Part One

Chapter Eight

Every muscle in my body protests as I stretch, the morning sun pulling me out of sleep. It's so quiet compared to my old apartment: no rush of traffic, no sirens, no loud music being played from the third floor apartment. The quiet seems loud in it's own way.

I'll deal with 24 N. Webster Street another day. Today is about cleaning this dump up. If I'm being honest with myself, it might take me days to dig through the heaps of trash and filth that Haymitch has been honing for years. But time I have and the cleaning should be a welcome distraction from my brain.

Peeta.

I don't intend on turning on my phone quite yet, and I have no intention of listening to whatever messages it holds. I wonder how he is. I wonder who knows what I coward I am. For a moment more I lie in my bed and let the tears fall. I miss him. How selfish can one person be?

The shower brings me back to the present and I wish I'd never left it once I'm at the bottom of the stairs. Jesus. Haymitch clearly isn't home, which is probably for the best. I'm about to get real with his hoarding tendencies. And since it needs the most attention, I start with the kitchen.

Walking into the small room gets my stomach churning, and not from hunger. First things first: open every window that will open. I find black garbage bags under the sink and begin by tossing the contents of the fridge and pantry. No way should anyone be eating canned yams from 1985. The liquor I leave—contrary to recent events, I do value my life—and feel like there's been a tiny bit of improvement with the kitchen emptied of expired food. The dishes alone take me two hours to wash by hand. I'm not sure if Haymitch always had this many pieces of silverware or if he just bought new stuff when the rest got dirty, but he could easily have enough dishes to host a Thanksgiving dinner for 35 people. The thought makes me smile as Haymitch hates a) people, b) holidays and c) anything that isn't served over ice.

By now I can't ignore my hunger so I quickly clean up (again) and head into town for a bite to eat. There's a small café27 near Rtes. 47 and 9, so I pull in and seat myself in a booth before ordering the special. This place clearly draws the "typical" Amherst resident: a little bohemian, globally aware and bleeding liberal…just like Madison.

"BLT, extra 'B' on sourdough and an extra-large cappuccino with an extra shot?"

I nod at the waiter, waiting for him to place the food in front of me but he smirks and says, "Are you intentionally trying to stop your heart? Or maybe you're just trying to stop mine?" I even get a wink and a lick of the lips. Oh, if he only knew.

"I didn't realize that witty personal commentary was included with all lunches." I look up and give him my best "don't piss me off" look as he leaves my plate and turns back to the counter. Katniss 1, hippy undergrad 0.

A box with slips of paper and tiny pencils rests on the table and I grab some of each, deciding to make some lists. I fibbed when I said that I hate to plan. I mostly hate to plan. But really, I like being governed by little lists…what I need to do during the course of a day or week. Things I want to read, grocery lists, to-do lists. There's a lame amount of excitement that I get out of crossing things off of the lists, but this is a habit I'm not ready (or willing) to break.

To Clean in Kitchen: refrigerator, stove, microwave, floor. Wipe down pantry shelves, cabinets and counters.

Groceries (until I talk to Haymitch): milk, cereal, bread, peanut butter, granola bars, apples, peanut m&m's, saltines.

Rooms to Clean (in order of importance): kitchen, downstairs bathroom, living room, basement (near laundry only).

Supplies: bleach, sponges, Lysol, rubber gloves, laundry detergent, toilet paper?

People to call: Prim, Annie.

Other: look for job, start writing again, figure out my life.

The vagueness of my last list amuses me more than it should. My cappuccino is long gone and I decide to order another with a cookie to go before heading back to the house. The cookie is good, but not quite as good as the gingersnaps from Mellark's. I sigh and get in the car.

…

"Where the hell is my stuff?! I never said you could destroy my house, girl!" Haymitch's eyes are a little red and the vein in his forehead is dangerously large. A whole day of cleaning has resulted in a spotless kitchen and bathroom, and I've made a decent dent on the living room.

"I only threw away food that was so old it had started growing fur, so calm down. Everything else is here…it's just been cleaned and put away."

Haymitch squints at me. "You think this is making yourself useful, huh? Things have been fine for me since you all left. I'm not a charity case!"

"But I currently am. And I need somewhere to stay so we might as well both benefit from it. You get a clean house, food to eat and clothes that don't smell like foot. I get something to do and a smaller chance of contracting tetanus or salmonella." My voice has gone from strong and justified to quiet and choked. I look away, not wanting to deal with symbolism anymore.

Haymitch clears his throat, "My liquor?"

"In the pantry."

"Hmpf."

"Listen, I bought a few things to eat, but I figured I could go and replace the groceries I tossed. Is there anything in particular you'd like me to get? Anything you need?"

He turns to me and points a finger in my direction. "Don't you go thinking that this is going to last forever. You're gonna to learn to deal with whatever it is you've done and then you're gonna move on, sweetheart. I'm not a damn hotel."

"How about beef stew?"

He stops for just a brief moment. "Only the stuff in the can. And saltines." Haymitch and I have a choppy communication style that works. He goes to his bedroom and slams the door, effectively ending our conversation. I grab the keys once more to do some evening shopping.

…

"Katniss! Oh my God, are you okay? Where are you? You didn't even say goodbye!" Prim's frantic tones slice me deep, which is why I'm driving and having this conversation at the same time. I need something to distract me from 100% honesty right now and the cows that have apparently gotten loose and are roaming along Rte. 47 are doing a fine job.

"Prim, I'm fine. I am. I couldn't stay there anymore—." My lame excuse turns to silence, which my sister interprets correctly.

"I know. I just wish…I wish you had told me about all of this stuff with Peeta yourself. I'm your sister." I can almost feel the tension through the phone. "How long were things, um, not perfect?"

"Awhile," I sigh. "A few months. I'm not ready to explain it, and I'm not sure I could just yet."

"Was there someone else?"

I don't know why, but Prim's question is simultaneously funny and rage inducing. Why do people always assume that breaking up is due to cheating? Have I given off the vibe that I'm a girl who sleeps around? And why on earth would I cheat on my Peeta? Sigh. I need to stop referring to him as 'mine.'

"What?! Absolutely not! Prim, you know I'd never do that, and you know I love Peeta."

"Loved. Past tense."

"It's complicated. I do love him. Present tense."

"If you love him, how could you leave him? Katniss, you two are like peanut butter and fluff…you just go together. And Peeta is hurting so much. If you could see him—."

"I wish I could put all of my feelings into words Prim, but they aren't coming quite yet. I'm working on it. I promise." Time to ask the question I need to ask. "How is Peeta?"

Prim sighs. Her loyalty to her two siblings—me, her actual sister and Peeta, her almost-brother—is coming through loud and clear. The dilemma: to tell me the truth, to fudge the truth or to blatantly withhold information. Unfairly, Peeta and I have always told Prim things with the caveat of "Don't tell Katniss/Peeta!" She's a vault of secrets.

"I don't want to get in the middle, Katniss. But he's hurting. Physically he's about the same, working on his PT and rehab. He's worried about the things he said to you and has been trying to call you. Have you gotten any calls from him?"

"There are voicemails on my phone from a lot of people. I haven't listened to any of them yet." I pause and clear my throat. "So everyone knows, huh?"

"Yes. There wasn't a town hall meeting or anything, but it sounds like most everyone kind of saw something coming, especially when you stopped visiting regularly. His parents were kind of floored, but when have they not been oblivious? Gale wants to skin you alive, FYI, so I'd sleep with one eye open. But Peeta told everyone that he snapped and told you to leave. Is that true?"

"What Peeta said to me was the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't what he said that made me leave."

"You owe it—."

"I know, I know. I owe it to Peeta to make this right." Seriously, these cows are making this conversation way longer than I intended it to be.

"No. I was going to say that you owe it to yourself to get to the bottom of these feelings, Katniss. Whether or not the end result has you and Peeta back as a fluffernutter is not important." I can't help but smile. "You need to come to terms with life and decide to live it for once. For you. Not for me or for Dad or for Peeta. For you."

"I live." What a ridiculous retort. Even my baby sister has grasped this concept faster than I have.

I change tactics again. "Okay Prim, so there are a few things I need you to take care of while I'm…away. You have the keys to the apartment, so keep an eye on the place until Peeta…until I tell you otherwise. I'll be sending rent checks, so don't worry about that. Run the water on occasion, get the mail, stuff like that."

"No problem. Peeta will most likely be moving in with his parents once he's discharged. It'll be easier for him to not have to go up the stairs."

Of course. I assumed incorrectly (again) that Peeta would go back to our place. Why would he want to go back there anyway and be faced with our previously-happy existence? But the thought of him having to move back to his childhood home makes me cringe. "Well, if you could just be around, that would be great."

"How long are you going to be out there?"

"I haven't thought that through. I, um, don't have immediate plans to return to Madison. I'll start forwarding my mail and arrange for my things to be sent out here if this becomes more permanent. In the meantime, if I need anything mailed, I'll let you know."

"What should I tell Mom?"

"That I'm fine and that I'll be in touch when I can."

"She worries, too, you know." Prim's a little more in-tune with my mother's parental style. Living alone with her has made her an expert in deciphering what each blank stare means.

Time to fib. "Right. Listen, I'm at the grocery store and I need to run a few other errands. I'll call again soon, okay?"

"Katniss? I wish you had said goodbye."

I know my voice betrays me when I say "I'm so sorry Prim. All I could think about was getting away." All I could think of was myself, is more like it.

"I love you. Try not to kill Uncle Haymitch."

She ends the call and I lay on the horn, practically willing the cows to move already. "I'm getting hamburger at Stop 'n Shop, you know!"

How many more people will I hurt?

Chapter Eight Notes
27. The café I'm envisioning is fairly new. Esselon Café roasts their own coffee and has a) great coffee and b) great food. Really eclectic.