn't even up to my ear. I wasn't even sure how Peeta could handle it.
I almost thought I heard the husband belch in response to his wife's high-pitched shrills.
Peeta turned to me for a second, catching me off guard and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to rid my face of its regaled expression. He didn't seem to notice as he pulled the phone from his ear and pressed it against his chest to lessen Effie's high-pitched wails.
"I take it she's not happy with him?" Peeta quipped in a whisper, and I couldn't hide my amusement at his statement, no matter how hard I tried. He gave me a smile, and I think I saw a blush creep up his face, though I'm not sure why. But something inside me liked the added color on his face.
Peeta returned the phone back to his ear and I felt myself almost feeling something like pity for this, 'Haymitch', had he not screwed up mine and Peeta's reservations. Effie's voice grew softer and softer, until eventually, I couldn't hear her at all. I waited anxiously, feeling as if I were going to squirm out of my skin, when every so often, Peeta gave a nod here, another one there in something that looked like understanding. My anxiety increased tenfold as I watched his forehead slowly creasing into worry lines, yet unable to read his expressions. His lips straightened into a tight line, his brows drew together until finally, he politely thanked her and hung up the phone.
Luck has never been on my side, well, not the good kind anyway, so I don't know why I was holding onto any amount of hope.
"Well?" I immediately bombarded him, my thirst for the answer nearly driving me mad.
"Well, um . . . I'm sure you could hear most of the things she was screaming at her husband," I nodded, pressing him to continue. "So, I guess Haymitch— her uh . . . husband booked your reservation and "forgot" to write it down," Peeta uses finger air quotes at the word 'forgot,' which was just his polite way of saying the man was three sheets to the wind.
My entire face fell at his words. I knew it was bad news all around.
"Well, I guess it's a good thing I didn't unpack," I sighed, my shoulders slumping over with defeat.
"But Effie did say—" my eyebrows arched like the crest of a mountain top at his words, but then he muttered the words, "no, never mind," squashing any hope I may have had.
"Wh- what did she say?" I implored, feeling my voice quake with a hint of excitement.
"She said that . . . no, it's probably a stupid idea," he brushed it off with a wave of his hand.
"Tell me what it is, and I'll let you know if it's a bad idea," I petitioned to him, willing to do almost anything to spend time in these woods. This beautiful, enchanting, exhilarating cabin in the woods. For some reason, being in these woods, in this cabin— reminds me so much of that painting. Or is it . . . could it be . . . no. No, it couldn't be.
I inhaled a deep breath, slowly releasing it and mentally recited Dr. Aurelius's phrase in my head.
Good air in, bad air out.
"Well, she said um, she said . . . or well, she suggested since it's just the two of us, that we could um, er, we could share the space." Peeta shrugged his shoulders, hesitant to meet my gaze.
I was taken aback, completely speechless. That was not what I was expecting.
"Like I said, it was a stupid idea. I mean, we're complete strangers. How crazy is that?" There was a trace of doubt in Peeta's voice before he waved a hand in the air and headed toward the stairs. "It's only fair for you to get the place since your reservation was made first. Just . . . just give me a few hours to get packed up," he exhaled, seeming defeated. I couldn't help but notice the brightness that once surrounded him had suddenly turned dark. Almost dreary. Like an ominous storm cloud hovering over him.
He would really do that? But why? What is he playing at? I asked myself, still too stunned to supply him with a response.
He's trying to trick you— he wants you to feel sorry for him. The paranoid voice in my head retorted.
That's ridiculous. The other voice countered.
"Wait!" I stopped him. "I-it's not stupid, I was just shocked is all. I think . . . maybe we could try it out?" My words came out more of a question than a statement but as soon as they were out there, I wanted to reach into the air and snatch them back.
But words don't work like that.
Why did I say that? I don't know this man from Adam. I know nothing about him; for all I know he could be a serial killer. He could be an evil, sadistic, womanizing—
Then, the other voice in my head— the logical one, tried to reason with me. 'If he was a serial killer intent on hurting you, he would have jumped on the idea . . . would have done everything in his power to try and convince you to stay.'
Peeta turned around to face me, the storm clouds slowly parting, replaced with warm rays of sunshine fighting to break through. "Yeah?" He asked hopefully. The light in his eyes continued to brighten, and for a moment . . . I thought that I always wanted his eyes to look that way.
It's been a little more than a week since I agreed to Peeta's proposal; or well, I guess it was Effie's. I'm lying in my bed, trying— and failing to fall asleep, no more than twenty feet from where Peeta is most likely also lying in his own bed. No matter what I do, I can't seem to get him out of my head. I can't stop thinking about the beautiful, blonde-haired, muscular man with the sad, sad eyes. What happened in his life to fill his eyes with so much sadness? And when will I get to see him without a shirt again?
"No, no, stop it Katniss!" I chide myself for the thought. A man is the last thing you need right now, I tell myself.
Every single day the two voices in my head fight. Not actual voices . . . but more like, my own internal commentary. The paranoid voice in me . . . the voice that is a constant reminder of what Marvel did to me is always there to fill my head with doubt. I find myself second guessing every action, every word of Peeta's. Constantly wondering if his sincerity is pure, or if he is working at an ulterior motive.
And then there is the 'logical' voice in my head. On a daily basis it lists off all the sweet, kind, caring and selfless acts of kindness Peeta does for me. In the almost two weeks I have been here, I don't think a single day has gone by that he hasn't spent an hour talking to either his parents, and a brother, if not two brothers. Psychos don't check in with their families, or at least, I don't think they do. .And though he tries to hide it, and hides it well, he has pain hidden, buried deep beneath his surface— but I knew that during our first encounter. And for some reason, I find myself wanting to ease that pain.
Tossing and turning, I replay the last ten days we have spent together in this cabin. How we have gone from complete strangers to something like friends. I finally decide to give up on sleep after another hour of tossing, turning and fluffing my pillows; for some reason, unable to get Peeta out of my head. Eventually, I relinquish myself to my mind and stare up at the ceiling and just . . . allow the thoughts to come.
After I accepted, or well, agreed to a two-week trial period to share this cabin, the voice of paranoia screamed at me incessantly, yelling, 'NO, NO, NO— he's a man— you can't trust him,' but then the other voice in my head . . . or maybe it was my heart— fought against it. I think something inside me knew . . . from our very first encounter . . . that there was just something good about Peeta. Peeta, who I have yet to learn his last name. I make a mental note to ask him about that tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I tell him what I have decided to do about our living arrangement.
"I wonder if it starts with an 'M'?" I ponder aloud, but then shake the possibility away. There is no way he is the artist of that painting. He is a baker, not an artist. But what is baking, if not art?
Effie called back later that first day, calmer and more composed. She apologized profusely for the mix-up. She assured me a full refund, and I can use all the extra money I can get. After speaking to Effie, (who had nothing but good things to say about Peeta, which ultimately sealed my decision) I told Peeta we could give it a try. A test run for two weeks. If, after two weeks we both agree that we can co-exist together under one roof, then I would contribute half the cost. He tried to shut me down, claiming he has more than enough to cover the rent, but I adamantly refused. If we are to co-habitate then he must realize I am not a bum. I do not allow people to pay my way. That regardless of my past, I am a strong, independent woman, and I do not accept charity.
We never did discuss what would happen if the arrangement didn't work out. I wonder if subconsciously we both knew . . . that it would.
Peeta insisted on helping me unload my car, refusing to accept no for an answer. I quickly gave in to his macho-male ego and silently enjoyed the view from afar. After that, we sat down together and made a list of rules. Who would use what, when, and for how long, and which days of the week, so that we would be less likely to invade the other's space. Relief seemed to swallow him up and it looked as if a heavy weight had lifted from his shoulders when I said I would I take the master room to the left of the staircase. I mean, it was the most logical arrangement since Peeta was already in the one on the right. Although he never said it, I could tell being on that side of the house meant a great deal to him. It really didn't matter to me since the rooms were identical, and I wasn't about to take one of the rooms that would give him free reign to walk in on me. I'm just thankful that each set of rooms has its own bathroom, and we aren't forced to share.
Marvel was a slob in the bathroom; always leaving his nasty hairs lingering in the sink after shaving. I don't think I could handle that. It would definitely be a trigger, as Dr. Aurelius liked to call it. And I have not once, found any dirty, sweaty, stinky, rolled up socks anywhere in the house. That was another one of Marvel's bad habits that would not only make me crazy but gross me out.
I shake my head from side to side, pushing any thoughts of my despicable ex out of my head. "Not all guys are like that Katniss, not every man is a sick, twisted, demented fuck like he was," I remind myself.
As soon as I have eradicated all thoughts of Marvel, and what he did to me, my mind is inundated with thoughts of Peeta. Peeta is sweet. He's kind and patient. He is the epitome of perfect . . . everything a girl could ever want in a man, which causes me to wonder why, or how is he still single.
My first actual morning here I discovered that like me, Peeta wakes up with the sun and likes to bask in the beautiful colors that spread throughout the morning sky. The first day he stumbled onto the porch and found me stretched out on the bench swing, he was a little surprised. He turned around to leave, apologizing profusely about invading my space but I found myself asking him to stay. He was reluctant at first, but for reasons unknown to me, I insisted.
He took the seat across from me, and I slammed my journal shut. I was a little embarrassed that he had caught me writing in it and might make fun of me, or that he might even try to take it from me— like Marvel had done so many times. But he gave me a genuine smile and pointed to it.
"I have one of those too," and then went on to talk about how beautiful the sky was. I couldn't help but agree. From there he painted a beautiful image with his words, which led to hours of talking. I'm not sure how it happened, but at some point during the morning, I ended up inviting him to sit next to me. For hours we swayed back and forth on the swing, talking about everything and nothing. Favorite colors, favorite foods, and pet peeves. We played twenty questions. I apologized for threatening him with my bow.
I like how intuitive he is. When he asked me if I could actually shoot, or whether my bow was just for show, he instantly picked up on my hesitation from the short, empty, monosyllabic answers I supplied him with regarding my father. He immediately redirected the conversation elsewhere. Anyone else would have dug for more information. I guess that's what makes him different; he's not like everyone else. Actually, he's not like anyone I've ever met.
From time to time, my head still screams at me not to trust him, but I can't seem to help it. He's just so good and kind, so positive and full of hope. Which I completely do not understand. How can someone so optimistic have such sad eyes? He seems plagued— tormented by something from his past but I have not yet had the courage to confront him about it. Perhaps I never will. I also cannot seem to help this intense pull I feel toward him. Like magnets.
My racing mind begins to slow. Slow, slow, and slower still, until my breathing evens out, and eventually, I must fall asleep.
"Katniss, Katniss, wake up. It's just a nightmare, you're just having a nightmare. Katniss—"
My eyes snap open and I wake to see Peeta crouched on the floor, hovering over my bed. Over me. He brushes the hair from my eyes. He looks so sad; I think to myself. But then it hits me. Peeta is in my room. In the middle of the night. Adrenaline pumps into my body, through my veins, filling every single nerve ending in me. My body jolts to an upright position and I scoot myself backwards, to the furthest corner of the bed, all the while, never breaking eye contact with Peeta. I reach for the covers, pulling them over my nearly naked body and up to my chin.
What is he doing in my room? Why is he here? Has he come to hurt me, like Marvel did? I cut him with my stare, and for some reason, it brings me pain.
It's because you thought he was good. You trusted him. You put your trust in him. He's bad.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I heard you, and I was worried something was wrong. And then . . . when I came in here you were thrashing around. And well, I uh, I just thought that if our roles were reversed, I would want you to pull me out of my nightmares. But um, I'm sorry I scared you, I— I'll go now," he says with a sad smile. Then he pushes himself up so that he's standing, turns around and begins walking toward the door.
Was he speaking hypothetically, or was he saying he gets nightmares too?
"You get nightmares too?" My question freezes him in place, and I wonder if he meant to reveal that bit of information. Slowly, he turns around to face me again and I see the overwhelming sadness in the dark circles beneath his eyes.
He turns around to face me, his eyes closed for a moment while he nods his head. I think I see a tear glide down his cheek, but it's dark, so I can't be sure. "Yeah," he finally says. "My son. He haunts me every night."
I narrow my eyes questioningly, "You have a son?" I ask him.
Another tear falls; this time I'm sure because he wipes it away. I find my eyes scanning his left hand, and I'm not sure why I feel relieved when I see it absent of any jewelry.
"Not anymore," he finally admits, his voice on the verge of breaking.
For reasons unknown to me I look up to meet his eyes and give him a genuine smile, hoping it conveys understanding and not pity. I reach for his hand, gently pulling him to the edge of my bed. He looks confused when I pat the spot next to me.
"We could um . . . keep an eye on each other. If I pick up on any signs of distress, I'll wake you up. Just um . . . so we can get a good night's sleep." He is hesitant at first and I feel a deep emptiness— an unfamiliar longing at the thought of him leaving. But then he surprises me and joins me on my bed. I mean . . . it's the logical thing to do, right? Plus, this bed is gigantic. Massive. It's large enough for at least five people to sleep in comfortably.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
kpkpkpkpkpkpkp
For the first time since I learned what Marvel had been doing to me— for the first time in as long as I can remember, I sleep peacefully through the rest of the night. I do not wake frozen in fear, I do not check under the bed, or behind the curtains, expecting to find a monster lurking behind every corner.
I open my eyes with a smile on my face, feeling rested for the first time in . . . in a long time. I turn my head, staring at the empty spot on my bed. The spot where Peeta slept. I suddenly feel sad and maybe a little disappointed that he left. Those feelings are foreign to me, and I don't know what to make of it. But I do know that I am glad that he is not here to witness the goofy, ear-splitting grin on my face. Or the fact that I rolled over and hugged the pillow his head slept on and inhaled his scent into my body. But he couldn't have woken up that long ago because the imprint of his body is still fixated in the bed.
I crawl out of bed and slide my robe on, tying it at my waist. I run a brush through my hair and braid it in my usual over-the-shoulder-style. I am all too aware of voices as I tiptoe town the stairs.
Not voices, but one voice in particular.
"Nothing's different, everything is fine," Peeta says, and then pauses to let the other person speak. I shrug, and continue walking, figuring he's probably talking to one of his parents again. But then his next words freeze me in place.
"I just . . . for the first time since . . . since—" Peeta pauses for a moment, his voice trembling with pain, or maybe it's excitement, I can't tell. "For the first time in months I slept peacefully. No nightmares. No haunting visions of her."
Peeta slept peacefully? First time in months? Coincidence? I ask myself at Peeta's admission to whoever he is on the phone with. And then I wonder who 'her' is, and I find myself feeling angry at whoever she is for causing him pain.
Peeta deserves to be worshipped, cherished, not stepped on and walked all over. I would never hurt him. I snap to attention as the intrusive thought invades my mind.
"Yes, yes, I promise, the wilderness is doing wonders on me," Peeta says. I hear the smile in his voice and I feel the corners of my own lips tugging upward.
"Okay dad. I love you too. Send my love to mom. I'll talk to you later," another pause.
"Okay, I'm hanging up now. Love you, mean it, bye!"
I feel guilty for eavesdropping, but I also didn't want to interrupt. I wait a few seconds before making my presence known. I hear sizzling, and the smell of bacon causes my stomach to growl.
– Peeta –
"Dell, you can't keep doing this. You need help. Please, let me help you," I plead with my wife— the mother of our child.
"You don't know what you're talking about Peeta! Why are you always trying to control me? Change me? If you loved me, you would accept me for who I am and stop constantly trying to make me change!" Delly screams at me.
"Delly please. You know I love you. Think about Brendan. He needs his mom, and he needs her to be well. You're not well Dell."
"You don't know what you're talking about Peeta. I've never felt better in my entire life. You're— you're just jealous!" She hisses at me, zipping her suitcase and snaps her head to meet my gaze with her ice-cold eyes. Her eyes, which were once so bright and full of life are now dark and dreary. Clouded over in a haze. All the life has been sucked from them, leaving an empty shell of the girl I once loved.
"I'm taking Brendan and we're going to stay with my parents," she says, smiling and her voice cheerful as if she hadn't just snapped at me. I lift my wrist to check the time. 1:09 a.m.
"Delly, he's asleep. Just let him sleep and I'll bring him in the morning," I continue to plead with her. But it only fuels her anger. She pushes past me, rips our son from his bed and pushes me to the ground with a strength I did not know she had. By the time I manage to recover from the blow, she's long past out the door.
I bolt out of my apartment and take the steps two at a time, but by the time I reach the parking lot she's gone. With my son. Anger— rage and fear— so much fear rush through me.
She was high. She had to of been high. Why didn't I see the signs when I could have helped her? Why did I live in such denial for so long? Why did I refuse to see the truth? I had too much faith in her. I knew she loved our son and I put my faith in that love. I thought she would always protect him. But Delly's addiction overpowered any love she had, whether it was for me, our son, or her parents. All she cared about was getting her next fix.
I ran back upstairs and saw the clock on the wall read 1:17 a.m. Not caring about the time, I picked the phone up and dialed Delly's parents.
"Kathy, I'm sorry to call so late, but Delly just stormed in here and took Brendan. She said she was headed over there. Will you please call me when they get there . . . just so I'll know they made it there safely?"
"Peeta? Wh- what are you talking about? Dell's not coming over here."
My heart skipped a beat— I froze in place with fear, or dread. I had this looming feeling that something bad was about to happen. I just didn't know what it was.
I paced throughout the night. Waiting by the phone for Delly's call. I sat down at my desk, within reach of the phone so I wouldn't miss Delly's call. After a moment I laid my head on the table and cried. I was scared. I needed to know she was okay, that our son was okay. I vowed that I would look into a treatment program for her. I would go back to the judge and convince them to commit her.
I must have fallen asleep. I was jolted awake by the telephone. My head snapped up and I fumbled to get the phone to my ear.
"Delly?" I spoke anxiously into the receiver.
"Hello, may I please speak to Mr. Peeta Mellark?" My hopes fell when I heard the soft, feminine voice that did not belong to Delly.
"Speaking," I said, feeling a sinking in the pit of my stomach.
"Hello Mr. Mellark, my name is Annie— I am a nurse at Mockingjay Medical Center. We have your wife and son here—"
"Delly? Brendan? Are they okay?" I shoot up on my feet, instantly awake at her words.
"I apologize, but I am not at liberty to say over the phone. I just . . . you should get here as soon as possible. When you get here, ask for Annie Odair. I'm on the fourth floor. I'll be waiting for you," Annie Odair, the nurse tells me.
"Okay, thank you. I'm on my way right now." I slam the phone down and, in my half, awake, half asleep, half terrified out of my mind state, I slide my shoes on, grab my keys and wallet and rush out the door.
I parked in the emergency round-about, jumping out and ignoring the valet who was screaming that I couldn't park there. I tossed him my keys and bypassed the elevator, taking the steps two at a time. I ran to the nurses station, severely out of breath.
"P- Peeta. My name is . . . Mellark. My wife— my son— looking for— Odair— Annie." I was panting, barely managing to get the words out, though, I'm not sure in the right order.
"Hi Mr. Mellark, I'm Annie," Annie smiled, standing up and walking around the desk. I nodded nervously, afraid of what she was about to say. "I spoke to you on the phone," she continued, but she didn't need to say anything else. Her face said it all.
There is a look a person gives you when they have bad news. There is another look they get when they are about to give you the most devastating news of your life. You can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voice. The air grows heavy and thick, making it hard to breathe.
My wife was dead.
So was my son.
"No! Nooo! Stop it, you can't— NOO!" I am woken by screams coming from across the hall. I bolt up in bed, looking towards the door. Maybe I was just dreaming.
"Nooo! Get your hands OFF of me!" She screams again. It's Katniss— who is hurting her? My body reacts before my mind does and before I know it I am bursting through her bedroom door. I am filled with relief that she is just having a nightmare.
I struggle with what to do next. Should I wake her or should I mind my own business? If our roles were reversed, what would you want Peeta? I ask myself, sealing my decision. I get down on my knees, gently calling out her name as to not scare her and brush the stray hairs from her face.
"Please, don't—" Katniss whimpers
"Katniss, Katniss, wake up. It's just a nightmare, you're just having a nightmare. Katniss—"
Her eyes snap open. For a moment she seems startled. But then she looks terrified— it pains me to see the fear drenched in her eyes, as if she is afraid I have come to hurt her.
That's when it hits me. Someone hurt her.
I would never hurt you, I almost blurt the words out as she hightails it to the furthest corner of the bed and pulls the covers up to her chin. Does she think I'm here to— I shrink back from the pain the thought causes me, all the while, realizing that is exactly what someone has done to her.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I heard you, and I was worried something was wrong. And then . . . when I came in here you were thrashing around. And well, I uh, I just thought that if our roles were reversed, I would want you to pull me out of my nightmares. But um, I'm sorry I scared you, I— I'll go now," I tell her with a soft smile, hoping it's enough for her to know I won't hurt her. I will never hurt her. Then I push myself back to my feet, turn around and start walking toward the door.
I almost make it to the door when her groggy voice calls out to me.
"You get nightmares too?" I freeze in place— I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. I hesitate for a moment, my mind fighting whether I should stay or go. Deciding that I have nothing to lose, I turn around to face her in the dark. I close my eyes and give her a slight nod, feeling a tear glide down my cheek and hope the night helps to conceal it.
I don't know why I feel compelled to tell her, but I do. "Yeah. My son. He haunts me every night," I relinquish the words, feeling a tightening in my chest. He haunts me every day too, but I leave that part out.
"You have a son?"
I hesitate for a moment before finally saying, "Not anymore." Wiping the wetness from my cheeks I give her a slight shake of my head and force a smile.
She looks up to meet my eyes with an expression of pure shock.
I prepare myself to leave, feeling a sudden emptiness at the thought of not being next to her when she reaches for my hand, gently pulling me to the edge of the bed. And then she surprises me further by patting the spot next to her.
"We could um . . . keep an eye on each other. If I pick up on any signs of distress, I'll wake you up. Just um . . . so we can get a good night's sleep."
I'm not sure what to think at first. It is an invitation. She is offering companionship. It's logical. Just to keep the nightmares away.
I nod, stretch my legs out and slip under the covers. She is at least a foot away, yet I feel so close to her. What is it with this woman? This mighty huntress of the woods that enchants me so? Why do I feel so safe next to her? Safe enough to lower my walls. And . . . who haunts her dreams?
I stare at her sleeping form while the questions rush through my mind, thinking of how beautiful she is . . . how peaceful she looks, and eventually, drift off to sleep. And for the first time since my wife killed our son, my dreams are absent of the haunting nightmares.
kpkpkpkpkpkpkp
"Okay, I love you too. Send my love to mom. I'll talk to you later," I tell my father, eager to end the call.
"Of course, son, of course. Oh, I almost forgot!" I internally cringe; irritated how he manages to do this every single time.
"Okay, I'm hanging up now. Love you, mean it, bye!" I tell him, hanging up before giving him a chance to keep me on the line any longer.
A few seconds later I hear footsteps and turn to face the steps to see Katniss. Try as I might, I cannot conceal my excitement from her arrival.
"Good morning sleeping beauty," I greet her, which causes her to blush.
"What are you cooking? It smells delicious," she says, ignoring my compliment.
"Eggs, bacon and toast. Nothing fancy, you want some?" She nods eagerly just as her stomach growls with agreement.
"Anything I can do to help?" She asks, and for a moment I wonder if she's serious. When she doesn't follow it up with a smile, I realize that she is serious.
I raise an eyebrow, pushing the corners of my lips up and say, "Oh no, no, no. Remember, you are banned from ever cooking again." She throws a dishrag at my face.
"Shut up, that was one time!" I love it when she laughs. It might actually be my most favorite sound in the world.
I turn back to the stove, not wanting her to see how anxious I am. Today is the two-week mark of her arrival. Today is the day she decides.
"Peeta?" I turn around, startled by her voice. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's not," I say a little too quickly. Then I turn the burner down as to not burn the bacon and face her. I run my fingers through my hair and fill my lungs with air.
"Okay, yeah . . . I just . . . I need to know, or else . . . or it's going to make me crazy," I begin, feeling as if I might combust.
"Good air in, bad air out," I mumble under my breath. I didn't think she heard me, but she must have because she freezes in place, locking her eyes with mine.
"W-what did you say?" She insists.
"Oh, it's just uh, something my shrink suggested to calm the nerves. Katniss, look, I just . . . okay, I'm just going to blurt it out. Today is fourteen days," she narrows her eyes at me, confused for a second before realization dawns on her.
"Oh," she says, her mouth forming into a perfectly beautiful "o" shape. And then she shakes her head, still looking at me as if I am a mad man.
"Wait a minute . . . you see a shrink?" I look away, ashamed that I admitted that out loud. She must really think I'm nuts now. "It's just . . . mine tells me to do the same thing," she admits sheepishly.
"I'm sure it's probably just a shrink thing. They all probably have the same handbook," I tell her.
She frowns, as if she isn't sure, but then smiles again.
Our eyes lock for a moment and it's like our gaze penetrates through to the other and for that brief moment in time it feels as if time freezes. I wonder if she feels it too?
"I would um . . . I would like to stay here," Katniss says. I try to keep a straight face; I try my best to conceal the hurt I feel. She wants to stay, and she wants me to leave, I think reverently. "And uh, I would like you to stay too, if you still want to."
I give her the cheesiest, most idiotic grin just as the smoke alarm begins blaring through the house.