the next will never come (part 18/?, hunger games, r)
the next will never come
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 18 of ?
Prim is still awake when I get home, seated at the kitchen table, an old, yellowing picture book open before her.
Seeing the book sends a twinge of nostalgia through me. It once belonged to my grandmother, who passed it down to my mother, who made sure it was one of the few possessions she brought with her when she moved to the Seam with my father. It’s the only connection we have left to that side of the family now; my mother’s parents died before I was school-aged, and I’d only met them a handful of times before that, anyway.
Prim only looks up for a moment when I shut the door behind me, running her fingers down one of the pages. “Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.” I pull out a chair next to her and lean over for a look at the page. There’s a drawing of an elephant, a massive, gray beast with giant ears, a long nose and curved white tusks protruding from its face. I wouldn’t have believed it was any more than a fairy tale creature someone had dreamed up if I hadn’t seen a real one in a Tribute parade a few years back. “You haven’t looked at this book in a while.”
Prim nods, flipping to the next page, which has another strange animal - a pink bird standing on one leg. A flamingo. Another thing that doesn’t exist anymore, except maybe in one of the Capitol’s zoos.
“I know…it used to help me sleep.” She shuts the book abruptly and meets my eyes. “How is Gale?” Her forehead creases slightly as she takes in my appearance. I’d cried a little on the way home, and though I’d gotten it under control after a few minutes I’m sure my eyes are still puffy and red. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate. Is it really fair to burden Prim with my own problems, when she’s got so many of her own? Probably not - but her expression tells me that she’s not going to let this one go. I look down at the table, tracing my fingernail in one of the deep grooves in the wood.
“We broke up.”
Prim’s mouth falls open - I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so drained. “How come?”
The truth that I’m only now realizing - that no matter how much Gale loves me, no matter how long he waits for me, I’ll never love him in the way that he wants - is too painful to admit out loud. I drop my head onto my arms, folded on the tabletop. “It wasn’t working out,” I say evasively, my voice muffled against my forearm.
I feel a light pressure between my shoulder blades. Prim’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
I know that she’s trying to help - but honestly, her words only make me feel worse. Prim shouldn’t be comforting me right now. What have I even lost, in comparison to her? Gale might hate me, but at least he’s alive. And if this mess has taught me anything, it’s that I’m just not capable of the kind of feelings that Prim had for Astrid.
“Don’t be.” I turn my head to the side, peering up at her. “We’re not right for each other. It’s okay.”
Prim nods a little, thinking. “Are you still going to be friends?”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. “I hope so. But I think…I really hurt him this time.”
“He’ll forgive you,” Prim says. “You’ve been friends for so long.”
“That’s part of the problem,” I say, burying my face against my arms again. Gale has wasted years of his life waiting around for me. If I’d just been honest from the start…if I hadn’t tried to twist my feelings for him into something they weren’t…he could have fallen in love with some other girl who loves him back, and moved on. Like the way Peeta is trying to move on with Violet.
“Well,” Prim’s voice rises a little, like she’s trying to keep it light. “If you end up an old maid, at least you’ll be in good company. With me,” she clarifies.
I recognize it as an attempt at a joke, but I’m still a little startled by her words. This is the first time Prim has made any reference, even a vague one, to the fact that she’s not like most girls in the district.
I stay silent, waiting to see if she’ll continue with the thought, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Hah,” I say with a weak smile.
Prim tries to return it, but the corners of her mouth tremble, and her features twist up for just a moment before she gets them under control, forcing herself to look neutral.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I say gently, sitting upright. “Half the district is in love with you already.”
“And the other half thinks I’m a freak,” she says flatly. Her eyes grow wide for a second, like she’s surprised at her own admission. She looks away, unwilling to meet my gaze.
“They don’t,” I say firmly. “And if they do, they’re idiots.”
Prim says nothing, seemingly uncomfortable at the turn the conversation has taken. I decide not to push it - if she wants to talk about this, she’ll let me know in her own time. I could use some time to figure out my own thoughts on the matter, anyway. “I’m going to sleep. Early shift tomorrow,” I declare, standing up from the table.
“I’m glad you got your job back,” Prim says softly.
“Yeah,” I nod. “We really do need the money. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No, I mean - that’s true. But I just think…being there seems good for you.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I smile a little, thinking back to this morning. It was good for me to be there - it is. “I think you’re right,” I tell her. “Well. Goodnight, Prim.”
---
I sleep soundly that night, and this time when I wake up in the morning, Prim is stretched out in the bed beside me, her mouth hanging open on the pillow.
When I open the front door to leave, I nearly stumble off the front step as I try to avoid stepping on the plain brown envelope resting against the bottom of the doorframe. Prim Everdeen, it says in bold black letters on the front.
I pick up the envelope and shake it a little, but it seems like there’s just a note or a card inside. It’s strange - we never really receive anything in the mail, except official communications from the Capitol that everyone in the district receives from time to time. But this doesn’t even have postage on it, which means someone must have dropped it here before sunrise.
I debate opening it myself - what if it’s something cruel, some kind of trick? I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but the letter gives me a bad feeling. Ultimately, though, it’s not my place to read Prim’s private mail, and I set the envelope on her usual seat at the kitchen table.
I’m a little earlier than usual at the bakery that morning, and when I arrive it’s just Peeta in the kitchens, scooping dough out onto a cookie sheet with a spoon. “Good morning,” he greets me with a warm smile.
“Morning,” I echo, giving him a small smile back.
“How was your night?” he asks, turning his attention back to the cookies.
Kind of terrible, to be honest.But it would be awkward to tell him about what happened between Gale and I, out of the blue like that. “It was fine. Uneventful,” I say. “What about you?”
“Well, Brody got in a screaming match with our mom, which is always a blast,” he says.
I frown, glancing at the stairs that lead up to the Mellarks’ apartment. I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What were they fighting about?”
Peeta shrugs. “I never really know. Anything can set her off. Him, too, though.”
My mother might not be in the running for any parent of the year awards, but at least she’s not like Mrs. Mellark, I remind myself. I remember with a sinking feeling the deep purple bruise that had shown up on Peeta’s cheek the day after he threw me the bread - and the other scattered bruises I’d noticed on him throughout the years. Maybe there’s a reason Brody isn’t down here yet. “Is he…okay?”
Peeta looks up at me, and I can tell that he understands exactly what I’m asking. “He’s fine,” he says. “Now that we’re older she doesn’t…get physical anymore.”
I nod and look away, embarrassed that I’d even asked. We’re not really close enough friends for that.
Luckily, Brody chooses that moment to barrel down the stairs and into the kitchen, breaking the awkward silence. “Hey,” he nods at me, grabbing his apron off a hook on the wall before joining Peeta. He dips a finger into the bowl of dough and then sticks it in his mouth, humming in approval.
Peeta shoves him aside. “Don’t do that,” he snaps. “If Dad saw he’d kill you.”
Brody just rolls his eyes, but I wrinkle my nose up in confusion. “Did you just eat the dough?”
The boys both look at me in surprise. “Um, yeah,” Brody says. “You’ve never eaten cookie dough?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “When would I ever have eaten cookie dough? I didn’t even know you could.”
“Okay, fair enough. But duh, it’s cookie dough,” Brody scoffs. “Of course you can eat it.”
“Here,” Peeta says, approaching me with a small spoonful of dough. “It’s really good. We’re just not supposed to eat it until all the cookies are made,” he explains, throwing a glare at his brother.
I eye him warily, but scrape up a little of the dough with the tip of my finger. Peeta’s eyes dart away when I lick it off my finger, savoring the sweet, buttery flavor. It is really good.
“Okay, it’s good,” I say, and they both laugh. I even chuckle a little myself, the good mood contagious.
The bakery is busier than usual today, and the morning flies by so quickly that the grumbling of my stomach catches me by surprise around lunchtime. I leave the bell on the counter and take my lunch into the kitchen to eat with Peeta and Brody. Peeta explains that yesterday was payday for employees of the Capitol - mainly the Peacekeepers and Justice Building workers. The rich people in town, basically. He knows because his oldest brother, Ned, works in the Justice Building.
About halfway through lunch Brody heads out to make some deliveries, leaving Peeta and I alone. I sit at one of the long tables, chewing my lunch contently, while Peeta pours batter for a specially ordered layer cake into round metal pans. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable, until the drone of the television in the back of the room suddenly increases in volume.
Our eyes meet in a moment of understanding - it must be time for the finale.
Some years, the Capitol tries to make a big show of the Hunger Games finale - they’ll hype it up for days and then force the remaining Tributes into a confrontation during the evening hours, when everyone in Panem is home from work and lacking an excuse to miss the show. Other years they just let it happen. Those are the years when the probable winner isn’t exactly “likable.” And since it’s just past noon on a Wednesday afternoon, this must be one of those years.
Peeta and I move to stand in front of the television, my lunch and his cake forgotten. I don’t really want to see it, but sometimes after a finale the Peacekeepers will randomly stop by and quiz you on what happened in the arena, so it’s better to just suck it up and watch.
My family had pretty much stopped paying attention to the Games after Astrid’s death, so I’m a little surprised to see that one of the two finalists is the girl from District 4 - the one who had spent so much of her time flirting with one of the Career boys just a week ago. I’m less surprised that the other is Stunner, the boy from District 1 who’s proven to be extremely deadly with an axe.
Even though the midday sun is shining bright here in District 12, in the arena it looks as though evening is setting in - more dramatic that way, I guess. But what’s even more dramatic is the ring of flames encircling the Tributes. The Gamemakers must have set the arena on fire to push them together.
Compared to most years, it’s over pretty quickly - the girl from 4 is fast, but with the fire edging in closer and closer there aren’t many places she can run. In the end, she’s no match for Stunner’s brute strength. I close my eyes just before the axe enters her chest with a sickening thud. Unthinking, I reach blindly for Peeta’s hand.
He must have reached for me, too, as his fingers slip between mine easily, squeezing my hand tight. I keep my eyes closed for what feels like hours, but I can’t shut out the sounds of the television: The triumphant anthem that signifies a winner. Claudius Templesmith’s voice booming throughout the arena. Stunner’s howl of victory. The raucous cheering of the Capitol crowds.
Eventually the jarring noises subside, settling into the jaunty back-and-forth recap that Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are so well known for. Peeta’s voice is steady when he says, “You can look now.”
I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light; Peeta is still beside me, staring sadly at the screen. He looks over at me after a moment. “Well, at least it’s over,” he says.
I nod, swallowing a lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat. His eyes drift down to our hands, still clasped between us, and we both pull away hastily. He purses his lips, looking embarrassed, but neither of us says a word.
I watch, feeling numb, as the men on the television recap Stunner’s greatest moments: killing his first victim in the bloodbath, finding the axe, the slaughter of the Tributes from District 2. Then they abruptly shift tone as photos of the dead Tributes pop up onto the screen in a lackluster attempt at a memorial. My stomach turns when Astrid’s sweet, freckled face appears.
“I’m never getting married,” I blurt out of nowhere.
Peeta looks at me strangely. “Um. Okay,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Why not?”
I gesture angrily at the screen. “How could you have kids? Knowing that this is what’s waiting for them?”
“Wait - are we talking about having kids? Or just getting married?”
“Same thing,” I mutter, regretting my outburst.
“Not really,” he says. “You don’t have to have children just because you’re married.”
“Name one couple that doesn’t have kids.”
“The Tuckers. The Hanks.”
“They’re Merchants.” I leave the rest of my thought unspoken, but I know Peeta gets it. They’re Merchants, and they can afford birth control.
“Maybe you’ll just have to marry a Merchant, then,” he says lightly, walking past me to open the oven door and check on the pieces of the layer cake he’s baking.
I snort. That’s not how it works, not at all. When my parents married, it wasn’t my father who had to adjust to life on the other side of town.
There is nothing to gain from going against the grain in District 12; there are only things to lose.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs before I can respond. “That was inappropriate.” He starts to speak, stops himself, and then asks: “Does Gale want to have children?”
I look at him sharply; if anything he’s said today was inappropriate, it’s probably that question. But before he can apologize again I shrug. “Yeah, I think so.” I swallow, deciding to just be honest. “Doesn’t really matter. We kind of broke up.”
Peeta’s face remains impassive. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.” And although I know that Peeta is a skilled liar, he sounds like he truly means it.
“It’s okay,” I say. An awkward new tension has suddenly sprung up in the air between us, and my heart starts thudding loudly in my ears. “Well, I should get back out there,” I say quickly, and stride across the kitchen before he can say another word.
“I broke up with Violet.” Peeta’s voice rings out just as I reach the swinging door. I falter, looking back at him over my shoulder. His face is red, but he meets my eyes directly. “Just. In case you were wondering,” he says.
“Oh.” I push the door open a little. “Um. I’m sorry, too.” I duck out before he can respond.
And all afternoon, I wonder if he could tell that I didn’t truly mean it.
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 18 of ?
Prim is still awake when I get home, seated at the kitchen table, an old, yellowing picture book open before her.
Seeing the book sends a twinge of nostalgia through me. It once belonged to my grandmother, who passed it down to my mother, who made sure it was one of the few possessions she brought with her when she moved to the Seam with my father. It’s the only connection we have left to that side of the family now; my mother’s parents died before I was school-aged, and I’d only met them a handful of times before that, anyway.
Prim only looks up for a moment when I shut the door behind me, running her fingers down one of the pages. “Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.” I pull out a chair next to her and lean over for a look at the page. There’s a drawing of an elephant, a massive, gray beast with giant ears, a long nose and curved white tusks protruding from its face. I wouldn’t have believed it was any more than a fairy tale creature someone had dreamed up if I hadn’t seen a real one in a Tribute parade a few years back. “You haven’t looked at this book in a while.”
Prim nods, flipping to the next page, which has another strange animal - a pink bird standing on one leg. A flamingo. Another thing that doesn’t exist anymore, except maybe in one of the Capitol’s zoos.
“I know…it used to help me sleep.” She shuts the book abruptly and meets my eyes. “How is Gale?” Her forehead creases slightly as she takes in my appearance. I’d cried a little on the way home, and though I’d gotten it under control after a few minutes I’m sure my eyes are still puffy and red. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate. Is it really fair to burden Prim with my own problems, when she’s got so many of her own? Probably not - but her expression tells me that she’s not going to let this one go. I look down at the table, tracing my fingernail in one of the deep grooves in the wood.
“We broke up.”
Prim’s mouth falls open - I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so drained. “How come?”
The truth that I’m only now realizing - that no matter how much Gale loves me, no matter how long he waits for me, I’ll never love him in the way that he wants - is too painful to admit out loud. I drop my head onto my arms, folded on the tabletop. “It wasn’t working out,” I say evasively, my voice muffled against my forearm.
I feel a light pressure between my shoulder blades. Prim’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
I know that she’s trying to help - but honestly, her words only make me feel worse. Prim shouldn’t be comforting me right now. What have I even lost, in comparison to her? Gale might hate me, but at least he’s alive. And if this mess has taught me anything, it’s that I’m just not capable of the kind of feelings that Prim had for Astrid.
“Don’t be.” I turn my head to the side, peering up at her. “We’re not right for each other. It’s okay.”
Prim nods a little, thinking. “Are you still going to be friends?”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. “I hope so. But I think…I really hurt him this time.”
“He’ll forgive you,” Prim says. “You’ve been friends for so long.”
“That’s part of the problem,” I say, burying my face against my arms again. Gale has wasted years of his life waiting around for me. If I’d just been honest from the start…if I hadn’t tried to twist my feelings for him into something they weren’t…he could have fallen in love with some other girl who loves him back, and moved on. Like the way Peeta is trying to move on with Violet.
“Well,” Prim’s voice rises a little, like she’s trying to keep it light. “If you end up an old maid, at least you’ll be in good company. With me,” she clarifies.
I recognize it as an attempt at a joke, but I’m still a little startled by her words. This is the first time Prim has made any reference, even a vague one, to the fact that she’s not like most girls in the district.
I stay silent, waiting to see if she’ll continue with the thought, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Hah,” I say with a weak smile.
Prim tries to return it, but the corners of her mouth tremble, and her features twist up for just a moment before she gets them under control, forcing herself to look neutral.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I say gently, sitting upright. “Half the district is in love with you already.”
“And the other half thinks I’m a freak,” she says flatly. Her eyes grow wide for a second, like she’s surprised at her own admission. She looks away, unwilling to meet my gaze.
“They don’t,” I say firmly. “And if they do, they’re idiots.”
Prim says nothing, seemingly uncomfortable at the turn the conversation has taken. I decide not to push it - if she wants to talk about this, she’ll let me know in her own time. I could use some time to figure out my own thoughts on the matter, anyway. “I’m going to sleep. Early shift tomorrow,” I declare, standing up from the table.
“I’m glad you got your job back,” Prim says softly.
“Yeah,” I nod. “We really do need the money. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No, I mean - that’s true. But I just think…being there seems good for you.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I smile a little, thinking back to this morning. It was good for me to be there - it is. “I think you’re right,” I tell her. “Well. Goodnight, Prim.”
---
I sleep soundly that night, and this time when I wake up in the morning, Prim is stretched out in the bed beside me, her mouth hanging open on the pillow.
When I open the front door to leave, I nearly stumble off the front step as I try to avoid stepping on the plain brown envelope resting against the bottom of the doorframe. Prim Everdeen, it says in bold black letters on the front.
I pick up the envelope and shake it a little, but it seems like there’s just a note or a card inside. It’s strange - we never really receive anything in the mail, except official communications from the Capitol that everyone in the district receives from time to time. But this doesn’t even have postage on it, which means someone must have dropped it here before sunrise.
I debate opening it myself - what if it’s something cruel, some kind of trick? I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but the letter gives me a bad feeling. Ultimately, though, it’s not my place to read Prim’s private mail, and I set the envelope on her usual seat at the kitchen table.
I’m a little earlier than usual at the bakery that morning, and when I arrive it’s just Peeta in the kitchens, scooping dough out onto a cookie sheet with a spoon. “Good morning,” he greets me with a warm smile.
“Morning,” I echo, giving him a small smile back.
“How was your night?” he asks, turning his attention back to the cookies.
Kind of terrible, to be honest.But it would be awkward to tell him about what happened between Gale and I, out of the blue like that. “It was fine. Uneventful,” I say. “What about you?”
“Well, Brody got in a screaming match with our mom, which is always a blast,” he says.
I frown, glancing at the stairs that lead up to the Mellarks’ apartment. I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What were they fighting about?”
Peeta shrugs. “I never really know. Anything can set her off. Him, too, though.”
My mother might not be in the running for any parent of the year awards, but at least she’s not like Mrs. Mellark, I remind myself. I remember with a sinking feeling the deep purple bruise that had shown up on Peeta’s cheek the day after he threw me the bread - and the other scattered bruises I’d noticed on him throughout the years. Maybe there’s a reason Brody isn’t down here yet. “Is he…okay?”
Peeta looks up at me, and I can tell that he understands exactly what I’m asking. “He’s fine,” he says. “Now that we’re older she doesn’t…get physical anymore.”
I nod and look away, embarrassed that I’d even asked. We’re not really close enough friends for that.
Luckily, Brody chooses that moment to barrel down the stairs and into the kitchen, breaking the awkward silence. “Hey,” he nods at me, grabbing his apron off a hook on the wall before joining Peeta. He dips a finger into the bowl of dough and then sticks it in his mouth, humming in approval.
Peeta shoves him aside. “Don’t do that,” he snaps. “If Dad saw he’d kill you.”
Brody just rolls his eyes, but I wrinkle my nose up in confusion. “Did you just eat the dough?”
The boys both look at me in surprise. “Um, yeah,” Brody says. “You’ve never eaten cookie dough?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “When would I ever have eaten cookie dough? I didn’t even know you could.”
“Okay, fair enough. But duh, it’s cookie dough,” Brody scoffs. “Of course you can eat it.”
“Here,” Peeta says, approaching me with a small spoonful of dough. “It’s really good. We’re just not supposed to eat it until all the cookies are made,” he explains, throwing a glare at his brother.
I eye him warily, but scrape up a little of the dough with the tip of my finger. Peeta’s eyes dart away when I lick it off my finger, savoring the sweet, buttery flavor. It is really good.
“Okay, it’s good,” I say, and they both laugh. I even chuckle a little myself, the good mood contagious.
The bakery is busier than usual today, and the morning flies by so quickly that the grumbling of my stomach catches me by surprise around lunchtime. I leave the bell on the counter and take my lunch into the kitchen to eat with Peeta and Brody. Peeta explains that yesterday was payday for employees of the Capitol - mainly the Peacekeepers and Justice Building workers. The rich people in town, basically. He knows because his oldest brother, Ned, works in the Justice Building.
About halfway through lunch Brody heads out to make some deliveries, leaving Peeta and I alone. I sit at one of the long tables, chewing my lunch contently, while Peeta pours batter for a specially ordered layer cake into round metal pans. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable, until the drone of the television in the back of the room suddenly increases in volume.
Our eyes meet in a moment of understanding - it must be time for the finale.
Some years, the Capitol tries to make a big show of the Hunger Games finale - they’ll hype it up for days and then force the remaining Tributes into a confrontation during the evening hours, when everyone in Panem is home from work and lacking an excuse to miss the show. Other years they just let it happen. Those are the years when the probable winner isn’t exactly “likable.” And since it’s just past noon on a Wednesday afternoon, this must be one of those years.
Peeta and I move to stand in front of the television, my lunch and his cake forgotten. I don’t really want to see it, but sometimes after a finale the Peacekeepers will randomly stop by and quiz you on what happened in the arena, so it’s better to just suck it up and watch.
My family had pretty much stopped paying attention to the Games after Astrid’s death, so I’m a little surprised to see that one of the two finalists is the girl from District 4 - the one who had spent so much of her time flirting with one of the Career boys just a week ago. I’m less surprised that the other is Stunner, the boy from District 1 who’s proven to be extremely deadly with an axe.
Even though the midday sun is shining bright here in District 12, in the arena it looks as though evening is setting in - more dramatic that way, I guess. But what’s even more dramatic is the ring of flames encircling the Tributes. The Gamemakers must have set the arena on fire to push them together.
Compared to most years, it’s over pretty quickly - the girl from 4 is fast, but with the fire edging in closer and closer there aren’t many places she can run. In the end, she’s no match for Stunner’s brute strength. I close my eyes just before the axe enters her chest with a sickening thud. Unthinking, I reach blindly for Peeta’s hand.
He must have reached for me, too, as his fingers slip between mine easily, squeezing my hand tight. I keep my eyes closed for what feels like hours, but I can’t shut out the sounds of the television: The triumphant anthem that signifies a winner. Claudius Templesmith’s voice booming throughout the arena. Stunner’s howl of victory. The raucous cheering of the Capitol crowds.
Eventually the jarring noises subside, settling into the jaunty back-and-forth recap that Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are so well known for. Peeta’s voice is steady when he says, “You can look now.”
I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light; Peeta is still beside me, staring sadly at the screen. He looks over at me after a moment. “Well, at least it’s over,” he says.
I nod, swallowing a lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat. His eyes drift down to our hands, still clasped between us, and we both pull away hastily. He purses his lips, looking embarrassed, but neither of us says a word.
I watch, feeling numb, as the men on the television recap Stunner’s greatest moments: killing his first victim in the bloodbath, finding the axe, the slaughter of the Tributes from District 2. Then they abruptly shift tone as photos of the dead Tributes pop up onto the screen in a lackluster attempt at a memorial. My stomach turns when Astrid’s sweet, freckled face appears.
“I’m never getting married,” I blurt out of nowhere.
Peeta looks at me strangely. “Um. Okay,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Why not?”
I gesture angrily at the screen. “How could you have kids? Knowing that this is what’s waiting for them?”
“Wait - are we talking about having kids? Or just getting married?”
“Same thing,” I mutter, regretting my outburst.
“Not really,” he says. “You don’t have to have children just because you’re married.”
“Name one couple that doesn’t have kids.”
“The Tuckers. The Hanks.”
“They’re Merchants.” I leave the rest of my thought unspoken, but I know Peeta gets it. They’re Merchants, and they can afford birth control.
“Maybe you’ll just have to marry a Merchant, then,” he says lightly, walking past me to open the oven door and check on the pieces of the layer cake he’s baking.
I snort. That’s not how it works, not at all. When my parents married, it wasn’t my father who had to adjust to life on the other side of town.
There is nothing to gain from going against the grain in District 12; there are only things to lose.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs before I can respond. “That was inappropriate.” He starts to speak, stops himself, and then asks: “Does Gale want to have children?”
I look at him sharply; if anything he’s said today was inappropriate, it’s probably that question. But before he can apologize again I shrug. “Yeah, I think so.” I swallow, deciding to just be honest. “Doesn’t really matter. We kind of broke up.”
Peeta’s face remains impassive. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.” And although I know that Peeta is a skilled liar, he sounds like he truly means it.
“It’s okay,” I say. An awkward new tension has suddenly sprung up in the air between us, and my heart starts thudding loudly in my ears. “Well, I should get back out there,” I say quickly, and stride across the kitchen before he can say another word.
“I broke up with Violet.” Peeta’s voice rings out just as I reach the swinging door. I falter, looking back at him over my shoulder. His face is red, but he meets my eyes directly. “Just. In case you were wondering,” he says.
“Oh.” I push the door open a little. “Um. I’m sorry, too.” I duck out before he can respond.
And all afternoon, I wonder if he could tell that I didn’t truly mean it.