Part Two

Chapter Four

The fact that Peeta had such a great start to his time in Amherst makes me giddy. I pull out of Esselon's driveway and on to Rte. 9, intending on going to Whole Foods for a few groceries. I threw some things in the Crock Pot this morning, but maybe I should branch out and get some things for a salad. They have those little rosemary trees, too, and Peeta loves making that rosemary olive oil—.

A horn blaring snaps me out of my mental shopping list and I swerve, barely missing the dump truck that has pulled out in front of me. My car finds the gravel shoulder and I sit there for a moment trying to collect my breath. The truck slowly continues down the road and I recognize the company name on the back. Snow Transport.

Dad.

I signal and get back into traffic, quickly taken from a good mood to a somber one. I can't stop wondering what life might have been like had there been no accident. Everything would have been better: Mom would have been happy and Prim would have had a normal childhood. We might never have left Massachusetts.

After buying the few items I wanted I decided to take a detour on the way back to Haymitch's and stop at a place I haven't been to for at least eight years. I pull into a parking space and walk the rest of the way, winding through trees and stones until a bird perched above me causes my head to lift and spot another person straight ahead. He's sitting on a small bench, his elbows resting on his knees. It looks like he's talking to himself. He moves his head just enough and I suck in a breath, realizing that it's Haymitch sitting in front of Dad's grave.

I contemplate leaving but decide instead to walk closer, clearing my throat when I'm a few feet away to alert Haymitch of my arrival. He swears and rubs his forehead, clearly aggravated by my presence but I approach him anyway.

"What do you want?"

I sit down. Damn, he smells.

"I haven't been here since the burial. I guess I wanted to see it again. Make it real."

We don't say anything else for at least an hour. The stone looks cared for and there are thousands of pebbles scattered around the grave. There's also an empty tea-light holder that must have been placed there years ago.

"I wish I had him back, even for a day. There are so many things I'd like to ask him." My nose is running and I wipe it with my sleeve. "I miss him so much."

Haymitch doesn't say anything at first. And really, I don't expect him to. But after a moment he clears his throat and quietly surprises me. "I know I'm not him. I know I'm a poor excuse for a substitute. But I love you like my own, you know."

I look at my hands and swallow. "Haymitch, how often do you come here? To see Dad?"

"Every day. Every damn day." He looks over at me and continues, "I was supposed to be there, you know. That day? Your dad took my shift. And I'll never live that down, but I swore to him that I'd look out for you. You and your mom and Prim. When he died, I couldn't face any of you, knowing that it should have been me in that truck. I'm sorry for that. More than you know."

He's crying now, but so am I. "Thank you. For helping me now."

"When you called, I knew I had the chance to make it up to you, even a little. But I know you need more than a roof over your head." Haymitch runs his palms over his face before continuing, "I'm not any good at this. But I figure I can try. And you should start by telling me about the other kid squatting at my house."

"Peeta."

"Who names their kid that?"

I can't help but laugh. "Bakers."

"I see you're wearing a ring. You two gonna get married?"

"I don't know. Peeta proposed before things got bad and I'm not sure where we stand with the engagement. I haven't asked." I touch the ring and twirl it around my finger. "I keep the ring on because it feels…I don't know exactly. It feels right? It feels like it's supposed to be there. I want it to be there because I want Peeta to be there. I need him to be."

"Does he know that?"

"Haymitch, I brought him halfway across the country with me. I think he gets the gist of it."

"Sweetheart, take it from a guy. When it comes to women, we never know what the hell is going on and we're never right." He clears his throat again and asks, "Why'd you leave?"

"Because." I can't stop the tears from starting up again. "Because I was scared of both not having the answers and having everything spelled out for me. Of ending up like Mom. I had to take care of Mom and Prim by myself and I was so tired, Haymitch. But Peeta was always solid for me and I failed him. I know it doesn't make sense, but I started resenting him for being so grounding when sometimes all I wanted was to escape. Once I blamed him for one thing, it was easy to feel annoyed and bitter and indifferent and…tired. So I left. And I know I'll spend the rest of my life hating myself for it. You don't have to remind me."

He's quiet for a few moments, rubbing his palms together as he thinks. "I wish you had known your parents like I did. Your dad wanted to raise you two fearless. I'm proud of you for helping out the way you did, but you got burdened. I can see it in the furrow between your eyebrows, sweetheart. You don't trust people enough to stick around…I get that. But it's okay to tell that kid all of your 'ugly' and let him in. Just know that when he needs the same, it's not about adding another burden. It's him trusting you enough. It's important to know the difference."

I nod, looking at my dad's stone and again focus on the small pebbles that litter the ground. "Haymitch, what are the stones for?"

"I want him to know that I haven't forgotten. I leave one every time I visit."

We sit a minute longer before I offer him a ride back to the house. He declines, saying that he's going to stay awhile.

"Thanks for listening Haymitch."

"It's not that hard."

"Thank you anyway."

…

Peeta's truck is in the driveway when I get home. I pull up and grab the grocery bag and tiny tree of rosemary from the back seat and make my way to the door, hoping that he hasn't started dinner without me even though I'm late. But the house is quiet and the lights are off.

"Peeta?" I move to the kitchen, flip on the light switch and put the bag on the counter. The stew is still in the Crock Pot, so I turn it off and make my way to the staircase to head up to the bedrooms. I'm sure he's upstairs, maybe napping after a full day.

What I find is Peeta sitting on the floor of my room, his back resting against the side of the bed and his head in his hands. His fingers are gripping his hair roughly and I know that the dark spots on his jeans are from tears.

"Peeta?" I whisper. He won't look up at me so I kneel down and rub his side. Still nothing. "Peeta, what is it?"

His cry comes out as a gasp so I straddle his lap and place my hands on each side of his head, hoping he'll look at me. When he does it breaks my heart, seeing the swollen eyelids and red eyes, irritated from crying. I know what this is. I'm late. I didn't show up. This is Peeta thinking that I've flaked out on him. This is Peeta wondering if I've left him hanging again. I don't ask another question; instead I just gather him close and hum as I rub circles on his back. After a moment he snakes his arms around me and breathes deeply.

When he's completely calm and we no longer have feeling in our legs from sitting so awkwardly, I lean back a bit and look at him, brushing my fingers along the tear tracks that stain his face. Only when he does the same do I realize that I've been crying, too. Crying for Peeta. Crying for me.

I lean forward again, keeping eye contact until Peeta's close and my lips find that spot on his forehead. I kiss him there once, twice before pulling away just enough to look at him again. I lean in again and kiss his eyelids softly, kiss his cheekbones, his nose. I kiss the spot behind his left ear and under his jaw. When I lean back again he opens his eyes, so I gently smile and kiss his lips.

He now leans in and does the same. I close my eyes and feel his breath warm on my cheek. Peeta's kisses flutter, covering my nose, eyes and forehead before settling on my mouth. This kiss is different. It is slow—almost tentative—and languid. This one begins the healing process.

We touch foreheads, a sort of understanding having passed between us. I eventually stand up and offer my hand. "Come on."

Author's Note: Merry Christmas! Thank you all so, so much for reading/recommending/reblogging on tumblr. And special thanks to my good friend emarina, who is a wonderful person all-around and tells me when something just doesn't add up.