Author's Note: And here we have chapter sixteen! We are getting so close to the end of this rollercoaster & I have to thank everyone who has continued to show such awesome support for this story — my first dive into The Hunger Games fandom. Thank you so, so much! Forgive me for the slow update this last time around. I really have no excuse, just let time get away from me. Never a good thing. But hopefully(famous last words) the final chapters will come much quicker!
As always, thank you to my amazing beta: court81981! Without her this story would be nothing like what it is. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Now, enjoy!
Summary: There are also three types of people in Dawson, Texas: those who are trying to flee, those who embrace their small town fate, and the Mellarks. Mellark Ranch; largest cattle ranch South of Dallas, employer of ranch hand, Katniss Everdeen, and home of Ohio State Buckeye running back, Peeta Mellark. And Peeta Mellark is coming home today.
Lone Star State of Mine
Chapter Sixteen: We Were Us
"God, I miss when you were mine."
Regret.
It can take a lot of forms. There is the type that creeps up on you gradually the next couple of days after the incident happens. It's that drunken night out with friends that you don't quite remember the next morning, but then run into someone who remembers the details all too fondly and isn't afraid of telling you all about it. And then suddenly all the whiskey starts to dry up in your system, the blanks start getting filled in, and it's like your reliving your courageous moments all over again. That attractive person across the room you came on to just a little too strong. That keg stand you just had to do in the middle of the kitchen. Or the vase you puked in just before you left.
It's now all clear as glass, and you're ready to sink into the nearest hole and call in a major party foul.
Of course that's not even the worst type — because then you have the kind that haunts you years later. Usually it isn't something small. Something you maybe did back in high school that made you look like a damn fool. A joke you told in class you thought would be funny and everyone looked at you like some kind of three-eyed monster. And this type of regret is tricky because you don't even realize you have it until something — completely out of the blue — triggers it.
You hear a song on the radio you used to believe was your anthem during those "awkward" times and you're thrown back to days of glittery eye shadow and gifting your crush — who had no idea you existed — with god-awful cologne your dad never wore. Your stomach turns into knots, your cheeks still turn red with embarrassment, and you're willing to ram yourself into the nearest wall, anything to forget that awful memory.
They are minor regrets, but they still can do their damage of causing secondhand embarrassment for you whenever the memories return.
And yet they are still not the worst type. Not by a long shot.
Because then there's the type that hits you a millisecond before the moment even happens. This is the type that hindsight points out with glaring reason. And these are usually the regrets that are life altering and earth-shattering. The ones you can't go back on, at least not easily, because one or more persons have been hurt in the process. It's the nasty words you screamed at your parents during a heated argument. It's the affair you had with an unknown stranger after eight years of blissful marriage. It's the best friend you didn't stick by when they got back with a no-good ex and the unkind words that followed.
It's the doting, caring, passionate, selfless boyfriend you left standing outside an airport in Ohio. The one who swore to give you the world, and you believed him because why wouldn't you? Nothing up until this point has proven he's anything but trustworthy. Nothing up until this point has proven he's anything but yours. Completely and wholeheartedly. But that scared you. It scared you because you've only ever needed one other person the way you've needed him and he disappeared from your life in the matter of a spilt-second accident.
But the damage is already done. Because I do need him. I've needed that boy since he returned from Ohio for summer vacation — I just didn't know it. And before I could even walk through the sliding glass doors into the airport I knew I had done something regrettable on an irresponsibly selfish level. But fear is its own beast to be reckoned with, and it usually trumps most other feelings, including regret. Because needing Peeta Mellark means that I'm not as strong as I once believed I was. Instead I've been impervious. And that thought shakes my very foundation.
And unlike the other two types regrets, this one doesn't seem to dull with time. Not truly. Instead, several weeks later, I still feel the remorse of my decision crash over me like a strong wave only seconds from tugging me completely into the current of darkness I've created for myself. Every move I make reminds me of what I did. His scent still lingers on my pillow and I can't bring myself to wash it because I can't bring myself to completely wash myself of him.
When I check the mail, I still half expect to find a new postcard amidst the pile. It's not there. And why should it be? As far as Peeta knows I've erased all contact from him. Moved on. I didn't answer his several phone calls in the first week so why would he continue to try? And why do I still want him to so desperately?
The weekdays go by steadier. I can keep myself busy with the tasks of the ranch. I can work in the barns until well past dark if I so choose, and lately I have. If I work myself to death by the time I reach my modest home, all I can think about is washing off the day and falling on my face. But of course, Peeta's presence lingers in those tasks as well.
I close my eyes as the hot water cascades down my back and I remember his ghostly touch gliding down my ribcage, his lips replacing the water that drips past my shoulder. I remember the feel of his soaked locks between my fingers as I reach up and pull him into a passionate kiss, one that we've perfected in our short time together. He turns me to face him and I gasp at the contact of my tight nipples grazing across his own bare chest. He's hard against my flat stomach, and it only helps grow the heated pool between my thighs.
My head drops against his shoulder when I feel his hand slip between my legs to tease my sensitive bud. I should be embarrassed by how wet I already am for him, but I've long since realized how instantly my body responds to Peeta's presence. This moment won't be like others that are long and drawn out — the times we've stayed in the shower past the water turning cool. We're both far too gone for that type of lovemaking.
And when his hand stops its teasing to rest on my hip, I instinctively step back, closer to the shower wall I know I'll soon be pressed against. I pull him with me, not willing to lose any sort of contact. Peeta's hands slide down my dripping thighs and lift me easily, and I can't help but grin against his lips. I'll never get used to feeling lighter than a feather in Peeta's strong arms. My legs link around his back while my fingers comb through the hairs at the nape of his neck.
"God, I love you." Peeta's voice echoes in my memory before he slides home.
We both still, my head lolls back against the shower wall, and I feel Peeta's lips on my collarbone. He doesn't move until I buck my hips slightly, egging him on. And it's all the convincing he needs. His thrusts are shallow and quick. It's just what my body craves. Later that night I'll want to take our time, explore every inch of each other, but right now my nerves are already starting to tingle, and the build low in my stomach is one of a strong, quick release that I know isn't far away.
When I come it's loud and echoes off the bathroom walls. Peeta's name drips from my lips like the shower above us. His thrusts are becoming even more erratic and I know he's close. When I open my eyes, I see his eyes are closed and he's biting his lip, a sign that I know he's just coming to the edge. I take my cue and lean my lips to his ear.
"Fuck, you feel so good inside me," I moan, already starting to feel my second orgasm on the horizon. My nails drag across his shoulders leaving red trails I know will still be there in the following morning.
My hips meet Peeta's thrusts halfway, and the friction against my sensitive clit is almost too much to bear. He has a bruising grip on my hips, and I use the shower wall for leverage as I lean against it. We're both so close to the edge I don't think it'd matter if we went toppling down the soaked shower. Thank God we decided to do this before the shampoo was used — making that mistake once will insure you never make it again.
"Come for me, baby." My words plead as I reach a hand from his shoulder to slide between our joined bodies. Peeta's eyes instantly follow, and I know this visual will send him over the edge within seconds. Me as well.
When he comes, it's with a shout of ecstasy, and we're both lost in the sensations. My second orgasm is a slow, drawn out explosion that reaches from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes. My breathing is still heavy when I feel Peeta slowly lowering my shaking legs beneath me. He holds me tight, both of us needing each other for balance. My lips find his in a lingering kiss, and I know I'm right where' I'm supposed to be.
My head tilts back into the spray, letting the water wash over my flushed face along with the heated memory. My stomach quickly turns from coiled need to knotted regret again when I open my eyes away from the spray and realize there is no indication that Peeta was ever here. His shampoo and body wash are gone, leaving mine to look somehow lonely in the mundane shower. I bite my lip and make quick work of the rest of my shower. Just like every place else on this ranch, if I stay there for too long it feels more like a prison than a home.
My mistake has caused that. And today is Saturday: a day where I have nothing else to do but focus on that mistake. Put it under the microscope and find ways to make myself feel worse for the fear that still won't allow me to pick up the damn phone.
My phone sits atop the worn arm of my couch. I try to keep my eyes on the television in front of me, but they side glance on their own accord. I wait with built up anticipation. If he calls, I'll pick up this time. The problem is I made that promise to myself several days ago. And still Peeta's number has yet to appear once more on my caller ID. I've typed several text messages that get erased before I can even contemplate sending them. A text message? He's worth more than a damn text message.
I can't relax. Not really. I sit on perpetual pins and needles. I'm anxious around my fellow ranch hands, knowing that they've undoubtedly heard by now. I'm anxious around Peeta's family, although they've yet to even recognize that their youngest son and I are no more. But I know they know. I overheard Mr. Mellark speaking with Reese in the barn several days after my return. I'm anxious around Prim because all she wants to talk about is my feelings. Which is the last thing I need since I spent most of my time suppressing them just to make it through the day. And being alone is the worst. Because the memories come around, and the downward spiral beings again.
The comedic rerun in front of me is long forgotten as I watch the raindrops slam against a nearby window. I had noticed the clouds rolling in that morning, but my mind has been in such a fog that I hadn't even realized the rain had started. I tuck my knees up to my chest, hugging them tightly, watching the splatter of each drop. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I'll simply disappear.
"Katniss!"
My name coming out in a harsh breath causes me to jump as I turn to look in the direction it came. I see Gale closing my door behind him, shaking off the water that's landed on his old flannel shirt in the short distance from his truck to my entryway. Normally I'd stand to greet him, ask if he wants a towel, or simply acknowledge his existence, but instead I remain seated, staring in his direction.
"Is ignoring loud knocks at your front door part of your new reclusive state?" he asks, reaching for the dishtowel sitting atop my kitchen counter. I still remain silent as I watch him try to dry his hair with the small square of fabric. "It's really moving in out there. Radio's saying could be tornadoes if these winds keep up."
My mind has drifted again, and I'm back to looking out the window near me. My chin rests against my knee, and I struggle with wanting to feel normal again. Wanting to feel anything at this point would be a step up. The pain in my chest has ceased and been replaced with a tight emptiness. I've become a shell of myself, and that though is enough to make me sick. I'm turning into my mother. That thought alone should get me up and running toward the nearest activity, but yet here I am, content to watch the droplets run down the window.
"Hershel wants everyone up at the main house tonight," Gale continues from somewhere in my kitchen. I hear him rummaging through my refrigerator and silently wish him luck. He'd have better luck trying to go catch rainwater in one of my cups. "Says he wants everyone safe and Mrs. Mellark is planning to make dinner. Plus, if the power goes out at least we'll all be together — or something overly hospitable like that."
Gale laughs at his own joke, and I hear him pop open the top of something, probably my last Coke. Good, I'd been saving it for Peeta. Couldn't bring myself to get rid of it before.
My weight shifts slightly when Gale sits down next to me. He's closer than normal, and I know he's trying to pull me out of myself, trying to get me to at least look at him. He's been doing this for the last several weeks. We haven't talked about Peeta since the night I came back, and even that night was mostly my muffled sobs against his shoulder as he sat there with his arm around me. He didn't say much, but Gale never does. And I'm sure it surprised him more than he let on to see me as upset as I was. Breaking up with someone and then blubbering like a damn fool. I sure can fuck things up royally when I put my mind to it.
I finally turn to face him. My other cheek now rests against my knee as I watch him. He's watching the TV show I'd long forgotten until he hears my broken voice. He's mid-swallow and looks so relaxed. Gale once wore hard lines across his face and a stern glance. Smiling was a rarity, but now his smiles are more common than a frown. He's more talkative and cracks more jokes. Most probably haven't really noticed, but I have. And I know Johanna's done that for him. Her brash demeanor and no-bullshit attitude are exactly what he needs. He hasn't come out and told me, but he doesn't have to.
I had that too. I had my balance in Peeta. And it scared the hell out of me.
"How's Johanna?" I ask, unsure if I really want to hear the answer.
"Oh you know, the usual: feeding the hungry on Thursdays, sleepovers on Fridays, restful Saturdays, Sunday brunches, and fighting for world peace the rest of the week." Gale smirks, looking over at me. "My own little girl scout."
I laugh despite myself and close my eyes, as if trying to savor the feeling: the vibration in my chest that's not caused by my quiet sobs, the tug on my lips of my mouth turning in the almost foreign shape of a smile, and the momentary lightness I feel as I forget the almost constant ache I usually feel.
"Fighting sounds about right," I mumble, opening my eyes to see Gale watching me. His smirk has disappeared and has been replaced with the familiar concerned expression he's been wearing lately. I want to tell him I'm alright, but lying to him is useless.
"Greasy Sae has been askin' about you," Gale fills the silence. "Wants to know if you're ever planning to come back around for lamb stew. Says you're the only one who can stomach the slop."
I don't say anything, just glance down between us as the worn material of the cushions.
"She's gonna take if off the menu here soon if you don't start coming around," Gale probes.
"And replace it with what? Lamb soup?"
Gale laughs at my joke, but the ring of laughter never infects me and I'm left numbly sitting there watching him. It's a strange predicament I'm in when I'm around Gale. When I'm around anyone, really. I don't want to be around civilization because I am not allowed to be as reclusive as I feel, but I don't want to be alone because I'm afraid of the memories that haunt me there.
The quiet becomes too much and I have to talk about it. I bite my lip; afraid to ask the question I've had on the tip of my tongue since the night I came home. I'm afraid of the answer.
"Does it get better?" My voice shakes when I ask him.
His head drops down slowly before he turns to look at him. His eyes are so pitiful, and I know it's the sympathy he feels for me. Gale doesn't show a lot of emotion, but his eyes tell it all. They can't be masked like the rest of his expressions. He hasn't seen me like this since my father died, and I think it scares him. It scares me.
He doesn't answer. Instead he stands up, reaching for the remote on the coffee table. The television switches off with the push of a button, and Gale heads toward the kitchen. My eyes follow him while my stomach drops. Why didn't he answer? Is he still not over Madge? Is that how awful it is? Does the pain really stay with you for that long and he's not willing to tell me the truth?
"Come on, Catnip. Mrs. Mellark is supposed to have dinner by six." Gale says, finishing off the Coke he just opened and tossing it into my trashcan.
Silence fills my house as I slowly stand up. I'm not liking the vulnerability I feel as I uncurl my body. I feel like an open wound that needs to be pressed on constantly, to remind myself that I'm still here, I haven't completely fallen apart. Not yet anyway.
I push a piece of hair away from my eyes as I grab my jacket hanging over a kitchen chair. Gale stands quietly by the door once he finishes putting his shoes back on, patiently waiting for me to get myself presentable. I know what I must look like: frail from lack of confidence, dark circles from lack of sleep, and expressionless features from lack of emotion.
I look like my mother.
"You never answered my question." I demand, finding some of my forgotten strength to look at him.
"It did for me," He says, looking past me.
"What does that mean?" I ask again.
"I lost the wrong one." Gale steels himself and looks at me. "I can't answer for you, Catnip."
The sour feeling in my stomach appears instantly, and I can't help but look away, tightening my jacket around myself. Fortunately Gale is already pulling my front door closed and we're both hurrying toward his nearby truck. The cold rain hits my face and I'm grateful. It helps camouflage the tear that runs down my cheek as I realize he's right. I walked — no, ran — away from the right one.
Rain doesn't deter spirits in Dawson, and any reason for a gathering is a reason for celebration. And that means the beer is cold and the food is to die for. Even Mrs. Mellark understands the importance of a social gathering, and although she may not stick around for long, she does her part and prepares a Southern feast. Tonight it's fried chicken and so many different sides that most have to grab several plates.
They haven't pulled out the long tables for all of us to sit at so most have dispersed into little groups throughout the first floor of the house. I prefer this set up tonight with my current mood. Originally I had planned to stick close to Gale's side, but the empty kitchen appealed to me.
Everyone knew what had happened with Peeta and me — or at least that we were no more — and everyone had decided to approach the sensitive topic differently. Some thought it was best to handle me with kid gloves, as how I'm doing every five minutes, tell me they're always there for any support, or look at me with pity. Others decided ignoring the change in relationship status was the best approach to take. I preferred the latter, but mostly I preferred to be alone.
My eyes glance up toward the bay window in front of me as a large flash of lightning fills the dim room. I've been pushing my green beans around my plate for the last twenty minutes, listening to the commotion in the other rooms. I have never been a social butterfly, but I've all but collapsed on myself since I returned from Ohio. I may have never been one for social situations before, but I didn't hide from one either. In fact, the few short months I was with Peeta, I found myself enjoying them. I liked being the girl with Peeta Mellark. Not because of who he was to everyone else, but because of what he'd become to me.
And now I feel like my current status is flashing on my forehead every time I step into public. Plus, being around any of the Mellarks for any amount of time makes my skin crawl with how awkward I feel. None of them mention it, but I know they know. Reese, Clement, and I hardly speak past casual small talk — but that's not any different than from before. Mrs. Mellark looks at me like I've just sprouted horns, but she looks at everyone else like that. But it's Mr. Mellark that makes me feel the worst. His caring demeanor hasn't even faltered once. He speaks to me like I'm some kind of long lost daughter. He asks about how I'm doing. Makes sure my family is well and all around cares. Still.
Sometimes I think it'd be easier if they all pretended I didn't exist.
I hear his heavy footsteps before I hear his slightly slurred words, "Still got about as much charm as a dead slug, I see."
I glance away from the rain-streaked window to see Haymitch entering the kitchen and heading toward the nearby refrigerator. He sits his empty bottle atop the counter before grabbing another. He makes easy work of the cap, and I remain quiet, assuming he'll be leaving now that he's come for what he's always coming into the kitchen for. Which I never understand since I know the Mellarks always put plenty of drinks on ice in the dining room, even the kind the Haymitch gravitates toward.
He doesn't leave. Instead he pulls out the barstool next to mine and takes a seat. He's leaning one side against the granite, just watching me. Assessing me. At first I try to ignore him. I've never really known what to do with Haymitch. And it's not like we've really had much contact with each other. He is Dawson's beloved football coach, and I'm simply a no-name face that once walked the halls of Dawson High. Our paths don't cross more than when he arrives to shoot the bull with Mr. Mellark. And even those moments are few and far between.
I push a cold green bean into my mouth and chew slowly, now back to watching the rain fall outside. I hear the slosh of his beer as he takes a swig from the bottle. I half expect to smell booze with how close he's sitting, but I don't. Maybe he's not as much of a drunk as I always assumed. Of course, he probably can't if they allow him to coach budding athletes year after year.
My nerves are wearing quickly as I continue to feel his grey eyes on me. He hasn't moved much. Hasn't even bothered to speak since he's endearing comment when he first entered. But his eyes haven't left me. I don't feel uncomfortable, but I know he's studying me. I'm under the microscope, and I yet to figure out why. Finally I can't take it anymore and I turn sharply to look at him, my eyes glaring coldly at the calm man before me.
"Can I help you with something?"
He gives a knowing laugh and finally looks down for a minute. He shakes his head and sets his half-full bottle on the counter and looks back up at me. "I can see why he likes you so much."
"Kiss my ass," I spit before I know what I'm saying. Even that small mention of Peeta, even if it is a dig at me, brings up a vile taste in my mouth and a sensation that I'm going to be sick soon follows.
"Feisty," Haymitch continues as though he hasn't heard my retort.
I don't respond; I just stare down at my long-forgotten food. I want nothing more than to disappear — or cry. But I refuse to cry in front of someone so infuriating as this ma, this man that the whole town practically idolizes. I have yet to see the appeal.
"Trust me," he sighs, picking up his bottle once more. "You could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him."
That's it. I refuse to sit here and be bluntly bashed for my decision to walk away. I stand up from my stool easily, avoiding eye contact with him as I collect my meal. I'm leaving; I don't care if the whole damn town is washed away excluding the Mellark home, I'm not sticking around any longer. I can't, unless I want the entire ranch to see me have yet another breakdown over my wrong choice. I turn on my heels and head around to the sink, wanting nothing more than to rinse my dishes and disappear.
"Don't you want to know how I know that?" Haymitch asks, still watching me.
"Not particularly," I respond, amazed that voice didn't once crack with the emotions that are boiling up instead of me.
"Well, Sweetheart, that's just too damn bad," he laughs, "Because you need to hear it."
I don't say anything; I just focus on the water running over my plate. I don't want to know what he's about to tell me because I'm afraid it'll be some kind of saint-like portrait of Peeta that will only drag me further into a pit of despair. A story that will continue the guilt I already feel for breaking his heart along with mine.
"She was the prettiest thing this side of the Atlantic." Haymitch starts, "And she didn't even know it. She hit this town like some kind of tornado. No one in Dawson stood a chance. She was the kind of girl that gets tongues wagging, prayer chains moving, and elaborate stories started."
This plate can't any cleaner and so I twist the water off, reaching for a nearby towel. I am still trying to ignore Haymitch's chatter, but now that I've realized it's not Peeta he's talking about I can't help but be interested. Finally I glance up at him and even in the dim lighting produced by the canisters above us I can see the way his eyes seem to shine as he recalls this mystery woman.
"Of course, Dawson could never produce such an elaborate woman — no offense, Sweetheart — and everyone just assumed she was buying her time until she was old enough to create a dust storm as she hightailed it out of here. But that didn't stop a naïve fool from falling in love with her."
If he's simply telling an entertaining tale, he's doing a fine job of it because he's got my interest peaked. I lean against the counter near the seat and watch him. Haymitch has never been someone I've taken all that seriously, from what I hear no one does. And apparently the feeling is mutually because the only thing he's ever been serious about is football.
"And it was perfect too because she was willing to stick around. She even started planting her own kind of roots here just to stay near the fool. She swore she saw something in him that no else did, and she spent most of her time proving it. But fear is a fucking ugly monster and can bring the worst out in anyone. And after about several years of having this girl tucked under his arm this fool started questioning everything — even her loyalty."
I don't realize it until Haymitch pauses to take a swig of his drink that I'm waiting with actual anticipation to hear the rest of this story. Unfortunately I know how it's all going to end — Haymitch has been single for as long as I can remember, there hasn't even been a woman mentioned around his name for years. I can see in his expression that there is still sadness there, a missed opportunity for something great. His eyes, usually full of mischief, are harder somehow and even the taste of his favorite beverage doesn't seem to change that.
He clears his throat, "Anyway, I ain't no story teller — I assume you know how the rest of it goes."
The story ends just like that and I know I'm not going to get the gory details of how it all fell to pieces, but he's right: I do know how rest of it goes. But I'm also left wondering if what I'm left looking at in Haymitch is the years of built-up regret and heartache.
He slowly stands up from his stool, but stands there for a moment longer. Finally his eyes meet mine and he gives me a pitiful smile, "Life's like game tape, Sweetheart. Just make sure you're rewinding to learn from your mistakes, not simply to relive them."
I'm once again standing in the kitchen alone, my arms crossed over my chest and my mouth slightly gaped in surprise. Haymitch Abernathy had just given me advice. And what's even worse? It actually all makes sense.