We continued to collect timber in the woods and stacked it in the ever growing pile in town. We continued to take our meals together, sometimes prepared by Greasy Sae but more and more prepared by ourselves, as if she could sense that I no longer needed to rely on her so much to keep myself alive. We continued to share a bed at night, and my nightmares came less and less. But over the following weeks, we never once mentioned the kiss in the kitchen, or his reaction. Neither one of us brought up the messy, complicated topic of relationships or feelings, nor where we ought to go from there or if my kissing Peeta might cause him to try to strangle me inadvertently.
As spring grew longer and the timber pile grew to the point where I was sure we would have excess no matter how terrible of builders we ended up being, I decided I needed a break from the bakery. I needed a day in which I did not have to think about the emotional toll rebuilding the bakery took on Peeta each and every day. I wanted a day in which we didn't need to worry about Peeta's precarious state of mind at all. Peeta joked that he was glad his little episode had finally gotten me to start up my weekly conversations with Dr. Aurelius, even if I'd only had the one so far, and it was as close to mentioning the incident as we got. I, however, couldn't joke about it at all, even if he could. It filled me with terror to even think that I still had the power to potentially release that monster caged inside of Peeta, the monster that had been born and bred solely because of his affections towards me.
As Peeta filled our canteens with water at the faucet, I moved to the study where I kept the mementos of my previous life exactly where Greasy Sae had left them. Running my fingers over the cover of the plant book, I felt the thin layer of dust that sat atop it. Widening my palm, I wiped away the dusty film and collected the book into the nook of my arm. I had been planning on taking Peeta into the woods and teaching him to forage with me, and I couldn't think of a better opportunity than now.
As I returned to the kitchen, his gaze immediately drifted to the book and he eyed it quizzically. Moving to stand next to him, careful to leave a safe distance between us, I set the book on the counter and opened it to a random page so he could see. "I thought we could restock the kitchen today," I told him, making no mention of my avoidance of the bakery project. "And I figured I could teach you how to distinguish between the plants."
"I can't promise I'll be a good student," he admitted in his self-deprecating way.
"You won't know until you try," I told him. He responded with a nod, and we moved through the house and the Victors' Village. The sight of the Meadow still caused my throat to tighten each time I passed. While not as many workers were present as what I saw during the spring, my heart ached at the sight of even one. Even one cart sparked heavy reminders of the tragedy that had fallen upon our home, our families, our friends, our neighbors. Just one cart, this many months after the end of the war and the destruction of District Twelve, was a stark reminder of the sheer magnitude of the devastation. And though more and more people returned to slowly help rebuild and move forward, the pit in the Meadow reminded me that District Twelve would be forever haunted by what had happened.
I tried not to think about it as we passed by and moved into the woods. Reminders of the bombing only served to remind me of my own loss. I'd only rung my mother once since Peeta's return, and guilt flooded me each time I realized that I used him as a crutch to anchor me to this world and to help ignore the harder parts that loomed just past the horizon.
Though the weather warmed quickly as the days grew longer, I preferred spending the days sweating out in the heat under the glare of the sun in my hunting jacket than sitting alone in the large, empty house with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me. As we hit the foliage, I found a suitable rock and motioned Peeta over as I spotted the closest plant and flipped through the book until I found the right page.
We spent the entire day in similar fashion. Peeta would point to a promising looking plant, and we would weed through the well-loved pages of the book until we found it. I would let him read the passage aloud, knowing it would stay with him better that way than if I simply explained what it was to him. Then he would make the decision whether he wanted to add some to our baskets that had begun to overflow by high noon.
We stopped at some point to refill our canteens by the creek. Peeta wiped sweat from his brow and I asked him what he wanted to eat for lunch. We hadn't bothered to bring anything with us, and I made him identify the items in the baskets as a refresher before I let him eat them. It was slow work and the day seemed to drag by endlessly. At the same time, I found myself loosening up and didn't once think about the grief that usually filled me to the brim. I had fun with Peeta, and the recent strain of all the things left unsaid and undetermined between us didn't seem to bother us in that moment in time.
I dragged the day out until the sun began to dip and we lost the light of day. We trekked back towards the district, and I thought that if I could capture that day in a bottle and preserve the memory forever, I would. It was the first day that I felt was honestly good. It wasn't soiled with painful memories and regrets and guilt about decisions made and actions took and the resulting outcomes. It was simply me and Peeta, weaving through the woods, heads bent over the book as I taught and he learned. I didn't have to worry about him having an episode, and he didn't have to worry about me collapsing into my cocoon of isolation. We spent all day, and yet the end came far too soon.