The next morning at breakfast, I feel a little awkward about the embrace. Haymitch keeps grinning at me like an idiot when he thinks I'm not looking. I scowl at him. I need to stop needing Peeta, and vice versa. What we need is some distance. He's never going to move on if he keeps spending his nights with his hands tangled in my hair, and I'm never going to be what he's looking for. If anything, losing Prim has cemented my commitment to not having children. I had them give me a shot in the Capitol that prevents pregnancy for five years, but I wish they'd just rip out my womb. I can't ever do that.
I need to get away. I put on my father's hunting jacket, lace up my worn, leather boots, and head for the woods. The sun is bright today, and it feels invigorating. The air is still crisp with an early Spring bite, and I feel myself come alive out here. I move silently over dead leaves and brush. The trees are recognizing the changing season, with tiny green and red buds gathering at the tips of the branches. The ground will be muddy in a few weeks, but right now it's still too cold for that. I occasionally cross a frozen puddle. I gather my bow and arrow and hunt for a few hours. The haul is good, though the animals are still pretty lean from their end-of-winter physique, but Sae won't mind.
I make my way to the Market, which is kind of like the Hob, but open air and much more pleasant. Merchants have booths or tables set up. A couple hundred people made their way back to 12. Not all of our survivors came home. Most, like my mother, feel like they are walking through a mass grave. I, on the other hand, find comfort in familiar faces. I could grow old here. Maybe I should set up a booth. I could sell the pelts from my game. I don't need the money, but I'm sure people would appreciate the product, especially in the colder months. I've never been much of a sewer. Cinna taught me the name of a few stitches for my talent interviews, but that hardly means I know how to do them. I ruminate over the idea as I plop myself in front of Sae.
"I've got squirrel, rabbit, and a pheasant. Take your pick, lady." She pulls the rabbit out of my game bag and hands me a cup of stew. I wrap my frozen fingers around the burning mug and let the heat permeate my blood. I could live like this forever. I don't need Peeta.
I don't need Peeta. I don't need Peeta. I repeat it to myself as I walk home. I enter my house and the smell of fresh cheese buns wafts from my counter. Okay, maybe I don't need Peeta, but I like having him around. But I need to stop being selfish. If there is one word to describe my end of the relationship with Peeta, it's selfish. I keep him tethered to me by offering him a glance or holding his hand once in awhile. I don't mean to, but I do. I feel better when he's around, so I keep him here. But I'm not helping Peeta heal. We hardly ever talk about his family. Portia. His prep team. His time in the Capitol. That's our euphemism for his torture. His "time in the Capitol." We just brush over it like he doesn't need to heal the same way I do. He confided to me in his letters, but I'm hardly approachable in person. He's afraid if he brings up anything hard, I might shatter. He's treating me with kid gloves, which I admit I need, but it's not fair to him.
I get an idea. It's not exactly keeping away from him, but it will have to do for now.
After I shower, I throw on some clean clothes and head to Peeta's. I finally started doing laundry after one day Sae told me she'd make me eggs, but she wasn't touching my dirty underwear. I laughed, but that afternoon I did every stitch of laundry in the house. Hopefully it will last me a while. When Peeta opens his door he's a little surprised to see me. I'm standing with the plant book pressed against my chest.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," he says back. "Effie isn't here right now. Do you maybe want to talk at dinner?"
"No, that's fine," I say as I pass him and push my way into his house. He doesn't close the door or leave the breezeway.
"Katniss, I don't know if you should be here alone."
"I have an idea," I say, ignoring his last statement.
A crooked smile spreads across his face. "Oh do you? What's that?"
I sit on one of the stools in his kitchen. His house is set up exactly like mine. I've told myself that's why it always feels like home when I'm here, but Haymitch and Effie's houses are also identical and they don't feel like home.
"Peeta, tell me about your dad."
He is obviously caught off guard. Peeta closes the door slowly and makes his way cautiously into the kitchen. "My dad? You knew my dad. You traded with him all the time."
"Peeta," I say again, making direct eye contact this time. "Tell me about your dad."
"My dad… My dad was everything I want to be someday. He was kind. He was generous. He took care of his family. When he laughed, his whole body shook and sometimes tears would slide down his cheeks. He had a hard time keeping a straight face, and he couldn't lie to save his life. He made the best biscuits in the world. He had secret nicknames for me and my brothers that he'd only use when my mother wasn't around. He used to put notes in my pants pockets. He… he used to draw."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Nothing fancy. Pencil sketches on scrap paper. He'd draw elephants and tigers and things you only read about in books. He had an incredible imagination and would craft dragons breathing fire or trolls under bridges. He'd make up stories about them and tell them to us at night, when my mother was asleep. He was never very book smart. He struggled with the accounting and stuff at the bakery. My mother always held it over his head. But he could draw anything you could think of."
I smile. He keeps going.
"He was allergic to strawberries. His lips would puff up until he looked like President Snow. Once, when my mother was mad at him, she snuck strawberries in his dinner and he nearly choked to death when his throat closed. I remember screaming and crying and running to get your mother."
"Really? I don't remember this."
"Yeah. She had a tiny pink pill. She pushed it into my dad's mouth, and then she sat with him. It took about an hour for him to get back to normal. She sat there holding his hand and reminiscing about their childhood." Peeta clears his throat. "I guess they were friends back when you mom lived in Town."
"That couldn't have gone over well in the Mellark household."
"Oh no. My mom was furious, but you know how your mom gets when she's in healer mode. She was the one in control. My mom didn't talk to my dad for a week after that."
"When was that?" I ask.
"I don't know… maybe 4 years ago?" he replies.
"I think we should put it in the book."
"Okay. I mean, capturing a strawberry should be pretty easy," Peeta says.
"No, I mean, I think we should put your dad in the book. And mine too."
Peeta looks at me incredulously.
"I want to make a new book, like our plant book, only with people. I was thinking I could write stories about them, and you could do a portrait. Like we did before." I say.
Peeta smiles and nods his head at me.
"You could write stories, too, of course. But I'm not doing any of the portraits. Unless you don't want to recognize anyone."
Peeta laughs, and the tension melts away.
We tell Haymitch and Effie about our plan over dinner. Effie thinks it's a wonderful idea, and goes on and on about the supplies she'll order for us. Haymitch asks if he could add some pages for the tributes before us. Of course we say yes. The supplies come in on the next train. Peeta and I both start with our dads. I lay on my stomach on Peeta's living room floor, writing feverishly about my dad teaching me to swim. Peeta sketches his father in pencil. He spends hours on his mustache.
Peeta looks a lot like his dad. I thought maybe one day he'd grow a mustache too, and then he really would transform into Mr. Mellark, but Peeta hasn't been able to grow any facial hair since our first Games. I think the Capitol did something, otherwise some of the boys would be a scruffy mess just a few days in. Of course, many were much too young to grow facial hair. I push the thought from my head.
When we finish, we share our pages. Seeing Mr. Mellark smiling back at me takes my breath away. I remember him giving me cookies before the Games. I feel bad now, that I threw them out the train window. I think about seeing him after a morning hunt with Gale and smile. I notice the sun is setting, and realize I've spent the entire afternoon at Peeta's. We haven't more than a few minutes alone since returning to 12. I hand his page back to him.
"I'll add watercolors tomorrow. I need to work on finding the right blue for his eyes."
I stand up and stretch. My stomach grumbles and I realize we skipped lunch. "It's almost dinner time, and it's my turn to cook. Effie isn't going to be happy with me."
"Why don't we run down to the Market and grab something real quick?" Peeta suggests. I agree, and we clean up our mess.
"That felt… good," I say as I pick up extra scrap paper from the floor. "I think this was a good idea."
"Me too," Peeta smiles.
We head out to Town. It's been getting warmer in the last couple weeks, and neither of us wear a jacket. It feels good to have my friend back. We can be friends. We walk a couple feet apart, chatting about who we want to include in the book. Prim, Rue of course, Peeta's family, Boggs, Finnick…
"Mitchell." Peeta says quietly. We stop walking and I take his hand. Internally I scold myself. This is the reason Peeta can't move on. But I think getting him through this moment is more important than that right now. That's all grief is, really. Getting through moments. Tackling one after the next.
"That wasn't you, Peeta." I say. "That's on Snow."
He nods, but I know he doesn't believe me. He will torture himself for the rest of his life over this. I pull myself in closer to him, pop onto my tiptoes, and softly kiss his mouth. He doesn't kiss me back, but he wraps his arms around my waist and holds me there for a moment before we start walking again.
Stupid. Stupid stupid. It's just like Gale said. I can't see someone I love in pain. Obviously I love Peeta. Maybe it's not a romantic kind of love, but I love him. After everything we've been through, I think I can finally admit that. And it's not specifically Peeta, I just don't want anything romantic with anyone. We reach the market and I buy a roasted chicken, some fingerling potatoes, and a bunch of leafy greens. At home, I saute the greens on the stove while Peeta tosses the potatoes in some oil and rosemary before placing them in the oven. We work silently, but it's comfortable. Haymitch and Effie show up separately, and Peeta and I tease them since we know they were together all afternoon. Dinner is routine, and pleasant all the same. None of us have had routine. We like routine. Routine is nice. So when the phone rings that night, I step away from our card game and answer it. I assume it's my mom.
"Hey mom," I say into the receiver, laughing as Haymitch tries to steal one of Effie's cards while she's preening in a hand mirror.
"Hey Catnip," Gale answers on the other end.