"What in the blazes are you doing?" he asks as he hobbles over from his house to mine.
Glancing up I wince into the sun, casting him in an eerily glow. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I ask, annoyed at the interruption. We have been a little less than friendly since the incident with Effie at the Harvest Festival. We both place the blame squarely on the other's shoulders, and I think it honestly just gives us something to do to pass the time. Grudges are fun like that.
"Looks like you've lost your bleeding mind," he replies, coming to a stop with his knees a foot away from my head. I'm thankful for the shade his body offers from the sun, even though the temperature is comfortable. I've spent so much time squinting through the late morning and afternoon that my eyes feel almost permanently half lidded now.
"Well, that is always a distinct possibility," I allow. Now that the doctor has dropped me as a patient, I can no longer repress my feelings and gush them out in our one hour session. So, instead, I am a constant mess of anxiety and uncertainty. Especially about what I'm doing right now. I haven't stopped second guessing myself since I started. Haymitch's clear astonishment is not helping in the slightest.
"You do realize what those are, don't you?" he asks. He leans down to get on my level, but it takes him a while with his achy old joints. I half expect him to stagger over and lose his balance, but once again his breath smells nothing like alcohol when it reaches my face. It's far from pleasant, but I doubt he'll ever get his grooming together enough to brush his teeth.
"What?" I ask, dropping the spade in my gloved hand. I use the opportunity to wipe my arm across my damp forehead.
"White roses?" It's more of a question than a statement. "Really, sweetheart?" When I continue to stare him down, he adds, "What did Peeta have to say about this?"
"Peeta thought it better to give me space and mind his own business."
Haymitch decides to flat out ignore my ever so subtle hint to get lost. Instead, he does the exact opposite. Rolling back, he plops himself down in the dirt, wincing likely from pain in his knees. "Well, pass it over then," he says, motioning to the spade.
"Are you serious?"
"I am out here sitting in the dirt with the sun beating on my back. Could I be anything but serious?"
He has a point, though I don't understand his motive at all. Handing him my spade, I search the area around me until I find my spare and pick it up.
"Dare I even ask why?" he doesn't look up as he jabs the spade into the dirt and starts to work on a hole.
"The doctor told me to remember the past, but not to live in it. So, I don't know. I guess, this way, I have a constant reminder of the past and all that's happened. But it's something that triggers this terrible feeling inside me, and it's something I've never been able to face before. So that should help me move on."
He snorts. "That sounds healthy."
"Well someone already has a monopoly on the alcohol shipments, so I figure this is the next best bet."
He squints at me as we work. "Now I remember why we don't hang out more without the boy."
"I'm surprised you could ever forget. Then again, I'm surprised you can remember anything at all with your head buried in a bottle." I should be commenting on what appears to be a recent stint of sobriety, but the biting words come naturally. Part of it is just a game between us. Though there is still some honest hostility there, I think it mostly is just the way we relate naturally to each other. It's the only way we outcasts know how to make friends.
"And I'm surprised you can see where to put that spade when your head is shoved so far up your-"
"Scone?" A loud voice interjects.
Amused by Haymitch's retort, I glance up at Peeta, home for the day on a rare break from the bakery. There was some kind of issue with the flour shipment this week, and his order has been delayed until the early morning train tomorrow.
"Not hungry," Haymitch and I reply in unison. I add, "But thank you. I could use some water, if you don't mind." He returns a minute later with glasses for both Haymitch and myself. His eyes linger on the potted roses we are transferring to the side of the house, but he doesn't say anything about them. "Let me know if you change your mind," is all he says, before clarifying, "about the scones." I get the feeling as I watch his retreating form that he wasn't talking about the scones at all.
"Trouble in paradise?" Haymitch asks as the front door swings shut behind Peeta.
"Paradise? What world do you live in? Oh wait, the alcohol induced one. Never mind."
"Are you still fending off his advances?" Haymitch asks after a beat.
"That," I say as I pull the rose from the pot and place it in the ground with a little more force than necessary, "is none of your business."
"And that is a yes."
"I didn't ask for your help. Because I don't need it. You're free to leave. I won't take it personally."
"Hazelle's cleaning," Haymitch grunts. "Got the windows open and is humming and everything. It was making me sick. Had to get out of the house."
"Ah, so to cure yourself from cheerfulness, you decided to come visit me. Now it makes sense."
"Hey, I'm digging these blasted holes for you, ain't I?"
That he is, though he isn't doing a very good job. Of course, neither am I. There is a reason that the only landscaping done on the property is the primroses that Peeta put in. I don't have a green thumb among my pair, and I can think of plenty of things I would rather be doing with my time. But it feels like an important step, and since Peeta is obviously not thrilled about the idea, then it's one I'm going to have to do myself. Or with Haymitch's help, I suppose.
So I cut back on the retorts, and we work in relative silence until the last of the flowers have been planted firmly in the ground. Haymitch grabs his glass to drink the ice that has since melted, and I level out the dirt around the roses. Leaning back, I study our handiwork. It isn't pretty or artistic by anyone's standards. I'm sure Effie's would have a heart attack if she saw the layout. But it's enough to serve its purpose. I won't be able to open a single window in the house and look out without catching sight of them. They will be a constant presence and reminder.
And they will give me strength, I hope. To face the demons of my past, to challenge them head on. To no longer be afraid of my demons. To try to move on.
Therapy was a much easier solution. But there's no turning back now.