He laughs at dinner when I tell him about the conversation with the jittery girl. Shaking his head as he pulls a loaf of bread from the oven, he can't do anything but try not to mock me. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I bite back a retort. I know he's had a difficult day, especially since he has yet to find feasible help for the bakery, but I get teased enough by Haymitch. And I put up with a lot of what seems like flirtation from Peeta with the young, female patrons of his fine establishment.
"It's not funny," I insist, chopping the stem off the strawberry on the cutting board with far more force than necessary. My fingers tighten around the handle, but I force them to release. I also want to tell Peeta that he doesn't need to bake when he gets home. But we've gone down that path before, and he never seems to listen, so I let it go tonight. We have enough to argue about as it is.
"It's a little funny," he says, trying to get me to admit the same.
I refuse with a slight shake of my head as I toss the strawberry into the salad bowl and reach for the next one. "Crazy thing is… I almost feel like doing it," I confess though I still hardly believe it. From the shocked expression on Peeta's face, he doesn't believe it either. "If they are coming to me of all people," I explain, "then they have to be desperate. That desperate. And… well, I feel bad. For the kids," I add, just so there isn't any doubt.
"Right. For the kids. Because you love kids." His mouth smirks and I throw the next strawberry at his face. Mittened hands holding the loaf pan as he sets it down on the burner of the stove, he has no way to shield his face. It hits him squarely in the face, but he does prevent it from falling on top of the bread.
"I don't hate kids," I defend.
"You just don't want any of your own."
My lips purse. Though it's a topic I exhausted with Gale, back when we actually talked about things, it isn't something I speak about much now. Peeta's brought it up a few times, when Greasy Sae's granddaughter's been here or after getting a letter from Annie about Sam. Peeta wants a litter of kids. Since he grew up with siblings, plural, I can understand why. But I'm still not entirely convinced that the calm period of history we now find ourselves in will last. It feels like just yesterday that interim President Coin has all the living tributes gathered in a room, voting on whether we ought to send Capitol children into the next Hunger Games. What Plutarch said after I killed Coin still rings strong in my mind. We humans have such terrible memories when it comes to repeating the past. And I still don't know whether I could ever bring a child into a world where that possibly has even the slightest chance of existing.
"Relax," Peeta says softly. His chest touches the back of my shoulder blade as he leans in over my side. Hand catching my wrist, he pulls my hand to his mouth and plucks the strawberry out of my fingers with his teeth. Swallowing after a few chews, he presses a wet and sticky kiss to my cheek before pulling away. "There was nothing passive in my meaning." He must see the gears turning in my head, the panic in my eyes, the fight or flight wrestling for control of my body.
"They asked me to help with the arts program last week," he adds a moment later, catching me completely off guard. He hasn't mentioned anything of the sort, but apparently he's been sitting on an offer for a week.
"And?" I ask when he fails to elaborate. Grabbing the last strawberry from the wicker basket, I prep it for the salad.
Shrugging his shoulders, he leans back against the counter and stifles a yawn. The dark circles rimming his eyes have returned. I worry, though I don't dare say anything. Especially not since he's been doing so well lately. I have this irrational, or so I hope, fear that his lack of sleep coupled with the increased strain at the bakery is going to cause an episode. So far, it hasn't happened. But the pessimist inside me refuses to write off the idea.
"I told them I'd love to, but I have to find someone to help out around the bakery first. Maybe before the school year starts, but I doubt it."
I can't remember the last time I saw Peeta paint. I'll have to see if I can entice him this weekend, if he manages to take a few hours away. I have a dozen questions flitting around in my head, but I know that each one runs the risk of coming back to the topic of children. And that topic is as taboo as they come right now. Instead, I toss the strawberry into the bowl. Wiping my hands on the kitchen towel, I pick the bowl up off the counter and head to the dining table. Following my lead, Peeta moves as well, and we let the topic lie for the time being.