Katniss' POV
The telephone rings.
Ecstatic, I pick up the phone, giddily jamming the receiver to my mouth. Stuffed in between my toes are bits of velvety white cotton, like snow, to separate the toenails and protect the nail varnish. The blue is electrifying, my skin creating the illusion of a District 4 shoreline at my feet.
"Haymitch!"
"Katniss?"
I freeze, like an Avox called to trial. On the other end of this connection are a man and a voice that my mind has only touched upon in faint, sepia passing. This is high definition color and my brain cannot register what is in occurrence at this time.
"Peeta?" The word is a ghost that slips beyond parted lips.
"Yes." He swallows audibly on the other end. "It's me Katniss. Long time, no chat."
I feel sick. I am physically ill and sick to my stomach. The urge to slam down the telephone and destroy this infernal device is overwhelming. I see it now, the methods that I'll use to break this telephone and run to the downstairs bathroom to wretch. I grip the phone with shaking hands.
"I've been sick."
A hollow laugh resounds on the other end.
"Sick, you say?" His words make me uneasy.
"I could have helped you. I could have helped you, Katniss," he continues, his voice cracking slightly. " I could have helped you heal."
Sure, Peeta could have been of much use. For example, he could have provided money for anti-depressants, the price of which is inflated in Panem. Even sustenance would come at no charge—and perhaps, the medicine, too, with Peeta's good looks, charm and wit. His words I do not deny. His words I do not deflect. I've gone numb.
"I could have taken care of you, the way you took care of me."
In that instant, I feel ten times worse. Not only has the boy with bread grown up, but now he has suffered even more than he has let on, and at my hand, no less. What's more is that this guilt mingles with hurt and I hold back the words I want to scream because the last thing I need is to pick a fight about Peeta's atrocious girlfriend. Besides, Peeta is not worth my stress.
Haymitch has enlightened me.
"Why did you call?" I ask, drawing on that same unknown source of strength I've always used. It's odd, the way I mine this energy to get me through adversity, such as poverty, the Games, life.
"It's good to hear your voice," I add hastily. This last sentiment means nothing, I tell myself, it's just a desperate attempt for a normal conversation, Peeta's wishful thinking be damned, although I cannot lie and say that a tiny part of me wonders if perhaps Peeta and I are co-habitable.
Of course, Peeta's deal-breaker would be the situation concerning my relationship with Haymitch because I don't want to hurt Peeta… and I don't want to hurt Haymitch, either.
"You too, Katniss," Peeta says softly before moving on. "I called to invite you over to my house for a dinner party."
"Oh." It appears as if Peeta spent too much time in the Capitol, then. A party? In society that rose from the ashes to be blown to bits—and what for, I wonder, what have I really done apart from messing around in Panem's politics in a supposedly more beneficial and pleasing manner?— Peeta wants to throw a freaking party. A party. Yes, while people are struggling to rebuild the miserable existences that they once hailed as lives, let's have a couple drinks and a chat, because we're clearly best friends, there's no tension—belligerent or otherwise—and we both have never been pitted against each other to fight to the death, nor have we ever broken each others hearts, called each other atrocious names or ever been upset with each other because we both live in perfect, little worlds without conflict.
"Yes, bring whoever you wish," Peeta continues.
"Good," I sniff. "I'm bringing Haymitch."
"Great. That sounds reasonable." Peeta finishes far too sweetly, and I know that I've struck a nerve. "He was our mentor. He's a lot older and so therefore he can be our chaperone, especially since he's so responsible."
"He is. More responsible than most that I know. You'd be surprised."
"Oh? Really? Like?"
"How's your girlfriend?"
"Fine, thanks. This party is to commemorate our six month anniversary. Thought you'd like to know."
Time stands still.
I feel as if I've been kicked in the chest.
Our tones had become sharp and even, and we had both worked up a bit of a sweat trying to tear one another down. Enough encounters in the Hob coupled with Peeta's POW days in the Capitol's grimy clutches had made us both sarcastic and ready to fight. However, this? This was something else entirely. Although I'd never admit, this was mind-blowing. This was shocking. This was an outrage.
Peeta and Delly? They had gone public not terribly long ago, perhaps a week or so, and yet Peeta claims that they had been exclusive for the better half of the year.
I thought he loved me.
My skin feels prickly and hot, a mixture of betrayal and frustration and annoyance and rage, all of my emotions threatening to overflow in either hurtful words, destruction or tears.
So here revealed is the real Peeta Mellark.
He even has the nerve to invite me not just to a dinner party but to a dinner party held in honor of his six month partnership with Delly?
"Thanks. That's helpful. Might get you guys a gift." Not.
"Oh," Peeta drawls. "Delly would love that."
"I'm sure she would. Congratulations, by the way."
"Thank you."
The telephone slams on its dock.