When I was younger, time lasted forever. I'd sit at home all day on the couch, waiting for my father to return from the mines. Hours stretched endlessly; days felt like years. Even in the Games and during the War, it seemed the end would never come. It was a fight to make it to the end of each and every day, yet I was never entirely sure the next day would come.
Time races by now at breakneck speed. I'm not sure when the shift occurred, but it came swift and unseen. I wake up in the mornings and whole seasons have past while I slept. Fall turns to winter in the morning, and then summer comes again at dusk. There are days now when I don't even have the luxury of time to think about Prim. Something will trigger a memory of her, and I'll realize I haven't thought of her in days. A pit opens up in my stomach and guilt plagues my heart. As if, one day, I might put her behind me entirely. Like she might somehow cease to exist. It's an absurd thought. She will always exist, if nowhere else than in my heart. Even when that blasted cat finally dies and it's just me and Peeta in the house, we will never forget.
But somedays, it feels like a possibility. I wonder if that's what it means to feel happy. To suspend the darkest parts of your heart in the shadows where they no longer exist. Then you blink, and they escape into the sands of time that fly by at the speed of light.
Hazelle's burst into the bakery in a tizzy of excitement rips me from the monotony of the days and jerks the fast pace of the world to a screeching halt. Flinging the door wide, the clinking miniature bell Peeta's assistant insisted would be quaint but is a horrible nuisance of annoyance clatters against the glass in a racket. "Cake!" she exclaims, the word spreading to the dusty far corners of the room. The collective of patrons, myself included, looks up from our plates, our steaming cups of hot chocolate and coffee, and our letters and books. "Cake!" she cries happily, almost deliriously.
"I have cake in the back," Peeta offers as he glances over the top of the glass display cases with a crooked grin.
Vehemently, she shakes her head. "Wedding cake. I need a wedding cake, similar to the one you made for Annie and Finnick."
The air collapses in my lungs. I wait for Peeta to back against the wall, for his hands to cling to the edge of the countertop. I wait for the muttering to begin. Instead, he wipes his hands on the front of his apron before scratching the back of his head as he processes her words. "Who's the lucky man?" he asks, calm as the softly falling snow outside. I realize Hazelle isn't even wearing a coat. She must be freezing.
"Gale," she says breathlessly. Peeta looks immediately to me. My eyes grow a little wider and I give a fraction of a shrug. I let my confusion mirror his own. There's a feeling settling in my stomach, unwelcomed and shameful. I force it down while I watch Hazelle, trying desperately not to give anything away. But looking at her only makes the feeling worse. "He just called to inform me that he's getting married. Can you believe it? My Gale. I never thought the day would come. Well, not after…" she trails off, and I can feel attention shift to me as the others fill in the remainder of her sentence.
With tight lips, I bring my mug up and take a sip to hide my grimace. I guess not many people bought into the story of us being cousins back in the day. Moreover, every aspect of my personal life was apparently public knowledge back when I was the face of the Games and the revolution.
"That's great," Peeta says, and he sounds like he means it. He probably does. There isn't a mean bone in his body. If Gale were here, Peeta would clasp him on the back and congratulate him.
"Now that people have started to migrate since the end of the war, I guess the new tradition is for the couple to wed in the husband's home district. So they'll hold the ceremony here, and I want only the best for my daughter to be. The wedding won't be until the spring, so I do hope that will be enough time for you to be able to whip up something perfect for the occasion."
People are voicing their congratulations in a steady stream of voices that blend together in a cacophonic noise. Peeta remains silent, his answer unknown. His eyes lock with mine, asking for my permission. As if baking Gale's wedding cake would be an act of treason against me. As if I would care. I don't.
But I can't ignore the look Hazelle gives me. I try not to let any emotion show, giving a tiny nod of approval. Of course Peeta should make the wedding cake. He's the only baker in town, and his decorating abilities with icing are unparalleled. He will make an amazing art piece of a cake, and people will likely spend more time marveling over it than the bride's wedding dress.
Gale getting married. Gale putting down roots in another district. The crazy thing is that it doesn't bother me, at all, like I thought it might. I'm not sure how I thought I would feel when this day came. I guess I had hoped that I would get married first. That Gale would have to hear the news from someone else about me, and not the other way around. Which is ridiculous because to most of the world, Peeta and I are already married. It's a petty, fleeting thought, pushed away as I smile at Hazelle's excitement.
It isn't jealousy, this feeling kicking in my stomach, I feel as Hazelle gushes to anyone willing to listen to all the details Gale already shared. If anything, it's sadness. Listening to the way Hazelle chatters in excitement, I'm disappointed my mother will never act this way for me. Though we write and talk, far more than we used to when she first packed up and moved to Four, I don't feel like a part of my mother's life anymore. I was forced to grow up when everything went sideways and she wasn't able to protect me. Now there's nothing left to protect me from, and she's starting over fresh with a clean slate. There's no room for me in that new life.
Feeling melancholy, I set my mug down and slowly stand. Everyone else continues to chat and gossip, but I'm silent as I weave between the tables and chairs to reach Hazelle. When I approach, everyone quiets. I don't mean to draw the attention, I have enough of that already in the sideways glances cast my way, but I can't escape their notice. Without a word, knowing anything my stupid mouth will say would likely ruin the moment, I lean into her instead. Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her close and hold her tight. The tears beg to fall, but I squeeze them back. I will not rain my tears upon her joy. A mother has the right to celebrate the engagement of her child, and a child has the right to feel that strength of love. She hugs me with a vibrant glee. I try to convey everything I'm feeling in that single embrace without my blasphemous mouth ruining it.
She seems to understand. "Thank you, sweetheart," she says to the side of my head. The term of endearment reminds me of Haymitch. I can only guess what he'll have to say when he hears the news. I doubt it'll be nice, but I have a feeling it will cheer me up. Haymitch in a sour mood always carries that wonderful side effect these days.