As soon as I got to the bakery after school my mother sent me back out with a shopping list and a bag of coins. I didn't even have a chance to take my coat off before she ushered me out the door, quietly saying she needed a bit more time with Peeta. She couldn't, of course, just tell me when to be back and send me on my way. Madge was home, a visit to her would have been a hell of a lot better than traipsing all over town to cross out that damn list.
They were all things we needed and I felt guilty for not noticing we'd been running low. Though the supplies for her practice were certainly not something I'd have ever noticed. I worked my way from shop to shop, saving where the bulk of what I needed would come from—the general store—for last. As I headed down one of the aisles I looked over my list, trying to figure out where everything was, and work out how to get in and out as quickly as possible. As I moved down the aisle I finally glanced up and realized I was nearly face to face with Peeta's mother. I sucked in a breath, ducking through a break in the aisles to avoid her.
I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her. At least a year ago. Gale and I learned the hard way—more than once—not to show up on that back porch when there was even the slightest risk she might be around. She looked even more miserable and bitter than I remembered.
"Lily!" A woman's voice called from the front of the store.
"Hello, Trudie," Mrs. Mellark replied. She was directly on the other side of the shelves; I'd have been facing her if they weren't in the way. I stood rooted to the spot, listening as the other woman approached. "Good to see you."
"Oh, it's so good to see you out. I know things have been hard," she said, her tone entirely too melodramatic for my liking. I pretended to be torn between two different soaps on the shelf in front of me—something not even on the list—just to stick around and hear a little more of this bullshit. Trudie lowered her voice. "He has that woman over there right now, you know."
"To treat our son," Mrs. Mellark replied, and I could tell just by the tone of her voice how seriously she took that. It made my skin crawl. "Honestly. I thought Twain had a little more class than that."
"We all did, honey." The sympathy in that statement had my hair on end. Lilith Mellark deserved a lot of things. Sympathy was not one of them.
"There's nothing even wrong with him, you know," Mrs. Mellark huffed. "He was perfectly fine when I left. That boy is lazy, and he always has been. This is nothing more than an excuse to skip out on work and school and desperately try to milk sympathy out of anyone he can. His father is no better."
"I'm sure Twain is getting plenty of sympathy right now."
That was enough. I slammed the bars of soap in my hands back down onto the shelves and moved back to the gap in the aisles in two strides, swinging around into the aisle where the two women stood. Mrs. Mellark's eyes narrowed as soon as she saw me. Trudie—I immediately recognized her as Gilda Fisk's mother, they looked exactly the same—turned toward me, looking me over with one eyebrow raised. Mrs. Mellark drew in a breath to speak.
"No." I pointed in her face, cutting her off before turning to Mrs. Fisk. "You want to know what's really going on over there? She almost killed him. Her own son. He has a severe brain injury that she inflicted and is still struggling to get the hang of stairs. My mother is over there because he needs more treatment than Dr. Lawrence has the time to give. Make another insinuation about her and see how that goes for you." I turned toward Mrs. Mellark, leaving Mrs. Fisk gaping like a fish on a riverbank. "And you. Stop. Lying. I don't know who you think you're kidding. There isn't a person in this District who doesn't know what you did to your sons and idiots like this-" I hooked my thumb over my shoulder toward Mrs. Fisk- "may buy into whatever bullshit you're feeding them, but you're not doing yourself any favors with the rest of us."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Mrs. Mellark snapped, her voice creeping up entirely too high, and her skin flushing an inhumanly dark shade.
"This isn't a conversation," I said, glancing behind her and catching sight of the lamp oil my mother listed. I stepped between them, reaching past her and snatching a bottle from the shelf before turning away and leaving the two of them standing there in shock. My triumph barely lasted until I finished the shopping and headed back to the bakery. The more I thought about what she had to say, the angrier I was about it. Nothing wrong with him my ass. And lazy? Peeta or Twain? I stomped straight through the front door, knowing full well the fact that they all went around to the back porch was a holdover from that witch's reign over this house.
"I see you're in another winning mood." Rye raised an eyebrow at me from where he stood ringing up a customer as I blew through the doors at the end of the counter and toward the kitchen.
"Ask me why," I snapped, continuing into the kitchen without waiting for him to respond. Mom was leaning against the worktable with a mug in her hands and talking with Twain as he sat frosting a cake. I dropped the bags I'd brought back with me at her feet. "Here's your crap."
"Excuse me?" Mom raised an eyebrow.
"So, who shit in your gamebag?" Rye moved into the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the frame.
"I ran into-" I cut myself off when I heard Peeta on the stairs and looked over toward him as he came into view. I pressed my lips together, dropping my eyes when he paused partway down, clearly confused by everyone standing quietly and staring at him. There's no way I wanted to say any of what I heard in front of him. I didn't even particularly want to say it in front of Twain and my mother, but at least their reactions would be a little more predictable. She also didn't assault either of them.
"Wh-what's going on?" Peeta asked, looking from one of us to the other and cautiously taking the last few steps into the kitchen.
"Katniss has her panties all in a knot and won't tell us why," Rye said. I shot him a look.
"Is s-something wrong?" Peeta asked, looking over at me, one hand still braced on the banister. I sighed, looking over at Twain and my mother before turning toward him. If he was going to find out I'd rather say it to him directly.
"I ran into your mother while I was out," I said, and it was as if someone sucked the air out of the room. Peeta clenched his jaw, Rye stood up straight, his hands balling into fists, and I heard my mother set her mug on the table. "She was at the general store, talking with Mrs. Fisk."
"What did that bitch have to say for herself?" Rye snarled.
"Rye," Twain warned. I looked over my shoulder at him. He was just as tense as his sons, though where Peeta had fear and Rye had anger, Twain looked almost heartbroken.
"What d-did she say?" Peeta said softly.
"She said, um," I looked at Mom, not sure if I should actually tell him this. She nodded subtly, and I chewed my lip, moving a little closer to Peeta and lowering my voice, as if that would make it easier to hear. "She said you're fine. And that you're just using it as an excuse to gain sympathy and skip out on work and school."
"That fuc-"
"Rye," Twain snapped, cutting his son off. Rye pressed his lips together, turning and leaning his back against the door frame, letting his head thunk against the wood.
"And, um," I scratched my neck, looking over at Twain. "She said Peeta isn't why you have my mother over here all the time." Mom straightened her posture, dropping her gaze to the floor.
"Fuck, Dad, will you do something about that b-"
"Rye," Twain cut him off again as the bell at the door rang. They stared at each other for a moment. "Customer." Rye huffed and rolled his eyes, disappearing into the storefront.
"Peeta, you know none of that is true," Mom said, her voice gentle. Peeta startled, looking up at her for a moment before vaguely nodding. He turned toward the stairs, stumbling at the first one before regaining his footing. I dropped my shoulders and looked over at Mom. She raised her eyebrows, casting a pointed look at Peeta before looking back to me. Go with him. Just before I got too far up the stairs to see them I caught sight of Twain standing and setting his hand on my mother's back as she covered her face with her hands.
Peeta was already in his room with the door closed. Something smashed behind it just as I reached for the handle, and I jerked back. I heard a quiet groan and the creak of his bed springs. It had been a while since I'd seen anything even resembling anger out of Peeta, and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. I knocked softly and called his name, wondering if bringing it up at all had been a mistake.
"Go away," Peeta's voice was thick. I waited a moment, my hand hovering over the door knob, then twisted it and pushed the door open.
"You should know by now I'm not just going to go away," I said. Something crunched underfoot as I stepped into the room, and I looked down to see the remains of the lamp that had stood on the dresser between the two beds in pieces on the floor. I closed the door behind me and carefully stepped over it to sit beside him on the bed.
"I d-don't know why you'd st-stick around," he said, his tone darkening. "I'm j-j-just milking you for s-sympathy, you know."
"Don't," I said, probably a little more severely than I should. Peeta frowned, turning to look at me. "I don't care if she's your mother, that woman is a soulless bitch and is not fucking worth this." Peeta stared at me, clearly at a complete loss for words. "You're better than she is, and you're better off without her. All of you are." He looked down, chewing his lip. I could see him turning the statement over in his head.
"Thank you," he said, quietly breaking a long stretch of silence. I leaned closer to him, bumping my shoulder against his.
"I told her off," I said. He looked over at me, raising an eyebrow. I just smirked and pressed my lips together.
"What d-did you—say?" Peeta looked as though he couldn't decide whether he was horrified or impressed.
"I set the record straight," I shrugged. "I told them both what you're actually going through, like you told me to the first time we sat down together. And I told her to stop lying, and that only idiots like the Fisks believe a word of what she has to say. She turned purple. And I think I might have also threatened Mrs. Fisk. That was probably a mistake." I pursed my lips to the side, trying to remember exactly what had come out of my mouth. A slow smile broke out over Peeta's face that progressed into a brief burst of laughter.
"I b-broke the lamp." he shook his head and rubbed his hand over his forehead.
"It had it coming," I smirked. He snorted. "I'll help you clean it up." I set my hand on his knee and pushed to my feet, crouching down and picking up the crumpled shade so I could sweep the broken shards of the ceramic base together.
"What's up your ass?" Rye slowed his pace, looking over his shoulder at me as I caught up with him.
"What? Nothing." I frowned at him, and he imitated an expression far worse than the one I realized I was making.
"You've been stomping behind me for like, half a mile," he hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction we came. "Are you going to be a pain in the ass all day?"
"I am not a pain in the ass." I folded my arms over my chest, hugging my books against myself. Rye snorted.
"Yeah, okay," he scoffed. I huffed and walked faster. "At least tell me what it's about so I know exactly how to piss you off even more."
"Fuck you," I said, glancing back at him. I caught sight of Delly a few paces behind us, a slightly concerned look on her face as she watched us. I turned around and raised my voice, slapping on the most indignant expression I could muster. "And for the last time I am not staying late to sneak down into that basement with you!"
"What?" Rye stopped, staring after me. Before I turned around I saw Delly stop beside him. She crossed her arms over her chest, cocking an eyebrow as she slowly turned toward him. That put a smile back on my face. I glanced back at them before slipping down the alley between the bakery and the tailor just in time to see Rye drop his shoulders and tilt his head back in exasperation while Delly fussed at him.
I could hear voices in the kitchen as I climbed the back steps. I recognized my mother and Twain, but there was another woman whose voice I didn't recognize. Whatever they were talking about was eliciting an embarrassed groan out of Twain and entirely too much laughter out of both my mother and whoever else was in there. I climbed the back porch and let myself in, setting my books down on the bench in the mudroom.
"I'm honestly not entirely sure how you handle them all," Mom laughed.
"You'd better be glad I do," the other woman spoke. I hung my jacket on the wall, casting a curious glance toward the kitchen. "The state he'd have this place in is shameful."
"Darla, please," Twain chuckled. The three of them were sitting around the worktable with Twain covering his face and chuckling as he shook his head.
"Hey, sweetie," Mom looked up at me as I walked into the kitchen. Darla whirled around on her stool, beaming at me.
"Katniss! I'm so glad to finally meet you!" She slid off her stool and pulled me into a hug. Darla was Phyl's wife, I knew that much, but given the few times I'd met the eldest Mellark boy I wasn't entirely sure what to expect of her. "I've been hearing so much about you. I just haven't been able to find the time to get over when you've been here."
"Um, it's good to meet you, too," I said, mostly to be polite. She pulled back, holding me by the shoulders and smiling. She was tiny, at least half a foot shorter than me. Everything about her was delicate and soft, and she had her wispy blonde hair pinned up off her neck. There was something warm and comforting about her I couldn't quite reconcile with my impression of her husband.
"I can always tell when you've been here. Peeta's always a little more talkative. And, well, Rye's always a little surlier," she said. I couldn't help but chuckle at that as she sat back down.
"Where is he, by the way?" Twain asked.
"He'll be along soon, I'm sure," I said as I pressed my lips together to hold back my smile. "I'm sure he'll be in a winning mood when he gets here, too."
"Anything I need to be prepared for?" Twain raised an eyebrow.
"I have no doubt he'll fill you in himself," I said, ignoring the annoyance on Mom's face. She had taken issue with some of the stories she'd heard about the way Rye and I spoke to each other in this kitchen.
"Peeta's upstairs," Darla said in a half whisper, leaning close to me. I smiled and nodded hesitantly, unsure if that meant I was free to go up to see him before starting work. As soon as I heard the footsteps on the back steps I stopped caring. I didn't particularly want my mother to witness the torrent of verbal abuse I knew Rye was itching to unleash on me.
"Go ahead," Twain smiled, answering the question I hadn't even had the chance to ask him.
"Thanks," I glanced toward the back door as it opened and headed for the stairs, all but running up them as it slammed shut. I found Peeta in his bedroom, the shades drawn and the room dim. He looked up from where he sat on the bed, back to the wall, as I rapped my knuckle against the door frame. "Hey."
"Hi." He gave me a lopsided smile that was quickly replaced with confusion at the sound of Rye's shouting drifting up from downstairs.
"Yeah, that might be my fault," I smirked and scratched my forehead.
"What did you d-do?" he said as I crossed the room to sit beside him, scooting back against the wall and kicking off my shoes.
"I may have made Delly think he's been hitting on me." I smiled and bit my lip as Peeta laughed.
"L-let me guess," he said, shifting toward me, crossing his arms over his chest and putting on a perfect imitation of the expression that had been on Delly's face just before I left the two of them behind. I laughed, my shoulders hunching forward. It was hard to tell in the low light, but I swear I saw Peeta blush as he sat back again. "He-he's not—is he?"
"Oh, ew, no," I shook my head.
"Okay," Peeta dropped his gaze. He had his sketchbook in his lap, flipped open to a page I couldn't quite see. I reached for it, and he flinched.
"Please?" I said, taking the edge in my hand without moving it from where it rested against his legs. He stuttered for a moment, not quite able to get out an answer. I took that as consent, pulling the book closer. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust fully enough to make out the light pencil marks on the page. It was their backyard, the view from his bedroom window. It was perfect, down the leaves on the tree by the alley, the pigs and chickens they shared with the tailor next door. "Peeta, this is amazing." I looked over at him before turning back to the beginning and flipping through each page slowly.
"Th-thank you," he said quietly. I could feel him watching me as I looked through the pages. He seemed nervous, and when I glanced over at him his eyes seemed to beg for approval. I wondered if he was even aware of that. The pages were filled with sketches of the bakery, the square, his family. Twain sitting by the till with a book in his hand and his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Rye and Delly playing cards in the kitchen. Even his mother, in profile, knuckles pressed to her mouth with a distant look on her face. I flipped past that one quickly. The next page was a drawing of Phyl and Darla, both of their hands pressed to the swell of her pregnant belly. He captured their expressions so perfectly, something I could truly appreciate after having just met her and been on the receiving end of her impossibly warm and maternal smile. "These are incredible."
"Th-thanks," Peeta said, his voice soft. I smiled at him, reaching over and touching his hand lightly before I continued looking through the pages. I stopped on a page of faces. His family again. Phyl and Darla in the corner. He looked a little more like the Phyl I'd met in this picture, his face grim and serious, but she was still smiling.
"Okay, I just met Darla." I set my hand on the page, shaking my head for a moment. "And I've met Phyl a few times. How is it that-" I paused, staring at the opposite wall and trying to figure out how to tactfully phrase what I wanted to ask.
"Sh-she's so nice and Phyl is such a d-dick?" Peeta supplied. I snorted, pressing my hand over my mouth as I nodded. "We're st-still trying to figure that out t-too." I laughed. He smiled, looking down at his hands as he rubbed his wrist. The injury still bothered him, I knew that, and I wondered what was making the pain flare up today. I looked through the rest of the sketchbook, stopping on an unfinished page near the end of it. I pulled my knees up, the shading on this was even lighter than the rest and harder to see with what little light leaked in around the shades. It looked familiar, though. A field, a gnarled oak tree off to one side, and the hint of a fence just being penciled in at the edge.
"Is this the meadow?" I asked, turning toward him. It stood on the outskirts of the District, halfway between town and the seam, as far as you could get from either without being in the other. It was where Gale and I gathered dandelion greens in the early morning hours when spring first began. Peeta's face was tight; his jaw clenched. He nodded briefly, and I started to feel as though I'd done something wrong or maybe seen something I shouldn't have. I flipped to the next page—blank. Then I realized that was the last thing Peeta had drawn. Maybe the last thing he ever would with the same ease and skill that the rest of his drawings made so obvious. And he didn't even finish it. I closed the book, sliding my hand over the cardboard cover and looking up at him.
Peeta was turned away from me, rubbing his hand over his jaw the way he did when he was trying to hide his twitch. I set the sketchbook aside and shifted closer, setting my hand on his shoulder. He flinched at my touch. I jerked my hand back.
"Sorry," I said softly. I tried again and tugged at his shoulder gently, wanting to turn him back to me. He wiped at his eyes and let me turn him back. He was crying. That was obvious even in the low light. The furrow of his brow and the way he kept his chin ducked away from me told me he didn't want me to see it. My heart tightened, and I moved even closer, turning toward him and pulling him against me. He stiffened at first, but his arms moved around me, his hands trembling against my back. I tightened my hold on him and rubbed my hand over the back of his neck. "It's okay."
"N-no. It's n-n-not," he said so quietly I wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't been so close to me. I felt his tears soak into my shirt and nearly cried with him. No one deserves to suffer so much, but it seemed especially cruel that he was robbed of everything he had by his own mother—the one person who was supposed to love and protect him no matter what. Even my mother, who had some frightening moments in the months after my father's death, had never once made us feel unloved.
I laid my cheek against his hair, rubbing my hand over his back as sobs wracked his shoulders. I knew he was vulnerable, and I'd seen him hurting, but up until now he had done his best to hide it from me. Whatever was going through his head, or whatever he was feeling that pushed him to this had to have been awful. His breathing slowed, evening out, and he abruptly pulled back. He wiped his face, drawing in a breath. He dropped back against the wall and turned his face away from me. The scar caught my eye, the scabbing finally gone, wispy pale hairs growing along the edges.
"You s-should probably—g-go," he croaked. I watched as he rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Gotta w-work, right?"
"Do you want me to go?" I asked. He dropped his hands, glancing toward me without quite meeting my eyes. I waited, trying to figure out why the idea unsettled me so much. After a few moments of silence he shook his head, his mouth twisting into a hard frown. "Then I think your dad and Rye can handle the bakery themselves."
Peeta looked down at his hands, all but chewing through his lip. I wished that I had some idea of what was going on in his head. Or that I could at least ask without feeling like I was tormenting him. His speech truly had improved, but today it seemed worse. His twitching was more prominent, and he was having a hard time disguising any of the things he usually did. I moved a little closer, reaching over and setting my hand on top of both of his. The look on his face was so honest and open and real I felt like I needed to do something and had no idea what.
So I kissed him.
When I pulled back his entire body was tense, his eyes were pressed closed, and his breathing was slow and purposeful. I sat back against the wall, moving to pull my hand away, and he caught it in his, holding onto me. I looked over at him, trying to figure out if that was the right thing to do, or if I'd crossed some kind of line he didn't want crossed. He opened his eyes, dropping his gaze when he realized I was looking at him, and let go of my hand.
"Peeta, I'm-"
"Please," he looked down at his hands again, biting down on his lip. "D-don't say—anything."
I looked away, chewing on the side of my thumb and trying to figure out what the hell I just did and what the hell to do now. Neither of us moved for a long time. I kept gearing up to speak, trying to come up with something worth saying, and drawing a complete blank. I didn't think announcing that it was the dumbest thing I'd ever done was probably a good idea, but that was certainly what I was feeling.
"K-Katniss," he said, finally breaking the silence. I looked over at him, pressing my lips together. The look on his face made me feel horribly guilty. He hesitated, glancing at me before continuing. "D-don't—pity me. I d-don't want that."
"I don't pity you," I said quietly. He frowned at the edge of the bed, his face angled toward me. "I don't. I feel bad for you. What you're going through is awful, but that's different." Peeta swallowed hard before looking over toward the window. I looked down at his sketchbook on the bed beside me and ran my finger along the edge before picking it up. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's f-fine," he said, his voice soft and hurt. I'm not sure if he meant that I didn't, or that I did and he was forgiving me, or even if we were talking about his drawings or the kiss. I also wasn't sure how to ask. I passed the book back to him. He accepted it, laying it on the bed on his other side, pressing his palm against the cover and closing his eyes for a moment. "I'll meet you d-downstairs in a few m-minutes?"
"Okay," I nodded, hesitating a moment before easing off the bed. That was without a doubt a dismissal, but if I'd done anything terribly wrong he wouldn't have offered to go downstairs. Unless, of course, he was trying to get rid of me, which was entirely possible. I'd probably want to get rid of me too after a dumb stunt like that. I picked my shoes up off of the floor, pausing to look back at him from the doorway. He hadn't moved and didn't look up at me. I cursed myself under my breath as I moved down the hall toward the stairs, stopping at the top to pull my shoes back on before stomping down them.
"Well it's about fucking time," Rye snapped as soon as I hit the bottom step. My mother and Darla were both long gone. "Just going to fuck up my relationship and my job all in one day? You are a delightful fucking ray of sunshine today."
"Can it, Mellark, I'm not in the mood," I snapped. I got to work immediately, stocking the last batch of bread for the day in the cases; a small one to tide over the customers who were uppity enough to turn their noses at the morning's baking as 'not fresh enough'. It must be nice.
Peeta came down not long after I had the cases stocked. He sat at the table, understandably reticent about talking to me. I wasn't sure how to take it or how to act. It didn't help at all that Rye was constantly shooting glares at me. They were too carefully timed with the times I started to move toward Peeta, or say something to him, to be solely about Delly. Eventually I just gave up, focused on the work, blocked Rye out and did my best to get Peeta to strike up a conversation. If I had made a mistake upstairs I wasn't about to let it ruin a good friendship. I could barely even get him to make eye contact, though.
I worried over what Rye had told me about pushing too fast. Did I just throw myself at Peeta? Did I scare the shit out of him in the process? I think I may have scared the shit out of myself. He had a hard time even looking at me, it seemed. He startled when I touched him, spoke a little more softly, and stuttered just as much as he had in the beginning. I was supposed to be helping him, and I'd set him back months with one stupid gesture.
My preoccupation with it carried me right through to the exams before winter break. I hardly even noticed the week slip by until the exams were in front of me. A full day of tests I hadn't studied for felt like torture on top of it all. I knew before I even got my scores back that I hadn't done as well as my usual As and Bs. But I passed, at least, and I doubted Mom would have much to say about it.
The week had also managed to bring the first significant snowfall of the year, long overdue, and the route to the bakery was a slushy mess. Madge and I took the path to town together, discussing plans for the break, when I'd visit and when she'd be out to the Seam. She had noticed how I was acting, of course. Nothing slipped by Madge. She had the good graces to let it go, though, after the first couple days of teasing did nothing to snap me out of it.
We parted ways before the square. Madge took the path that continued on to the municipal side of town. I veered off toward the bakery, picking my way through the alley to the back through the footsteps Rye had worn into the snow drifts. I could hear voices in the kitchen as I climbed the back steps. I let myself in and hung my coat in the back room as someone dropped a stack of trays into the sink with a loud clatter.
"Un-fucking-believable," Twain snapped. I stepped into the doorway cautiously. I'd never heard him swear like that, or raise his voice, or show any sort of anger, but it was him who threw the trays.
"I told you that it's a waste of time," Rye said. He was leaning against the end of the worktable with his arms folded over his chest. He smirked at me. "No real point in going back, I guess."
"You're f-" Twain spun around, cutting himself off when he saw me and blowing out a breath. He combed his hand through his hair, leveling his gaze at Rye.
"What's going on?" I asked, looking from one to the other.
"This as-" Twain pointed at Rye, stopping himself from cursing in front of me. "My son has decided that proving a point is more important than his education."
"I didn't do too hot on my exams," Rye shrugged. Twain snatched the papers off of the table behind him.
"I'm pretty sure you get more points than this for spelling your damn name," Twain said as he shook the papers in Rye's face. I could see the red marks all over them from where I stood. Twain pulled one out, raising his eyebrows and reading from it. "'A triangle has a perimeter of 56. If two sides are equal and the third side is 8 more than the equal sides, what is the length of the third side?' You wrote a recipe for cheese buns." He slapped the papers against Rye's chest. I snorted, covering my mouth before I could start laughing. Twain gave me a look.
"I'm sorry. That's not funny," I said, pressing my lips together.
"My history exam is a particularly engaging series of stick figure drawings of Mr Wilson. Wanna see?" Rye flipped through the pages, and Twain snatched them back.
"Will you do some damn work?" he spat, rolling his shoulders and stalking out to the storefront. Rye folded his arms across his chest again and grinned at me.
"I'm not going back to school," he said.
"Yes, you are." Twain popped into the doorway, scowling and pointing at Rye. "I get four more months of you out of my hair for seven hours every weekday, and I will be damned if you take that away from me." Rye snorted, turning to me and shaking his head as soon as Twain disappeared from view again.
"You're an idiot," I said, snatching a pair of aprons off the wall and throwing one at him. He laughed, snatching it out of the air before it hit him and tying it around his waist. "Am I going to have to spend even more time with you now?"
"You mean you aren't excited to spend the next six weeks hanging out in here with me?" Rye raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because I'm absolutely fucking thrilled about getting more quality time with you." I flipped him off before turning to the sink to wash the trays Twain left there.
Peeta didn't even make the trip downstairs. Once the work was under control I went looking for him. I found his bedroom door opened just a crack and carefully pushed it open. He was curled up in bed facing the wall, blankets pulled up around his shoulders. I said his name quietly. He didn't respond, but I didn't think he was actually sleeping either.
"Just wanted to come say hi," I said softly, and got no response. I stepped back, pulling the door closed and startling when I saw Twain leaning against the wall by the kitchen. I hadn't even heard him come upstairs, and I wondered how long I'd been standing there staring at Peeta without even realizing it.
"Snow's starting again," he said, offering a faint smile and glancing at the bedroom door. "I just want to make sure you get home safely."
"I'll head out," I nodded, chewing the inside of my lip and glancing toward Peeta's door.
"Mind coming by around 10 on Tuesday morning?" Twain asked. I raised my eyebrows and looked up at him.
"Sure," I shrugged.
"You don't have to put any extra time in over break if you don't want to," he said. "You're welcome any time you like. I can always use an extra set of hands. Not to mention you get paid by the hour," he smirked. I chuckled softly, looking down at the floor. "I just want to make sure you know that you don't have to work extra just because you're out of school."
"I know." I smiled a little and looked up at him. "I like it here." He smiled and nodded before pushing himself away from the wall.
"Good," he tossed his head toward the stairs. "Now get out of here before the weather turns foul and your mother comes to kill me."
The snow kept us homebound for the weekend. By the time the storm had passed it had dropped nearly three feet of snow over the course of two days. Gale and I spent Monday digging our homes out, shoveling paths between our houses, and clearing off the roof over my front porch as best we could. It was close to caving on one side and really should have been repaired over the summer. It fell by the wayside, as so much did. Now it would have to wait for spring or until it finally did collapse. Whichever came first.
On Tuesday Mom and I slowly picked our way to the bakery down the narrow footpaths that had been started in the snow. The District didn't bother clearing snow outside of town. Even in town it wasn't exactly a priority. Twain had been out front last week clearing snow from the front of the bakery. As soon as we hit the square, though, I could see Rye had gotten stuck with the task today. He spent just as much time peering across the square toward the Cartwright's shoe shop as he did actually shoveling. I knew he'd be disappearing before the day was over. Mom and Twain were taking Peeta to see Dr. Lawrence for a good chunk of the day, and that was only going to make it easier for him.
"Peeta's out back," Twain said as soon as we stepped into the storefront. The alley that led to the back still hadn't been cleared of snow.
"Is that a hint?" I smirked, scraping my boots against the mat just inside the door.
"He's nervous," Twain said, smiling and glancing toward my mother before I continued through the kitchen to the back porch.
Peeta was crouched by the pig pen with one hand through the slats in the fence and the other braced against the boards for balance. Two of their sows were trying to nose each other out of the way to get his attention. A narrow path had been cleared leading from the porch to the pens. I stood on the steps, watching him speak softly to the two animals while he scratched along their jaws. I couldn't quite hear what he was saying and moved closer. The bottom stair creaked under my foot, and he snapped his attention toward me, smiling and dropping his eyes as a deep blush crept over his face.
"Hi." I crossed the yard to him as he grabbed ahold of the top of the fence, pulling himself up. The pigs snuffled in disapproval and raced each other back into the shed.
"They—hate the c-cold," he said, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt as he watched them. "E-especially the snow."
"Yeah, me too." I leaned against the fence next to him, backhanding his arm lightly. Even out in the cold without a coat he felt hot. "Nervous about today?"
"N-no," he lifted his chin, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. I raised an eyebrow, and he smiled and looked away, scratching up under the edge of his hat. "Yeah."
"It's not because anything is wrong, though, is it? Mom didn't really tell me," I said.
"No, just to—ch-ch-" he paused and closed his eyes for a moment. He must have been nervous if he was struggling this much to speak after how much better he'd gotten. "Check my p-progress."
"Nothing to be worried about, then. Right?" I shrugged and smiled at him, and he shot me a look that told me how completely wrong I was. I chuckled, turning toward the fence and bumping my shoulder against his. He smiled and shook his head.
"Peet," Twain called from the porch, and both of us turned to look at him. He was leaning against the rail, arms crossed over his chest with a wry smile on his face. I couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been standing there watching us. "Let's get going."
Peeta nodded and glanced over at me, drawing a deep breath and holding it for a moment before blowing it out and dropping his shoulders. I smiled and slapped his back lightly as he moved past me toward the house. Twain led us in, picking up Peeta's coat from the mudroom and absently holding it out while he listed the things he needed Rye to finish before they returned. Rye wasn't even bothering to listen.
"Hey," Twain picked up a towel and threw it at Rye, finally getting him to turn away from the counter. "And you need to do them. Darla will be here in a few, and Katniss is going to help her today."
"I am?" I asked, unsure of exactly what Darla did for them.
"What?" Rye snapped before glaring at me as if I had something to do with the decision. "So I'm here alone, basically."
"For four hours, yes. You can handle it," Twain raised an eyebrow. "You're so dead set on dropping out to do this and nothing else, prove that you actually can." Rye frowned, knowing there was nothing he could even say in response. Mom hid a smile behind her hand.
"D-Darla's a little excited sh-she's not the only w-woman in the house now," Peeta said, picking up on my confusion.
"Should I be nervous?" I asked quietly, remembering the exuberant hug I'd gotten the one and only time I'd met her.
"Should I?" Peeta smirked. I laughed softly and backhanded his arm.
"Come on," Twain hooked his arm around Peeta's shoulders and ushered him forward through the storefront.
"Try not to kill each other," Mom smirked at me, cutting her eyes at Rye for a moment. "Or burn the place down."
"No promises," Rye said, narrowing his eyes at me as Mom left.
"Are you actually mad that I have to hang out with your sister-in-law?" I cocked an eyebrow at him. "I don't think I can handle her. I thought you enjoyed my misery."
"Do not talk shit about Darla. That woman is a saint," Rye pointed at me, his face completely serious. He dropped his hand, a slow smile spreading across his face that escalated to a low chuckle. "You definitely have to do my laundry today. That's awesome."
"Wait, what?" I stared at him, and he just laughed harder. The bell out front rang, and he wiped his hands on his apron, still laughing as he walked out to the storefront.
"Hey, Darla," he said, with more affection in his voice than I think I'd ever heard out of him.
"Hey, Trouble," Darla said. I heard the doors at the other end of the counter swing open, and Darla greeted Rye by the doorway a moment later with a hug and a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "Did you filthy up the place for me?"
"Well, you know I'd hate to disappoint," he smirked, glancing back at me. "I don't want it to be too easy on the two of you."
"Oh good!" Darla leaned around Rye and beamed at me. "I was hoping for the help." She poked Rye in the chest. "And you're the one that's outnumbered today."
"I kinda like it." Rye followed her into the kitchen.
"Don't be vile," she snapped before turning to me. "I hope you don't mind a little cleaning. These boys are animals."
"You're the one who married into this," Rye said as he went back to the batch of dough he had out on the counter. "Where's LT?"
"With his grandmother," Darla said, her smile vanishing the second the sentence left her mouth. She snapped her head towards Rye. "The good one."
"I certainly fucking hope so," he muttered.
"I figured you wouldn't mind being spared this one for the day," she turned back to me and pointed her thumb toward Rye.
"I definitely don't mind that," I said, drawing a laugh out of Darla.
"Hey," Rye snapped, looking over at us. "I am a delight."
"Sure you are, sweetie," Darla said in the most condescending tone I think I'd ever heard. I snorted and covered my mouth. "Now why don't you put on your big boy pants and prove you really are better off here instead of in school."
"Don't worry, I put them on this morning," he shot Darla a grin over his shoulder, crossing his eyes before turning back to his work. She just laughed, hooking her arm through mine and hauling me up the stairs like we were little girls at a sleepover.
"I've been coming over to clean for them and set things in order since Lilith left," Darla explained as soon as we reached the second floor. "Well. Since she was rightfully kicked the hell out."
"They can't take care of themselves?" I raised an eyebrow and Darla just laughed, leading the way down the hall.
"Honey," she said, giving me a look before pushing open the door to Peeta and Rye's room. There were clothes covering the floor, worse than I'd ever seen it, to the point that the actual floorboards were barely visible beneath them. Neither of the beds were made, the blankets a bundled up mess, and the sheets on Rye's were barely even on the mattress. I just laughed, and Darla held up her hand before turning around and stepping across the hall to push open the door to Twain's room. It looked exactly the same, if not a little worse. I just laughed even harder. The bakery was immaculate, and though the upstairs kitchen and living room were a little cluttered. I occasionally caught sight of dishes in the sink, but there was nothing to give away what Darla had just showed me. "Between keeping that bakery running, looking out for Peeta, and fighting the uphill battle to keep Rye under control—not to mention the divorce, though thank god that's over with—Twain doesn't have the time to deal with any of this. So I do."
"I didn't really think of that," I said, leaning against the wall in the hallway as she moved into the small laundry room tucked between the office and the boys' room to haul out a laundry basket.
"They didn't either," she winked at me as she carried the basket into the boys' room. I followed behind her, stopping at the door and watching as she started piling the clothes from the floor into the basket. She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled. "A helper would be much more appreciated than a spectator."
"Sorry," I smiled sheepishly and stepped into the room to help. I tried adding this in to what I considered my job, tried not to think about what an idiot I'd made of myself sitting right on that bed with Peeta barely a week and a half ago. Mostly I tried not to think about the fact that somewhere in the jumble of clothing I was purposefully not looking too closely at was Peeta's underwear. And Rye's, for that matter.
"Do you like working at the bakery?" Darla smiled, glancing over her shoulder at me as she yanked the blankets from Rye's bed before pulling up the sheets and tossing them on top of the pile of laundry in the basket.
"I do," I hesitated for a moment before following her example and doing the same to Peeta's bed. "I like coming here. And it feels good not to, um, struggle as much." I bit down on the inside of my lip, wishing I hadn't said that. I had no real idea what Phyl did for work beyond the fact that he worked for the District government, but I knew he was paid well enough to afford a townhouse on the municipal side of town, not far from where Madge lived, and that Darla didn't have to work. A stay at home mother was not something that happened in the seam by choice, and even in town there were very few women who didn't need to work to keep their family going.
"They love having you here, you know," she gracefully avoided the comment. She put one knee up on Rye's mattress, leaning across and wedging her hand between the mattress and the wall, gingerly pulling out a towel and immediately dropping it into the basket before doing the same on Peeta's side of the room. I followed her back to the hall, leaning against the door frame as she dropped the basket on the floor in the small laundry room. The Mellarks had an actual electric washer and a small dryer beside it. I couldn't help but think of poor Hazelle and her dry, cracked hands that looked decades older than she was from the constant scalding as she scrubbed laundry in the galvanized tub she kept by the fire in the living room. "And Twain is a wonderful, kind man. Peeta is so very much like him." Darla smiled to herself as she stuffed the boys' sheets into the washer. "Rye is...um."
"An ass?" I stepped forward and started separating the rest of the laundry—something I certainly never bothered with when it was left to me at home. Darla laughed.
"Rye is a good boy," she barely gets out before she gets her laughter under control. "Somewhere under there. I promise. He just doesn't want anyone to know about it."
"He seems fond of you," I said, thinking of the way he all but snapped at me for even speaking about Darla just before she arrived.
"He is very protective of the people he loves," she said, a faint smile never quite leaving her face. "To a fault, sometimes. I think you're falling under that little umbrella for him."
"What?" I paused, looking up at her.
"Rye loves Peeta. And you have done amazing things for him, things I know you don't even see, but Rye sees them," she looked up at me, her smile broadening briefly. She must have seen the confusion in my face. After tossing the shirts in her hands into one of the piles on the floor she rested her hands on the edge of the laundry basket, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "I'm not sure how to explain it, but with all three of the boys—and especially with Twain—the people they care about are family. They become part of the family, if that makes sense. Everything you and your mother have done to help around here..." Darla shook her head and reached into the basket to continue. "You're Mellarks now."
I chewed my lip, turning over the idea in my head. It didn't feel like I had done very much, though I didn't doubt that my mother had. I got paid for most of the time I spent at the bakery, hardly something that should make me family. But maybe that was what had scared Peeta off so much. Any affection he accepted from me was no different to him than affection I shared with Prim. If he thought of me as anything more as a friend, it was as a sister, and it was no wonder that had bothered him so much.
We repeated the task in Twain's room, dividing the laundry and moving on to other chores as the laundry cycles ran. Darla pushed me into the kitchen to clean while she finished the bedrooms. Eventually we ended up sitting in the living room, folding the laundry as it came out of the dryer. I couldn't tell any of it apart, aside from a few things I recognized as Peeta's simply from seeing him wear them. Darla pointed out what belonged to who with hardly more than a glance in between telling stories about her son. He was six months old, had just mastered sitting up on his own, and did nothing but babble nonsense.
"I'd like to meet him," I said, smiling to myself as I thought of Posy as a baby. My memories of her were hazy at best, but she was adorable, and very sweet. Somehow she managed to stay that way. I remembered her learning to crawl, and Darla seemed to think Little Twain was fast approaching that. If that was the case, the window of my tolerance for small children was rapidly closing on him.
"I'd like that, too," she smiled, then dropped her hands into her lap and looked up at me. "You should come for dinner! You and Peeta can both come, and I promise Phyl will behave. I can't imagine your impression of him is all that great."
"I've really only met him in passing," I said, biting back a smile.
"Don't worry, I know that's a polite way to say he was rude," Darla smirked at me. "He can be very much like his mother in some ways." I frowned and kept my eyes on the pants I was folding. Anything about that woman made me bristle. Darla seemed to sense it. "Not in the ways that are making you make that face."
"I just don't-" I paused and shook my head, unsure of what, exactly, I really wanted to say. "I don't get it."
"Lilith has not had an easy life," she said, scowling briefly. "That doesn't excuse anything about her behavior. But it might explain it." I just bit down on the inside of my lip to stop myself from telling her how I really felt about it. And about Peeta's mother. A few minutes of tense silence passed before I realized Darla was looking at me. And that I had refolded the same shirt about six times. "You care about him."
"Peeta?" I asked, Darla smiled and nodded. "I do. We're friends."
"And he's a wonderful friend to have," she said, shaking out and folding the bath towels. "Far better than those people he used to spend his time with certainly deserve. I know you know them."
"I do," I frowned, making sure she could hear exactly how unimpressed I was just by the sound of my voice.
"Don't judge him based on them," she glanced up at me. "I know you've spent enough time with him to form your own opinion, but that impression might have stuck around."
"Not really," I shrugged, thinking back to the day I overheard the kids he used to call his friends talking about him; the things they were saying, how they'd never even bothered to check on him. "I guess I used to lump him in with them. That's changed, though."
"Good," Darla smiled, looking me over for a moment before getting up for the last of the laundry. The rest of the work went quickly; putting away the laundry, dusting, piecing the bedrooms back together. I was finishing making the boys' beds when I heard Darla swear quietly from the hall. She leaned into the room. "Katniss, I have to get going. I have to pick Little Twain up from my mother's in a few minutes, I didn't realize how late it had gotten. Do you remember where I took these from?" She held up the towels she'd pulled out from behind the boys' mattresses earlier. I nodded, and she tossed them to me. "Good. Put them back for me? The third one goes under Twain's mattress. Left side. I'll see you soon, we'll plan that dinner." She smiled and winked at me before disappearing, and I listened to her footsteps on the stairs, staring at the towels in my hand and wondering what the hell they were for. That thought was quickly replaced by the realization I'd somehow been roped into dinner with Peeta and his family.
"So are we going to spend any time with you at all this break, or are you going to be at the bakery every day?" Madge stretched her leg out across the couch and jabbed my hip with her toe.
"You're spending today with me, aren't you?" I slapped her foot away and pointed at Gale where he sat on the floor, back against a coffee table, feet up on the couch. "And you see me every damn morning."
"Hunting is work," he said without bothering to look up from the book in his lap. He was working his way through a plate of dried apple slices on the floor beside him and popped a few pieces into his mouth. "Doesn't count."
"We've only been out for a week." I raised an eyebrow, looking from one of them to the other. "And three days of that it snowed."
"Yes, and the rest of the time you spent with your boyfriend," Madge smirked.
"I spent it working," I frowned at her.
"Look, if you're going to be one of those girls who gets a guy and then just forgets about everyone and everything else in your life that's fine, just warn me," she said. Gale chuckled, and I just glared at her. She laughed, muttering an apology she didn't really mean before leaning over and snatching the book from Gale's hands, thumping the top of his head with it and scolding him for being antisocial.
"Are you going to spend the next five weeks annoying me about this?" I asked.
"Of course she is," Gale smirked, yanking the book out of her hand and tossing it out of reach.
"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?" Madge flashed a grin at me. I just rolled my eyes. The three of us lounged around the upstairs sitting room for a few hours, talking about school, our finals and Gale's birthday approaching in a couple of weeks. Madge wanted to host a dinner for him and invite a few of his friends from the seam, completely oblivious to the misery they'd put him through over a birthday dinner at the mayor's mansion, so I encouraged it. I would have loved to see that embarrassment fall onto him. Sometimes I thought he'd forgotten what he got himself into with Madge.
The discussion, inevitably, devolved into Gale's graduation in the spring and what he'd be doing after that. I'd heard this argument between the two of them enough to know exactly how it would go. Madge's father had already lined up a job for Gale with the District, and he wanted nothing to do with it. His plan was to go into the mines, the same as anyone else, and he resented the idea of anything being handed to him. They'd debate it for at least a half an hour, if not more, until going into a complete stalemate. I reached for the book Gale had tossed aside earlier to occupy my attention until they'd worn themselves out.
Gale left shortly afterward. Madge stopped me when I tried to go as well, dragging me back to her room and pushing me to sit down on the bed before dropping down beside me. I just raised an eyebrow, more than a little confused by the expectant look on her face.
"What?" I said.
"Something happened," she said, and her expression didn't falter for a second. I shrugged, even more confused. "Okay, you used to be all over chances to talk about Peeta, and you've been all tight lipped and weird since before we got out of school. Something happened. Tell me."
"Nothing," I looked away, and I could feel my face getting hot as I thought about that kiss. It was stupid, I was stupid, and admitting that stupidity to Madge was not on my list of things to do that day. Or ever.
"You do not blush over nothing," Madge smirked. "In fact, you don't blush at all. I'm not letting you leave until you tell me."
"Really, it's nothing," I shrugged, still not quite able to look at her. "I haven't even really been talking to him as much as I used to. He comes down while I'm working sometimes, but he's been sleeping a lot, so..." I trailed off, hoping that was good enough for her. It wasn't entirely the truth. Things were a little more awkward than they had been, and I was pretty sure every time I'd gone upstairs to find him asleep he was faking.
"Why," she said, and it wasn't even a question. That meant I had to answer, or she wasn't going to let it go. I glanced at her, blowing out a breath and trying to figure out what I could say without actually telling the truth to satisfy her. I was coming up completely empty. "Katniss."
"I kissed him," I blurted out. Madge slapped my leg.
"I knew it," she snapped, grinning ear to ear.
"It was stupid," I said, giving her a pointed look that I hoped would wipe that smile off her face. It only faltered for a moment. "He's not interested in that, and it scared him off. That's when things started getting weird, and he started closing off again. I didn't just fuck up being friends with him, I'm a little worried I fucked up his therapy, too."
"There is no way that kissing him fucked everything up," she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"He used to talk to me," I shrugged. "All the time. And as far as I know he didn't really talk to anyone else. He used to hang out in the kitchen while I was working, and now he only bothers coming downstairs maybe half of the time I'm there. And when he does he's quiet and awkward."
"Did you ever think that maybe it's because he likes you?" Madge raised an eyebrow. I all but rolled my eyes.
"His sister-in-law said they think of me and Mom like family," I pointed out, hoping maybe that would end the entire debate.
"So he does like you," she said, as if that somehow supported her stance instead of mine. "And when did you talk to Darla? She's my cousin, you know."
"Really?" I asked. Madge nodded. "She was at the bakery on Monday, and she invited me and Peeta to dinner at her place." A slow smile broke out over her face. "What?"
"She's setting you up on a date," she said, practically brimming with excitement at the prospect.
"She wants me to meet her son," I said.
"Bullshit," Madge countered, grinning ear to ear. "She wants you to get with her husband's baby brother. When's the big date?"
"Tomorrow," I said, slouching and looking away. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it. As awkward as things had been with Peeta and I, not to mention how awkward getting to know two new people would be, the night was looking like it would be just shy of torture. Madge pushed up off of the bed, walking over to her closet and pulling open the doors. She pushed a few hangers aside before pulling something down and tossing it at me.
"Wear that," she said as I caught it. It was simple; brown, short sleeves, buttons down the front, tied at the waist. I'd seen Madge wear it a few times.
"I am not wearing a dress," I stared at it, raising an eyebrow before looking up at her. I had worn a dress exactly one day per year since I turned twelve, and that was Reaping Day. Granted, I was looking forward to this only slightly more. "And for the record, it's not a date."
"I'll say it again," Madge grinned, digging out a pair of leggings and low heeled shoes, tossing those at me as well before straightening up. "Bull. Shit. You're going on a date. Dress like you are." She turned around, folding her arms across her chest and straightening up, raising her chin like she was challenging me. I frowned, knowing I'd already lost that battle.
Finally. Right? Thank you guys for all the support and reviews and messages, you're all awesome. As always, you can find me on tumblr as alonglineofbread, and my dashing coauthor/husband as yourpeetaisshowing.