It takes me far too long to visit the local apothecary one day while Peeta is busy at the bakery. We haven't talked about the reason for this particular visit - Peeta being the gentleman that he is - but I know it's the next logical step. At some point. Though I realize, thanks to my modesty and prudishness as others so often point out to me, the next step in our relationship is still a long way off. I also know, though I have no experience of my own to judge, that it's not something we'll plan ahead. I am very quickly learning I have little to no control over the way my body reacts to Peeta. Even just a hint of a smile has the potential of eliciting feelings in me I never thought possible.

So I have to be prepared. I have to be ready for whenever the time may come. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to face the reality of what this decision entails. I walk around the town square, wandering aimlessly as I work up the courage to enter the apothecary. My feet drag in molasses the entire time. It's completely absurd, of course. The entire country thinks we're married and that I've had a miscarriage in the past. But I can't get over the fact myself. I can't gather myself to go in there, to have someone watch me as I select the herbs. We live in a small town and the options are limited. Everyone will know the purpose the herbs serve. To me, this relationship – or whatever it is between us – is still too new to share no matter what people might already believe.

My strict aversion to displaying our relationship publicly is stupid of course. Peeta reminds me with a laugh every time I step away from him and release his hand when we spot someone off in the distance. It's irrational, makes absolutely no sense. And yet… And yet.

With a deep breath and a surge of courage I don't entirely embrace, I push through the front door into the warm shop. The heavy smell of incense smacks me hard as the tiny bell above the door chimes. Already I feel like every eye in the small room turns to look at me. Though they all immediately go back to whatever they were doing a moment before, now I think they must be wondering about me. Guessing what I'm doing, why I'm here. Peeta would call me a narcissist and tell me I'm not so interesting. I would remind him I never thought I was interesting, and yet the Capitol used to be glued to the feeds watching us.

But Peeta isn't here to weigh in with his opinion. I would die of embarrassment before I told Peeta what I am doing here. I know we're going to have to talk about it someday. It's not a conversation one can exactly just skip over. But not today. Not even for a while. And certainly not without copious amount of liquor in my system.

I walk through the tight aisles, picking up random things here and there. I pretend to study the glass bottles and the handwritten labels. I'm a total idiot. I wait. I agonize while I wait. When I think no one is looking, I swipe the herbs I need and hurry to the counter. My feet have never moved so fast, the toes of one foot colliding with the heel of my other. I whip my coin purse out before she can start on small talk. I push far more coins than it's sure to cost at her and tell her to keep the rest, that I'm sure I'll need something else later. Before she can reply, I collect the bottle of herbs back up off the counter and shove it as deep into the pocket of my jacket as it will go. I almost punch through the bottom of the fabric with the force of my haste.

Turning to leave, every muscle in my body freezes at the sight of the person standing directly behind me. My heart is going to explode from my chest. I am going to faint and smack my head on the counter and bleed to death. Or I'm going to die of embarrassment. I cannot decide which one is preferable. Did she see what I grabbed? Why do I even care? I shouldn't. I need to get out of here before I vomit.

"Hazelle," I say, the name rough on my throat with false calm. She stands between me and the door, and she's making no inclination of moving. My stomach turns and I feel my breakfast fighting its way back up through my stomach.

"Katniss," she replies fair more cheerful than my own greeting. Her eyes dart down to my pocket before rising back up. She knows. She saw, somehow. I was careless. Her hand reaches out and touches my wrist, the one attached to the hand still fearfully clutching the herbs in my pocket. "Good to see you, dear. We all miss you around the house. You should come visit sometime. You and Peeta, of course." I nod the entire time she's talking, my head a bob in a steady wind, right up until she mentions Peeta.

My head stills halfway up to staring at the ceiling. I cast a futile look towards the door, but I'm no closer to my escape than I was a moment ago. "The kids would love to see you," she adds. After a brief pause, she continues, "I've always seen you as a daughter. And not solely because I hoped that perhaps one day you would marry Gale." A punch to the gut, hard and swift. "I'm sorry I wasn't more of a mother to you, especially since your own mother struggled so hard for so long. No child should have to carry the burdens of their parents. But you and Gale did that. I should have taken better care of you. Both of you."

Up until this point, we have worked tirelessly to keep Gale out of our conversations. Hazelle because of the pain that accompanies the thought of her distant son, I because of embarrassment and sympathy. But as she talks, I can tell how much she misses Gale. How much his move to District Two feels like abandonment and how she struggles to carry the weight of her guilt. I wasn't the only one Gale left behind. Unlike my mother, he left his entire family. "You had more than enough on your plate," I tell her; it's the truth. "You had kids of your own and your own struggle to make ends meet. But you tried." Unlike my mother, I don't add aloud. "I didn't realize it when I was younger, but I certainly appreciate it now."

She pats my cheek and I'm no longer embarrassed about being caught here with these herbs not so subtly stuffed in my pocket. Hazelle has never once been judgmental of me. Her hand rises and she pats my cheek. "I'm glad you were able to find someone that makes you happy. Who gives you the life you deserve." Her hand rests a moment before she pulls away. Even Hazelle knows in the end Gale and I would have burst into a brilliant disaster. The Girl on Fire would have left a smoldering pile of ash in her wake, and I would have escaped no better myself. "I hope Gale will find the kind of happiness you have for himself. If he ever stops working long enough to meet a girl."

I want to mention that he already has. But broaching the topic will only lead to further questions, and none of those are ones I want to answer. Though I find it odd that Gale tells my mother these things but not his own. Maybe his relationship with Hazelle is more estranged than I thought. Maybe I was a bit hypocritical, since I'm now spending more time talking to his mother than I do my own.

We chat a little while longer. Then, sensing my urge to flee, Hazelle says her goodbye as she reminds me to come by and visit anytime I like. As a parting gift, she also shares a bit of wisdom. "Try putting the herbs in tea to help mask the bitterness."

Mortified, I finally make my escape, ducking my head and heading straight back to the house.