Chapter Nineteen
A Month Later
Ever since that evening, things have become different.
When Peeta and I next walk to school, we find ourselves walking right beside each other, our hands often brushing. I always wonder if he will grab my hand, but he never does, something I find surprisingly disappointing. If he were to pass me in the kitchen or somewhere around the house, he would sometimes touch me by playfully tugging on my braid or by wiping some dirt from my cheek. And then one night, when we are settled into bed, he asks if he can feel my stomach and, since then, he falls asleep with a hand resting on my protruding bump.
At first, these little things would play on my mind for hours. Questions of 'why did he do that?' and 'what does that touch mean?' would resound in my head, almost haunting me. Then I found myself wondering if he wanted more from me. I am his wife after all, and a normal husband and wife would be participating in such activities. But we are not a normal married couple. Those activities is what pushed us into this situation. I quickly banish those thoughts from my mind, knowing in my heart that Peeta would never ask that of me.
It has been a month since that day, and it scares me to think that in less than four months, things will change even more.
Our child will be born.
I sometimes wonder what he or she will look like. That is, when I am not worrying about the terrifying possibility of our child being reaped when he or she reaches the age of twelve. That thought then leads to another... What if either myself or Peeta is reaped? We still have another two reaping ceremonies to attend and I find myself struggling to breathe as I imagine what would happen if Peeta were to be reaped.
As much as I hate to admit it, the more time I spend with him, the more affection I begin to feel, and that truly terrifies me.
After school today, Peeta decides to stay home instead of going to work at the bakery like he normally does.
"Are you allowed to just take the day off?" I ask, not wanting him to get into trouble with his witch of a mother.
"Not usually, but my father told me to stay home. Is that okay?" he asks.
"Of course," I reply. "I don't have anything planned for today anyway."
"That's good, because I was hoping to spend the afternoon with you. What would you like to do?" Peeta asks.
"How about a walk to the meadow?" I ask, the possibility of fresh air suddenly appealing to me.
"That's a great idea. I was just going to make something to eat, but if we are going to the meadow, we can take a picnic."
"I'll find a blanket and then come help you pack some food," I say, and we separate to get everything we need.
A short while later, everything is prepared. In fifteen minutes, we are out the door and heading towards our destination. Peeta carries the basket in his left hand and I hold the blanket in my right. Our free hands occasionally brush and I find my face heating up at the contact. We walk in a peaceful silence, until Peeta speaks.
"Do you have any plans for tomorrow?" Peeta asks as we stroll along.
"I am going around to the Hawthorne's to take a look at Posy's things. Mother mentioned that Posy no longer fits in her cot, and that Hazelle has said that we can have it," I reply.
"That's nice of her. I can come with you, if you want. I can carry the cot back with us so we can start filling up the other room," Peeta says.
"That would be great."
It only takes a short amount of time to reach the meadow. The overgrown grass gently sways in the breeze and, if you listen carefully, you can hear the little insects whisper from between the long strands of grass. I lay the blanket over the soft grass and move so I can lie down. Peeta places the basket on the blanket before he takes a seat beside me.
The grass easily conceals us from anyone passing the meadow and the peacefulness makes me feel calm and relaxed. Peeta and I lay side-by-side on the blanket, looking up at the cloudy sky.
"It's such a beautiful day," I say in a quite whisper, breaking the silence.
"The day isn't the only thing that is beautiful," Peeta replies, and I drop my head to the side so I am looking at him. His eyes are already on me, a small smile gracing his lips. I swallow hard as my cheeks heat up, and I quickly blink, before I turn my head to look back up at the clouds. He makes it look so easy to say such sweet and kind things, while I find it difficult to even think of thoughts like it.
I sneak quick glances at Peeta when I know he isn't looking and notice for the first time how long his blond eyelashes are, the small scar under his left eye, one curl that falls onto his forehead repeatedly, no matter how many times he pushes it back. His mouth starts moving, but I don't hear a single word he speaks, too focused on noticing the way his Adam's apple bobs and how soft his lips look.
But, most of all, I notice how happy I feel in this moment with him.
I am so lost in him that I don't even realise when he has stopped taking.
"What?" I whisper, my eyes on his.
"I asked if you wanted to eat now," he explains with a small chuckle. I nod my head and we start to unpack the basket, laying out berries, bread and tea. We take our time eating, both of us seemingly trying to make the day go on longer.
I learn more about Peeta, and the more he speaks, the more I come to know the boy with the bread. He tells me that the only things they were allowed to eat back home at the bakery was the stale food that no one was going to buy, how he makes sure to double-knot his shoelaces at all times after tripping on an un-tied lace when he was little, and how he has slept with the window open ever since he had a nightmare about the bakery setting on fire and there being no way out.
These things - some important and some so trivial - make him him. I find myself wanting to listen to him speak all day so I can learn even more about him, but as the sun starts to set, Peeta suggests that we go home.
I nod my head in agreement and help him pack up the leftover food and fold the blanket. He stands first, before he holds his hand out to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet.
We make our way back to the Seam, Peeta carrying the basket in his left hand while I hold the blanket in my right. And this time our free hands don't occasionally brush, but instead stay entwined until we make it home.