"Katniss, now wait." I hear his feet pounding on the stairs behind me, a tick out of sync from my own. "Hang on!" he snaps as I reach the landing, pivot, and start down the second half of the stairwell.
"Let it go!" I yell, not bothering to look back. Tears burn in my eyes. I wipe furiously at them as I reach the first floor and turn towards the front door. I hate that I let myself get so worked up and emotional. I don't want him to see me cry.
"Come on." I have the unfair advantage of two natural legs, but I have to stop at the coatrack by the front door. Jamming my feet into my boots, I scramble to get a decent hold of my coat to pull it off the hook.
Though slowed by his artificial leg, he is determined. My hands tremble as I tug at the coat, and the rack threatens to tumble over atop me. As I calm down and slow to let it settle, he hops off the stairs and hurries towards me.
"Don't!" I beg. The rack, sympathetic to my cause, finally releases the coat. It twirls around me, holding him off for a brief minute as it fans out around me. But once it's on my shoulders, he steps closer.
He pulls me closer. I turn away.
"Where are you going?" he asks, exasperated, as if I am the one who started this quarrel.
"Out."
"Out?" His volume raises to match my own.
"I don't want to talk!" I scream, spinning my head to face him. He looks haggard. An instant pang of guilt hits me. I push it down. It's my turn to be mad at him. Before he can ask why, because he always asks why, I answer, "Because I'm going to say something I don't want to say, and then you are going to feel hurt, and then it will be another week of both of us being stubborn until we both cave and I'm tired of that."
His hands clutch the sleeves of my coat. When I try to pull away, to back up towards the front door only a few paces out of reach, his fingers tightened. He risks releasing me with one hand, reaching up to cup my face. I pull away, twisting my neck to stay out of his reach. "Stay." So calm this time, as if his soothing words alone can calm me down. Sometimes they can. His rationality pushes through the blind anger and make me realize what an ass I am. "Don't go."
But not today. "Let go," I correct him. I lift my own arms up, fanning them out to break his hold. I want to apologize, to say something to break the tension before I leave. But I can't. Not this time. I mumble, "I'll be back later," and turn away.
I expect for him to protest as I open the door and quickly slip out. I think he might grab the edge of the door, or perhaps my wrist, and prevent me from leaving. But I meet no resistance as I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. I don' know whether to be grateful or sad, if I pushed him too far this time to be forgiven when I get home. Even Peeta has a limit.
It is a short walk over to Haymitch's house, but it's far enough for me to realize I forgot my gloves. My fingers tingle on the cold metal handle as I twist it, thankful to find the front door unlocked. With a holler to announce my arrival, I step into the cold, dark house and kick off my shoes. Peeta won't follow me. He'll sit at home and wait. At least for a little while.
I take a deep breath as I shrug the coat off. It crumples to a pile onto the floor where I leave it, heading into the living room.
Effie peers up over the top of a flashy magazine from her perch on the couch. "Katniss," she says warmly. "I thought that was your bellow."
On another day under better circumstances, I would apologize. Today, I don't feel like apologizing to anyone.
Haymitch's voice floods in from the other room. "Tell her to leave."
"Tell her yourself," I shout back, moving over to the wooden liquor cabinet Haymitch hastily made ages ago. I love how out of place it looks in the otherwise Capitol decorated room. "Hi Effie," I add as an afterthought as I pass the couch on the way to my target.
When I open the slightly crooked door that always hangs slightly ajar, I frown. "Where is it?" I ask as I lean back to peer past the edge of the door towards the hallway.
"Get out," Haymitch complains. Deserting whatever he's doing, he slowly ambles into the living room. "I hid it," he tells me. "No need for you to turn into me. This town can barely handle the one of me it's already got."
"I'm not going bathe in it, I just wanted a glass of that Moscato one you had last time."
"My house is not a halfway home," he grumbles. The cabinet door comes swings towards my face as he pushes it. I dodge back just as it brushes past my cheek.
"Hey!" I snap, slapping his hand away from the cabinet door.
"Hey yourself," he counters. He matches my slap with one of his own. "Case you forgot, Sweetheart, this is my house. You live next door."
"If you don't want company," I tell him, "then you should lock your doors."
"And if you don't want to end up living by yourself, you should learn to talk to your husband," he fires back, hitting below the belt.
"Peeta and I are none of your business," I hiss. I hear Effie's tat of disapproval at my tone. I ignore it.
"Then don't come stomping over here every time you lose a fight."
"I didn't lose the fight, I-"
He interrupts my protest. "Sweetheart, I don't care. It's none of my business, remember? I was about to sit down to a nice dinner anyway, so it's not really a good time for our old song and dance. You know what I'm going to say, so let's just skip it this time, shall we? And, for the love of the Capitol, shut your windows when you fight, would you? If you insist on barging in, I don't need to witness it the first time around."
"You know he never shuts the windows at night." Some things never change, no matter how much time passes. I don't resent Peeta for the security that the open windows give him. I wish he wouldn't resent me my inability to change either.
"Listen up, Kid." I haven't been a kid for a while now, but that never stops him from calling me one. "I have five minutes until our quail is done. So I am only going to say this once tonight, and then you're going home. You owe that boy whatever he wants."
My mouth opens to protest. "Uh!" Haymitch says, holding up his index finger to silence me. "Anything," he insists, his voice raising its volume. "If he wants a kid, give him five." He's deviated from the usual lecture I receive when I come over here to lick my wounds or cool off after storming out. "Don't make him regret marrying your sorry ass."
"Language," Effie hisses, still pretending to stare intently at the magazine though she can't avoid gossip to save her life.
"It's a marvel you don't have any kids of your own," I snap. I can't look at Effie now, knowing I've insulted her, or at least their relationship, with my biting remark.
"I never got a Peeta," he counters. As my eyebrows start to rise, he grunts. "You know what I mean. All I ever found at your age was the bottom of a bottle. Don't be like me. I know you think having a kid will be the end of the world. Hell, maybe it will. But you know what? You won't know for sure until you try. And after everything you two went through together, after how long he waited for you, and after how much torture you've put him through, you owe him. You owe him a lot. Being scared isn't a good excuse. It just isn't."
"Haymitch," Effie warns. Though she loves the gossip, she isn't one to mettle. She doesn't like it when I try to drag Haymitch into the argument, and she really doesn't like it when Haymitch gets involves.
"Go home," he tells me. His face shows more wrinkles these days. I wonder how many of them I've caused on my own. "You know you're eventually going to say yes to him. You've never been able to deny him anything. You two are the sorriest lovebirds I've ever met. It makes me sick, but it's about high time you remember it. You are exhausting me and, in case you hadn't noticed, I have my own life to deal with. And I'm not getting any younger."
As if on cue, the timer buzzes in the kitchen. "Guess what, Sweetheart? Your five minutes are up. I trust you can see yourself to the door."
I chew on the inside on my cheek, but I don't argue. I give Effie a soft good-bye as I trudge unwilling to the door, a cat with my tail tucked between my legs.