By the time I return, Peeta is already up and waiting. The kitchen is warm and bright, and he is sitting, watching the door, fingers curled tightly around a steaming mug. The moment I enter his expression flickers; I catch the guilt and the confusion in his face before he replaces it with a small, sad smile.
"Katniss…"
I throw the groosling down on the table, sling my bow on the notch above the door. "It's getting colder," I remark. I can't meet his eyes, not when my own still lie on that trap in the woods…
"I know… Katniss, look. About yesterday —"
"Might have to chop a little more wood before the snow starts."
"Why won't you look at me?"
Something in me jolts agonizingly; my head whips around, eyes meeting a sorry sight. I see the distress teeming within him, eyes fit to burst into tears as he often does in moments like these. My mouth opens and closes lamely as I struggle to find an answer that isn't the truth. For all Peeta is there to keep me safe, to guard me from every possible harm, we're just too good at keeping secrets from each other. Or at least, I am.
Peeta has stood; he strides over to me, and, cautiously, removes my jacket from my shoulders. I feel his warm breath on my cheek, the steadiness of his hands as they brush my arms. He ensnares me in a loose embrace, resting his chin on my shoulder. Although I don't move to return the gesture, I don't push him off. "I'm sorry," he murmurs in my ear. "You shouldn't have to deal with this — deal withme — but you do. And I love you for it. Katniss, I'm sorry I hurt you…" His arm wanders down and hesitantly takes my wrist; a resistant throb resituates from the blossoming bruise that guards it. I snatch it away; Peeta steps backward; releases me. I can see the agony flaring in his eyes.
"It's not that," I reassure him, rubbing my wrist. "It's fine."
"No, it's not fine!" He runs his hands through his hair, clutching at it desperately; blue veins pulse against the whites of his strong arms as his knuckles grow white. Peeta's sad, blue eyes dig into mine. "I hurt you, Katniss! There is no excuse for that. Just… please."
I know what he wants. He wants me to concede, again, to forget that anything ill has happened between us. To hide the wounds under kisses and bandages and let them heal, and to move on as always we do. We don't talk about where Peeta goes when he leaves me, when his eyes roll back in his head and his muscles tense. I'm not sure I want to know.
So I drop my gaze guiltily for ever thinking I could blame him, and I roll up my sleeve to offer him my wrist. Tenderly he takes it and guides me to the table where he douses it in sweet-smelling oils to take away the pain, before slowly winding a soft white bandage around me. His fingers are soft and graceful; the hands of a painter. Of a man who had been broken, and expended every effort to not break anyone else.
His fingers entwine gently in mine. "I love you."
I look into his eyes then. The pain has glazed over and there is nothing but adoration, the most perfect tenderness that any woman should hope to receive. I often wish my eyes were so emotive; but I'm cursed with the eyes of the Seam. Nothing but anger and grief can lie within my gaze. So I smile at Peeta, as forced as it may be, and let him hold my hand. I say nothing.
Not a few minutes later, the sound of light and eager footsteps permeates the tenseness as my young, mirthful children hurtle down the stairs and into the kitchen. Peeta pries himself from me with a fond glance and a gentle caress of my thumb to kiss his daughter on the forehead and bundle his son into his arms. I manage to fix them with the same smile as I did their father as I rise, and clear the dead groosling from the table.
Soon enough, the kitchen is bright and alive with their lives and their energy. The children bake with Peeta while I skin the bird and prepare slivers for breakfast. I don't engage in their idle pleasantries, and they know better than to engage me. It was established long ago that mom's head — and her heart — is elsewhere.
I do talk as we eat, happy to laugh with my children and my husband; but as I do, the implications of the morning weigh down on me. The trap… Gale. Gale is everywhere. In the questioning glint of Peeta's eyes, and the curiosity of my daughter's face. In the burning throb that permeates my bandage. In the fast and erratic pounding of my heart. It's days like this one when I realize exactly the life I am resigned to living by being forced to comprehend the life I could have had. I wonder what my best friend is doing now… Whether he brought another woman with him.
Will I see them?
I try not to dwell on it. But I can't help myself.
Hours later, after Peeta has left for the bakery and escorted the children to school, I stand in the kitchen, soaking the same dish over and over. The soap has all but dispersed, the once steaming water lukewarm on my fingers. I gaze out the window with a half-formed hope that somewhere out there, Gale will be gazing out a window and thinking of me. It occurs to me as I set the dish aside that for the better part of twenty years, I have missed him. But I've been too involved in my misty veil of false security to realize it. Does he miss me, I wonder, drying my hands on my pants. He must.
I don't leave the kitchen for the better part of the morning, because I know that nothing really lies beyond it. I spend most of my days being dutiful, although my efforts are not needed. Peeta is the only real parent in the house, and, although he is aware, he doesn't seem to mind. Neither do the children, and I can't blame them. So I busy myself with making pot after pot of tea, reading a book, staring into space, and thinking mostly of Gale as I relive our friendship in vague sorrow. I remember our Sundays together in the woods, our mutual desire to survive not just for our families, but for each other. The support he always offered, and the glimmer of hope he represented that things could change in ways that Peeta couldn't promise. He ignited my fire; without him, I'm naught but a spark. But I have resigned myself to the fact that that will never change.
As noon just passes, I find the strength to leave the kitchen and to continue my contemplation in the bath. I scrub myself as if I'll never be clean and redress my wound, and make an effort to look presentable. I'm not sure why — most days I'm content to remain as I am, for none but Peeta and the children will see me. Occasionally I'll pay a visit to Haymitch, to the Hob, but even then I never select from the dresses in the back of my closet. But today I do. I wear one of my mother's old garments that she left behind — soft and green, like the forest, with shiny silver buttons that catch the sunlight just nicely. I feel a little more worthwhile in this dress.
As I'm descending the stairs in search of something to do, there's a soft knock at the front door. Too light and precise to be Haymitch; I surmise that it's Delly Cartwright or one of her sons, running an errand from the bakery.
I cross through the living room and down the hall, somewhat thankful for complacent company. These little visits from old friends help keep the spark alive and waiting in me. I prepare myself to be assaulted with the loving arms of a child thrown about my neck as I open the door; but I freeze, like a deer who sees my arrow just a second too late, ready to run but resigned to futility.
The spark blares into life at the very sound of his voice. "Hi, Catnip."