I send Rory home with most everything we catch in the woods. I should visit the Hawthornes, but I don't. It's still too raw and I'm worried I will say something I regret. They don't need to know what Gale did, although in some way I think it's helping Rory.
Peeta bakes all morning and spends the afternoon delivering his goods to the workers in town. He'll spend a few hours helping with the clean-up effort before trudging home filthy and exhausted. At night we make dinner together, eat together. We watch television or read. We talk about meaningless things – what I saw in the woods, gossip Peeta heard in town. We brush our teeth and sleep, keeping to our own sides of the bed like some invisible border divides us. In the context of sleep, though, our hands and legs wander, and we usually wake wrapped together. In the morning we pretend to be asleep just to delay the inevitable breaking apart.
This morning is just that. I've been awake for at least an hour. I know Peeta has, too. But we both lay here – motionless, drowsy, soaking in the only peace either of us has felt in a long time. Finally I stretch out my body and Peeta opens his eyes, pulling himself away and taking me in. I roll over on my side until we're both facing each other.
"Hey," he offers in his morning voice.
"Morning," I reply, still quiet. Still wishing the day away. We wait a moment, but it's Peeta who pulls away first.
"I have to get baking," he says, forcing himself up and reaching under the bed for his leg.
"Can I come into town with you today?" I ask his back. He twists and looks at me.
"Yeah," he says with a smile. "You gonna help me bake, too?"
"Fat chance," I answer, dropping back into the bed. He leans forward for a moment like he's going to drop back into bed and wrap himself around me, but he hesitates.
"You can't blame me for trying," he says instead, standing up and throwing on some clothes before heading downstairs. I listen to him in the kitchen, clanging and banging around. It's not that he's clumsy, but it's impossible to be quiet with the mixer running and the metal pans set on metal racks. The smell of lemon creeps upstairs and I force myself out of bed, following my nose into the hall and down the stairs.
"Where did you get lemons?" I ask, eyes wide. We both love citrus fruits, but we never eat them at home. It's a delicacy saved for our time in the Capitol, an exchange made for being reaped or shot at. Here, though, it feels indulgent. No one in town can afford lemons and therefore we forbid them. My tongue salivates just smells the tart, sweet scent.
"I ordered them. They cost an arm and a leg, but…"
"You don't have a leg to give," I say. Peeta stops and looks up at me.
"Did you just make a joke?" he asks.
"No," I say, my cheeks burning. I have no idea where that came from. Peeta grins widely.
"It was funny," he says.
"It wasn't funny," I say back.
"Okay," he says, his tone marked with playful disbelief. "I just really wanted the folks down at the clean-up site to try them. My dad used to make lemon squares every Midsummer." We haven't celebrated Midsummer in years. The last Midsummer I remember I was nine or ten. It normally takes place shortly after the Games. People make food and put it out in front of their house to share. Those who can't afford food clean or make trinkets. Midsummer is one of the few nights a year where no one goes hungry. Sometimes there is music. One year there was a parade with the kids from school. It almost felt like we were celebrating being spared another year. During Midsummer, the families of the fallen tributes are normally overwhelmed with gifts and food and clothes. Anything to dull the pain. Midsummer stopped after a decree from the Capitol that it interfered with the mine schedule, even though it was always on a Sunday.
I notice Peeta's gotten quiet. I watch him as he stares at the batter pensively, his father's absence so potent in this moment that he can't find his way out. I stick my finger in the bowl. He blinks and shoots a look up at me.
"Katniss!"
"What?" I smile, sucking the batter from my finger. Peeta gets lost in a whole other type of staring. My shirt is loose around my body, the morning sun brightly shining in the kitchen makes the fabric nearly translucent. My hair is tussled and messy. I lick the remaining bits of sugar from my bottom lip. Peeta drops the wooden spoon from his hand and it goes bouncing to the floor.
"Shoot," he curses, spinning around and going for the spoon. By the time he turns back I'm headed upstairs to shower. I feel his eyes all over me as I tread up the stairs.
That afternoon we deliver all his goods. The village is much like he described. The old Town and most of the Seam is decimated. The first thing that was done was the removal of bodies. A mass grave was dug at the far end of the cemetery, slipping its border into much of the meadow. I don't know how anyone could do that work, but no one wanted those we loved left unburied. I'm grateful.
Now the cleanup effort is focused on clearing the rubble and demolishing what's left standing. We need clean earth to rebuild. Away from the work zone sits a flurry of temporary houses. They are wooden and fairly solid, but they won't make it through the winter. We have a lot of work ahead of us and very little time to do it.
My face burns. I've been so selfish, holed up in the house when there is an insurmountable amount of work to do here. Children without homes, families with no place to grow. I spy one of the work crews clearing the remains of what was once a shoe shop. We lost the cobbler and her husband to the flames. We won't likely have another shoe shop. Trades were passed down from generation to generation. Her secrets were silenced forever in the bombing.
"Can I help?" I ask. The man who appears to be in charge turns around to find the owner of the voice barely loud enough to be heard over the hurling of stone and metal and dirt.
"Katniss," he says, a smile brightly spreading across his lips.
"Thom!" I answer back brightly. I hardly recognized him under the layer of dust and dirt and sweat.
"Yeah, um, we're loading this here into that truck," he answers, pointing to a construction vehicle positioned at the edge of the site.
"Okay," I answer. We don't make small talk. Seeing each other is enough. I lean down and grab a chunk of cement with an iron rod curling away from it. It reminds me of a worm making its way into an apple. I grunt as I stand and walk the few yards to the truck before heaving my load into the bed. Peeta jumps in beside me. He doesn't need to ask. He does this every day.
We spend the next few hours working. Eventually we take a break and sit on some of the larger rocks while Peeta hands out the lemon squares. They look pristine and delicate in the grimy, blackened hands of the crew. I study my jagged, broken finger nails, caked with murky dirt. The lemon square looks like it belongs in another world. All thoughts stop, though, when the sweet yet tart treat melts on my tongue. Most of these people have never had lemon before. The crew is reduced to smiles and smacking lips.
It's only when they are quieted by confection that I begin to feel the staring. I look over and find two men propped against a wall, taking refuge in the shade. When I make eye contact they turn away, continuing their conversation between the two of them. They aren't from here. I know the folks from 12. Their gray uniforms and cropped hair give them away. They're from 13.
"What are you looking at?" Peeta asks softly, following my gaze.
"They were staring," I say under my breath, and for a moment I'm back in the Games. Confiding in Peeta, doubting my allies.
"Well, you are kind of a celebrity, you know," Peeta offers, but I can tell he's not committed to this line. He keeps watching the men.
"Did they stare at you when you first showed up?" I ask.
"No," Peeta says with a mark of darkness in his voice. Even when we resume work, his periphery remains fixed on the men who seem to have dropped all interest in me and continue on with the labor at hand. I let it go.
People come and go at will, but there's always at least a dozen people at our site. When Rye shows up and starts lugging debris toward the truck, everyone pats him on the back with a familiar hello.
"Hey Rye," I say awkwardly. He turns and gives me a friendly smile.
"Hey Katniss," he returns as though he hasn't been avoiding me. As though the last time we saw each other I didn't draw a knife on him. As if he doesn't live dozens of yards away and yet never comes over.
Maybe that's all on me.
"You should come to dinner this week. And Delly," I offer ineptly. I'm not good at social pleasantries.
"We would love that," Rye replies. I see Peeta over his shoulder beaming. I remember what Cinna said. When you're being selfish, change it. Okay. One thing down.
As Peeta and I walk the path back to the Village that evening, guilt begins to permeate in my mood.
"Why don't some of the families move up here? There's at least a dozen vacant houses in Victor's Village," I ask.
"Haymitch offered but no one took him up on it. I don't think they feel like they earned their place up here," Peeta speculates. He's right. He knows how Seam folk think.
Inside I plop unceremoniously on the couch. I know I'm probably covering it with dirt, but I don't care. My muscles ache and whine with complaint.
"Water?" he asks. I nod and gulp the drink greedily.
Most nights we'd make dinner now, but we're back a lot later than normal. I didn't know when to stop. It was only when Thom kicked me out of the site that we finally came back home. Peeta takes the seat next to me on the couch. I watch him with heavy eyelids.
"If I kiss you, is that okay?" Peeta asks.
"Yeah, that's okay," I whisper. We're both sort of awkward about it. He leans over the couch. He doesn't kiss me right away. He slides his hand over my cheek.
"Is it weird that I like you covered in sweat and dirt? It kind of reminds me of our first kiss," he murmurs on my lips. His eyes shoot open abruptly.
"What?" I ask, concern all over my face.
"I remember our first kiss," Peeta smiles. "I just… I haven't had a real memory of that before." He has a glossy look over his eyes, like he's lost in a happy memory. So few of our memories are happy, I leave him there. I rest my head on the back of the couch and doze off.
