My Distractions

****

“Where is she?”

His eyes are rimmed red. It’s clear he’s been crying. But I try not to focus on that, and instead on the little girl. He opens the door wider to let me inside and tells me, “Down the hall on the left – in the bathroom.”

I brush past him, sure that I look flushed and frazzled. But I don’t often get calls past midnight from my ex because his six-year-old daughter won’t stop crying.

“I’m sorry, Katniss,” I hear him say as he hurries along behind me. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s fine, Peeta,” I wave a hand in the air behind me. I can hear the girl’s cries now that I’m getting closer. “I understand.” And I do. I can’t imagine he knows many women who also lost their mothers as children.

I turn the corner to the bathroom, and that’s when I see her. She looks horrible – she’s curled up on the floor next to the toilet, like she’s prepared to vomit at any time. Her knees are tucked into her chest, but her hands are in her hair, like she might pull it out. Her breathing is ragged, and she’s hiccupping with each breath.

It reminds me of me.

“Oh, honey,” I whisper. I hear myself sigh, in understanding, or maybe just sympathy, and without thinking I sink to the floor next to her. I reach out a hand to touch her shoulder, and she raises her head to look at me with a puffy face. The whites of her eyes are red at this moment, and it makes the blue of her irises devastating.

Peeta whispers behind me, “Her name is –“

“Rose,” I finish. I know. Although I’d never admit it out loud, I’ve been keeping up with them on Facebook, especially during the past year.

This makes her take a hiccupping breath, and I let every instinct in me take over. I reach out my hands as an invitation. A hug. She stares at me for a second longer, as if realizing what I’m doing and what it means, and then she collapses. She falls into me, against my chest. She sobs deep and hard. She clutches at my sweatshirt with her small hands. I can feel my own eyes prick at tears, just because it’s so hard to see such a young girl in such pain. And behind me, I swear I can hear Peeta struggle with tears, too.

He stays in the doorway behind us, watching. I drop my chin to the top of her head. I smooth my hands over her back. I hug her tightly. Like she used to hold me. I try to remember what would help me when I was upset at her age. Although nobody ever held me like this when I lost my mom – I cried about normal things before that, too. Things she was able to hold me for.

And I remember I liked it when she combed her fingers through my hair. So I sniffle back my own tears and comb my fingers through Rose’s hair. After a few minutes, she regains her composure a little bit, and we all breathe together. But then she mutters something that sounds like, “I miss my mom.” And she – we all break down again.

A few minutes later, I hear, “I miss her so much.”

After that, “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Later, “Forever.”

And I repeat the same phrase over and over in response: “I know.” Because I do.

Peeta takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub at some point, and after what must be thirty minutes or so, he gets up and sniffles away the last of his tears. His voice is raspy when he speaks, “Do you want some water?”

I shake my head and gesture to Rose. “She might, though.”

He tilts his head with a small smile, “I think she’s asleep, actually.”

I furrow my brows and pull back to look at her. And sure enough, tiny Rose is asleep in my arms. “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”

Peeta shuffles a little on his feet, and I look up at him in question. What do we do now?

“You can, um, bring her into the living room – if you don’t mind.”

I nod, understanding his implication. You can leave her there if you want to go now. And I think that might be appropriate. But when I scoop her up into my arms, she stirs a little bit. And she breathes a deep breath against my loose hair, and her grip on me tightens. So I sit down on the couch and lay her head in an angle that must be more comfortable against me. And I decide I can stay a little bit longer. Besides, it’s not like I would really be able to sleep after this.

I let my head rest against the back of the couch, because although I can’t sleep, I am exhausted. Peeta grabs a cup of water, and then he settles on the other couch next to mine. “What time is it?” I ask him.

He checks his watch, then scrubs a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “One A.M.” He gives me a regretful look. “If you need to leave, it’s fine –“ But I’m already shaking my head.

“It’s okay,” I absentmindedly smooth a hand over her hair. “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I say, to which he just nods solemnly. Because he knows there’s no one else in my life. No pets or significant other or children of my own to go home to. Just a small apartment with a television I’d probably be asleep in front of by now.

We sit like that in silence for a few minutes, until I hear him whisper, “I can’t believe it’s been a year. Already.”

I glance up at him. “I know. The time passed quickly.” It feels like yesterday when I got the invitation to Delly’s funeral. I remember how three months prior she had been diagnosed with late-stage cancer. It took everyone by surprise. She was the kindest, most lovable person anyone had ever met. Part of me always wanted to hate her, because she ended up with Peeta, and I didn’t. And he’s the only guy I’ve ever loved – the only guy I will ever love.

I drop my eyes to the top of Rose’s head to avoid looking at him.

But Delly could give him what I couldn’t.

“Do you miss her?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. A question I’ve been asked a million times about my own mom. But even though me and everyone else knows the answer, I think maybe he’d want someone to ask it anyway.

He chews on the inside of his cheek, and I get the feeling he’s trying not to cry again. “Yeah,” he says after a minute. “Yeah, I mean, we had our issues, but – you know. And she – Rose, she deserved – deserves to have a mom.” He finally shakes his head and drops his hands to his lap.

I don’t know what to say to that, because coming from me, having lost my mom at the age of eight, anything I say will sound different, will have implications. So I just nod my head in agreement. She does deserve to have a mom.

I look up at Peeta and huff out an awkward laugh. “Could I – could I have some water, actually?”

He gives me a big grin, and I see his appreciation in his eyes. “Yeah,” he gets up off the couch, stretching his arms. “I’ll be right back.”

***

As I clock out from the lab computer, I feel my phone buzz from my pocket with a call. I answer it without looking at the screen and focus on packing up my purse. “Hello?”

“Hey, Katniss.”

I freeze mid putting-my-chapstick-onto-my-lips. “Peeta?”

I hear him clear his throat. “Yeah, it’s me. Um –”

His voice cuts off to be interrupted by a young girl’s: “Katniss!”

That makes me smile. She sounds much happier than she did last night. “Hi, Rose.”

I hear her whisper something I can’t make out, and then Peeta laughs gruffly and tells me, “She says you can call her Rosie.”

I laugh a little, mostly so she can hear it, but my smile is real. “Got it. Rosie Roo it is.”

“So, uh – how are you?”

I raise my brows to myself, trying not to laugh at his awkwardness. He used to be so good at words. “I’m good, Peeta. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” he starts, “Rosie and I just wanted to invite you to dinner. At our place – tonight.”

“It’s ‘pasghetti!’” I hear her add.

I put down my purse on the laboratory counter. Confusion clouds my brain. “Dinner?” I ask him. “Why are you inviting me for dinner?” I know what my words sound like they’re implying – You’re not asking me on a date, are you? Because we both know he shouldn’t. (Although my heart starts beating quicker at the idea. But I doubt he’d still want me after all this time.)

Peeta sputters out a few sounds until he answers, “Uh, I – we just wanted to thank you. For helping us last night.” (Ah, that makes much more sense.)

Well, helping is a strong word. I think any woman would have been able to hug Rose and get her to stop crying. But I’m glad he didn’t call someone else, like his mom, to help instead. But I shouldn’t make it a regular occurrence. As much fun as it was to see a glimpse into his life last night, similar to how I stalk him online, I know I can’t keep up with that. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to him a second time.

He hears me hesitate, so he chuckles and continues, “Katniss, come on. It’s just dinner.”

He’s right, the devil on my shoulder tells me. It’s just dinner. Just an hour or so! What’s the worst that could happen? And Rose sounds like she would love to see you…

I roll my head around my shoulders, trying to weigh my options, then I cave, heaving a big sigh. “Fine. You win. What time?”

“Well, actually it’s ready now – if you want to head over.”

“Now?” I sputter, hurriedly picking up my purse and throwing it over my shoulder, then leaving for the lab exit. “You should have called me earlier! I’m still at work,” And now I won’t have time to change out of my gross work jeans and tee shirt that smell like 70% ethanol.

“Oh,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry, I, uh, figured you’d be home by now.”

I sigh mentally, closing my eyes as the elevator climbs up to meet me. I work long hours. It’s almost 6:30 now, and I’m just now leaving work. Like I said, it helps distract from the nothingness awaiting me at home. “Yeah,” I say instead of elaborating. “I’m on my way now, okay? My work isn’t too far from your house. I should be there in about ten.”

“Okay,” he says quickly, and I can imagine him on the other side of the phone, nodding furiously. The idea makes my face heat. “We’ll see you soon. Bye, Katniss.”

I bite my lip. “Bye, Peeta.”

***

Déjà vu hits me hard as I stand on the doorstep of the Mellark home and knock. Except last night I was anxious and on edge because of my worry for Rose, now I’m just anxious for different reasons. I fiddle with my braid and tug on the sleeve of my cardigan, hoping I look okay. I sprayed on some vanilla perfume in the car in the hopes that it’ll outweigh the smell of sanitizing alcohol from the lab.

The door opens and I drop my braid on my shoulder, trying to act like I wasn’t playing with it nervously.

Peeta smiles a big, gorgeous smile at the sight of me. He’s as beautiful as always. His blond hair has gotten a shade or so darker since college, but his smile is the same. Joyful and contagious. His lips are the same shade of pink as I remember – and they’re plump and kissable.

I feel my cheeks heat.

“Hi,” he says, opening the door wider.

“Hi,” I tell him, breaking eye contact so I can walk past him and into the foyer. Our arms brush when I pass him and I can feel the proximity of his skin affect me even through my sleeve. I tug on the cuffs, taking a deep breath.

“Hey Rosie,” I hear him call out from behind me, “Katniss is here.”

And there she is. The blonde, bubbling ball of happiness. I can’t help but smile at her joy as she runs from the kitchen and into my legs, hugging them. “Katniss!”

“Hi, Rose,” I say, smoothing a hand over her curly hair. Peeta comes from around me to smile at the sight, too. I can’t help but compare it to last night, and I think about how much better she looks – as if last night didn’t even happen. I wonder if she knows I stayed here until three in the morning until I carried her to bed and tucked her in.

Probably not.

“Rosie,” she tells me, looking up at me with a toothy grin. “Rosie Roo, like you said on the phone.”

I laugh a little, patting her head. “Okay. Rosie Roo it is.” I hear Peeta chuckle a little, and I look up to meet his eyes from where he stands to the side with his arms crossed. His face is painted with emotion, a mix of sadness and happiness, and if I’m reading him right… longing.

The feeling is completely unnerving, so I gently pry Rose off of my legs. “You said there’s spaghetti?”

She does a little hop, clapping her hands. “Yes!” And then before I can realize what’s happening, she reaches out and grabs my fingers, dragging me to the dining room.

“Oh,” I huff out, surprised, and try to laugh it off awkwardly, looking around.

The house is fantastic. As far as I knew, Delly had a well-paying job and Peeta works for some book publisher (and sells his artwork on the side, but that’s not public knowledge), and together it seems they bought a large, cozy home in a safe neighborhood. It must be three bedrooms and it has a beautiful open floor concept. There are wooden beams on the ceiling and the floor is a light tile, making it seem even more bright and inviting. I didn’t really have a chance to admire it yesterday as I was so preoccupied with Rose, but now I can’t keep my eyes to myself.

“Wow,” I whisper under my breath.

“I know, right?” Rose says as we reach the table, assuming I’m talking about the fancy plates of spaghetti set out in front of us. She lets me go so I can take a seat. She sits next to me. “It’s so yummy. Dad says it’s a secret recipe.”

Dad. Wow. I can feel my face pale a little bit. I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, obviously I knew Peeta was a father, but the idea that he actually has a daughter that he loves and adores and is raising really hits me when I hear that, and the realization is a little overwhelming. I try not to let it show on my face. “Really?” I tell her. “Well, I’m not surprised. Your – dad,” I force the word out, “was always a fantastic cook.”

I hear Peeta laugh, and I look up as he takes the seat across from me. “That’s being generous,” he says.

“Don’t listen to him,” Rose says, “He’s trying to be ‘hummle.’”

“Humble,” Peeta corrects her. “Pronounce your B’s, Rosie.” Then Rose makes a face similar to rolling her eyes, and I bite my lip to stifle my laugh. Peeta mouths at me, Sorry, but he’s smiling, too.

“How did you and Dad meet?” Rose asks as she struggles to use her fork to swirl the spaghetti.

Peeta starts, “Well, we –“

“We were friends in high school,” I interrupt him. I don’t think he would tell her that we dated for three years and were head over heels in love, but just in case. And maybe I’m just not prepared to hear what he’d define our old relationship as. “And then we went to college together, where he met your mom.”

Rose nods in understanding. “Dad showed me pictures of you in pretty dresses.”

I furrow my brows as Peeta sputters out a few syllables from across the dining room table, “Uh – she, uh – wanted to hear about you. I showed her our Prom pictures.”

Junior and Senior Prom. My eyes widen a little in understanding, and I nod slowly, looking back down at my plate. I can feel Rose’s eyes on me, but I ignore her and twirl my noodles instead.

After a moment I say, “Thank you for inviting me for dinner.”

“Of course,” Peeta says. “We wanted to thank you for your – help.”

“It was my idea,” Rose says. “I wanted you to come.” That makes me smile a little, and I throw her a glance to see her cheeks are big and pink.

“Oh,” Peeta says, and I look up at him to see him haphazardly get out of his chair. “I totally forgot to get you a drink,” and he motions to his own cup, an empty wine glass. He asks, “Is red okay?” and leaves for the kitchen, where I hear a few different noises.

I knit my brows. “Red?” I ask. “Red wine?”

The noises stop for a second, and then his head pops out from around the corner. “Yeah, is that okay? It goes with the spaghetti.”

Rose says, “If it goes with the ‘pasghetti,’ can’t I have some, too?” I look over and see a smile on her face, and I realize she’s joking with him.

He chuckles, leaning back into the kitchen. “Absolutely not.” Then there’s some more ruffling and he comes back with two wine glasses and some fancy bottle. He raises his eyebrows in question.

I bite my lip, maybe to keep myself from refusing, and nod my head before I can think twice. He gives me another smile, then pours me a glass. It reminds me of that one time I stole my dad’s vodka and we got drunk on the back patio after high school graduation. When he’s finished, we clink our glasses (and Rose’s glass of water, too) and take a sip. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had anything to drink that had alcohol in it, and the sour taste makes my face screw up a little.

Peeta notices and smirks a little. “The wine’s okay?”

“Yeah,” I clear my throat. “It’s just not cheap. I’m not used to it.” I offer him a small smile and then notice Rose groan next to me. Looking over, I realize she’s struggling to twirl her spaghetti. On instinct, I offer, “Do you want some help?”

Her face lights up at my question, and she drops her silverware onto her plate in invitation. I laugh, taking the fork and knife and beginning to cut up her noodles into smaller sections. Then I grab her spoon.

“You can use your fork to twist it like this, see?”

“Like a tornado,” she says.

I nod. “Like a tornado. And then you can scoop it on your spoon and bring it all the way to your mouth.” I make the motions with my hands. “Do you wanna try?”

She nods furiously, grabbing the utensils from me. When she does it right and makes it into her mouth, she gives me a big smile, her lips covered in tomato sauce, and it makes me laugh.

“Rose,” Peeta laughs at the mess she made, and I hand her a napkin while she giggles.

We hold casual, easy conversations throughout dinner, talking about Rose’s dance next week, her first grade classes, and the children’s books Peeta has been proofreading.

“So what do you do for work?” he asks me.

I raise my brows. He knows what I majored in since we were still dating the first year of college, but then we drifted apart as he began dating Delly. (And because I broke his heart.) He knows what I wanted to do with my degree, too, but I’m not active on any social media, so I guess what he’s really asking is if my original plan became a reality.

“I’m an environmental scientist for the state,” I tell him. “I do some field work, but mostly I work in a lab.”

He drops his eyes to his plate, and I know what he’s thinking. I always wanted to be a park ranger, but I’d have to move away. And I told him that was one of the reasons I was breaking up with him – he didn’t want to leave his family and his hometown, and I did. He would’ve moved away with me, but I wouldn’t let him. I knew it wasn’t his dream. He only found out last year at Delly’s funeral that I still lived here. Turns out I wasn’t quite ready to leave my dad, so I chose the next best job. “But I love what I do,” I add, almost as if trying to convince myself.

He catches my eye again, but before he can speak, Rose says, “What do you do all day?”

I turn my head in her direction, pretending to be lost in thought. “Um, I do tons of different things. Mostly I go out to the river and different forests and get samples of water and other environmental factors. Then I take them back to my lab and run tests to see their pH results and growth rates, things like that. That way my team and other scientists can use our data for different experiments.”

She nods, her brows knitting. “My mom was a lawyer,” she says, and my breath hitches. “She says she helped people who were hurt get ‘jusdist.’”

Ah. A prosecutor. I glance at Peeta, and his eyes are dropped again. I struggle to find a response.

“That’s a very… fierce profession,” I finally land on. I definitely didn’t think Peeta would ever date, much less marry, someone who’s a prosecutor. His mom was a lawyer growing up, and he always strayed away from the law school students because of his bad experience with her as a child. And as a teenager… and as an adult.

We sit in silence until we’re done with our dinner (and our second glasses of wine), and I offer to help clean the dishes, but Peeta shoos me off, waving a rag in my direction. I don’t know if they want me to leave yet, but I have a feeling I’m not overstaying my welcome, so I lean against the counter and watch as Peeta and Rose clean the plates, occasionally flicking soapy water at each other and ruffling each other’s hair. The air is filled with giggles, and I’m so distracted watching Peeta that I don’t notice that Rose is talking to me until she tugs on my sleeve.

“Katnissss,” she whines, “Come on. Let’s go watch a movie.”

“A movie?” I ask as she drags me by the hand toward the living room. “I, uh…” I look back at Peeta in question, but he’s just looking at me in amusement, drying his hands with a towel. He shrugs.

“It’s Thursday,” he says. “We watch Frozen on Thursdays.”

I raise my eyebrows as Rose drops my hand and hops onto the couch. “Every Thursday?” And he nods, laughing and tossing down the towel to walk over to where I stand behind the couch.

I tilt my head at him. There’s still some soap in his hair, and I react on instinct, standing on my tip toes and flattening the bubbles, then smoothing a hand over the damp curls. Before I lower back down I note how close our faces are, and how the blue of his eyes are the exact shade I remember. The exact shade I see in my dreams at night.

His mouth is parted as he looks at me, and I feel my cheeks heat. I drop my heels back to the floor, trying to explain, “Sorry, I – there was soap. In your hair.”

He swallows and nods, but I notice how his eyes drop down to my lips for a moment too long. Rose turns around at that moment to ask Peeta something about ice cream, and I raise the back of my hand to my cheeks and blow out a breath. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine.

He tells Rose that she can have some ice cream, and she hops off the couch to grab some. “Does Katniss want some ice cream, too?” she asks from the kitchen.

I look at Peeta, my eyes wide. “I – uh, I don’t. Don’t need to stay, I mean.”

He shrugs again, looking at the TV and grabbing the remote. “You’re welcome to stay.” He glances at me. “It’s just Frozen.”

I sigh through my nose. It’s just Frozen. It’s just dinner. He makes it sound like no big deal. But I don’t really have a social life, or any friends, and I definitely wasn’t planning on expanding my arsenal starting with a widow and his young daughter.

He notices my hesitation and goes on, picking at his thumbnails. He used to do that all the time. Maybe some small things haven’t changed. “Look, don’t feel like you have to stay. But, I, uh – we should get together. Another time, then.”

I look up at him then, at his blushed face and his downcast eyes.

He was definitely talking about a date that time. Right?

But seeing him again, watching him smile and – feeling him – has brought up so many memories. So many memories I’ve tried to smother into the past tense. But I miss him, still. So much. And I knew that already. But he just lost a wife, barely a year ago. So he can’t want a relationship yet, right? And I could never be what he needs me to be. Not for him, and not for Rose.

But we just had dinner, casually. We can do things without kissing and stuff, we just proved it. So maybe it doesn’t have to be a date. Maybe I can just be friends with him. Maybe I can just be part of his life.

So I allow myself that word: “Maybe.”

His head snaps up at my voice, and his smile is devastating. It almost makes me smile, too, but I bite my lip. “And I’ll stay for Frozen, too,” I add.

He nods his head slowly, backing away toward the kitchen. “So… three bowls of ice cream.”

***

It’s almost 10:00 when Peeta picks up Rose’s sleeping form (she fell asleep after Elsa went to jail) and carries her quietly to her room, much like I did last night. I just stay curled up on the couch under the blanket Peeta and I shared. We didn’t touch at all during the movie, but his arm did rest across the back of the couch behind me. I played with my braid the entire time, my skin heating at the proximity. A nervous wreck, the entire time.

And as he walks back from her room, I find myself doing the same thing. Playing with my braid. Wondering what he might expect of me tonight. What do I expect of him tonight? Nothing, right?

I really should be leaving soon.

“Hey,” he says when he comes back into view.

I smile at him, maybe about to get up or excuse myself, but he just grabs two beers from his fridge and sits back down on the couch next to me, releasing a deep breath. He places one of the drinks in front of me on the coffee table, as if to say, If you want it. I pick it up and uncap the top. Not really so I can drink any of it, but I want to be able to do something with my hands while he’s so close to me – something to fiddle with that’s not my hair. (When we were dating, he always knew that I played with my braid when I was nervous. And I’m worried he might still know me too well.)

I’m glad he’s not acting weird around me. Or at least like he’s uncomfortable to be around me. It gives me the courage to talk to him. Like maybe I might have a second chance at being friends. Like maybe I don’t have to lose him completely from my life – this time.

I peer at him under my eyelashes. “Long day?” I ask hesitantly.

He scrubs a hand over his face, smiling tiredly. “Yeah, but it’s better now.” I don’t know if he means because Rose is finally put to bed or because I’m here, but I feel my cheeks blush anyway. He notices and chuckles a little. “So what’s new with you, Katniss? I know we haven’t really gotten the chance to talk in a while.”

Well, if that isn’t the understatement of the century. We haven’t really talked in nine years, since I broke up with him. Actually, we haven’t really talked since he started dating Delly a few months after that breakup. Now we’re both twenty-nine, and I haven’t touched a man since. And he’s widowed with a six-year-old daughter. So, yeah – we haven’t gotten the chance to talk in a while.

I roll my lips, tracing the mouth of the beer bottle with my finger. “Yeah. It’s been a while.” I clear my throat. “Not much is new,” I tell him, my eyes dancing around the living room, looking anywhere but his face. “My dad still lives in town. I have dinner with him every Saturday.” I try to think of stuff he doesn’t know about me yet, but it’s not a long list. “Work is good… My coworkers are nice.”

I realize I don’t really have anything to add besides that, as my life is so boring and uneventful. My cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment, and I contemplate what to say, then end up deciding to just take a swig of my beer, trying to communicate without words: That’s it.

I glance at him, and he takes a sip of his beer, too. He swallows, his eyes trained on his sweatpants where he picks at a loose thread. After a moment, he asks, “Boyfriend?”

I could lie. I should lie. Or I could remind him that’s not very appropriate. Or I could just leave, like a responsible adult. But part of me wants to see how he’ll respond to the truth. A bigger part of me thinks he just deserves to know.

So I tell him. “No. There hasn’t been anyone. Not in a while.” A while. Nine years.

I can see his shoulders relax a little, and my heart does a little somersault. A moment passes, and I can tell he’s struggling with what to say, so I change the subject entirely, “Um – you have a beautiful house.” I gesture to the ceiling. “I didn’t really get a chance to tell you yesterday,” I add, laughing awkwardly.

He cringes a little, and it takes me a moment to realize why. “I’m sorry – about that,” he says, not meeting my eyes. And I try to shake my head, but he goes on, “I really panicked. She wouldn’t talk to me. She said she wanted, um, a girl – to talk to.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. I know we hadn’t spoken since the funeral.”

I wave a hand, even though he’s right. It was super weird for me to get a call from him in the middle of the night after not hearing from him for a year – and before that, I hadn’t heard from him for eight years. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy I could help.” He looks like he might apologize again, so I tell him, “Seriously. I’m glad you called.” For more reasons than one, I don’t say.

He meets my eyes, and I hope he knows I’m telling the truth. Even a part of me was a little smug that he called me and no one else. Realistically, I know it was because I lost my mom and could relate to Rose. But part of me can’t help but think it’s because we have history.

“Well,” he starts, gesturing around with his hand, and I realize he’s talking about the house again, “I did do most of the carpentry myself.”

I smile. “And all these paintings on the walls?”

“Yeah,” he smiles wistfully. “Yeah, I painted all of those.”

“I can tell. It’s in your style.” He throws me a sidelong glance, his lips quirked to the side. I go on, “Do you still bake?” And that must be the wrong thing to say, because I see him stiffen.

“Um,” he mutters, “I think – I’m, uh, pretty sure the last time I baked something – like, really baked something, besides cookies or something – was the cake for the wedding.”

I knit my brows. “Whose wedding?”

He rolls his lips inward, picking at the beer label. “Mine.” I freeze, inhaling a sharp breath. “I guess there just wasn’t a lot of time after that. I mean, we got pregnant right after getting married, you know? And then… well, raising a child kept us both very busy. Especially since she was so busy doing lawyer-y things.”

Part of why you didn’t want to marry a lawyer, I almost want to add, but bite my tongue. “Was Rosie close with Delly?” I ask instead.

He shrugs. “She was definitely closer with me. I mean, not that it’s a competition,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. (I used to run my hands through his hair.) “But we just connected better. And Delly was always so busy. But she tried to make time, you know? They still loved each other.” He attacks his beer label again. “She was still her daughter.”

I nod, biting my lip and focusing on my pants this time. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I can feel my face heat even before I ask the question, “And, uh, how did that affect – your relationship with her?”

He turns his head in my direction, his brows knitted a little. “With Rosie?”

I look up to meet his gaze. “With Delly.”

His mouth parts, and then his throat works on a swallow. “Um,” he starts, then swallows again. I think about telling him, Never mind, that’s really none of my business, but part of me wants to know anything he’s willing to tell me about their relationship. If only so that I can know I didn’t break up with him all for nothing, and he ended up actually falling in love with someone else.

Knowing he ended up being happy with a family. Something I knew I couldn’t give him.

“Well, it was strange right off the bat. I guess we became friends, and everyone just kind of thought we should date, so we did. And that was – fine enough, I guess.” Well. That’s not what you really want to hear when dating someone. “But it was lacking. Lacking passion, I think. But neither of us really cared enough to break up. Even though it was boring, it was comfortable. And Delly always said she would want to get married before she went to law school. So when everyone was expecting us to get married, we did. It just kind of seemed like the next right step. And then everyone expected us to have children, so we did. We wanted the same things, I guess – marriage and kids, so it was what made sense at the time.”

He pauses for a moment, and I find myself leaning in closer, waiting for him to go on. Eventually the silence gets to be too much, and I grow impatient. “And?”

He looks at me, and our faces are so close that I can feel his breath fan in my direction. Our eyes meet and stay there. His throat bobs, and he continues, “And after a while we just realized we loved each other platonically. Not really romantically. We definitely weren’t ever in love.” He rolls in his lips, breaking eye contact. “Before she was diagnosed, we talked about, uh, getting divorced. But we both agreed it was just so late in life for both of us.” He glances up at me, and I feel my face drop as the realization hits me. “Neither of us wanted to start over. So we both agreed it would be best to stay together – for Rose, at least.

“But then Delly got diagnosed, and she died three months later. And even though we weren’t in love, she was one of my best friends. And I miss her.” He takes a deep breath. “And of course, Rosie loved her. I mean, she was always her mom. But, uh, she doesn’t know – that we were thinking about divorce, I mean.”

“Thinking about divorce – because you weren’t in love,” I finish for him, frozen in my place on the couch as the truth sets in. So Peeta didn’t get his happy ending. He got a life of convenience, a child born out of friendship instead of passion.

“Yeah,” he says, “I should’ve known better, really. But we got along so well. And I guess I was just so eager to move on after – after you.” He finally rips off part of the label, crumpling it up and tossing it onto the coffee table.

I swallow down my disappointment. That means he never fell in love with anyone else. He loved Delly like a friend, but not like a lover. I was the first and only person he was ever in love with. I wonder… I wonder if he knows it was real for me, too.

I almost don’t realize my lips are moving until I hear the words come out of my mouth: “I never moved on. Not from you.”

His eyes slowly meet mine, his mouth parted. As if trying to figure out if what he heard was real. And I’m not expecting anything from him – I doubt he’d even want me still, after all these years, after all I’ve put him through. And even then, I shouldn’t let anything happen, because it won’t lead anywhere, and then we’d both just get hurt, again. But I thought he should know part of the truth, at least. If he doesn’t know the real reason why I broke up with him, at least I can give him this.

“Really?” he says. And his voice holds this weird mixture of hope and disbelief. And I nod.

I don’t know why I elaborate, but part of me feels the need to. “I know I broke up with you. But that doesn’t mean I ever recovered.” I drop my eyes. “I mean, I was in love with you. You know? That’s not something you really get over. Maybe ever.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice holding even more emotion now. When did our bodies start facing each other? When did our faces get so close?

His eyes are so blue.

“Yeah, I do know,” he says. “I kept on trying to find it in someone other than you.” In Delly. “But I couldn’t. You were it for me, I think.”

I shake my head. My heart is beating fast. I try not to, but my eyes drop to his lips. They’re parted. And pink. And kissable. I force myself to meet his eyes, which are slightly darker. Or maybe that’s just the lighting. Or the beer. “I didn’t try to find it in anyone else,” I tell him. And I know exactly what I’m doing. And it’s a bad idea. But I can’t bring myself to stop. “I knew you were it for me.”

Something sparks in his eyes at my admission, and I think I stop breathing. We glance down, leaning in slowly, but we’re so close that our lips touch just a second later. He presses them softly against mine, and the feeling makes me keen. His lips are warm and supple and pliable – and moist from the beer. It feels perfect, like we were molded just for each other. A feeling I haven’t felt in nine years, but couldn’t bring myself to forget. It’s so comforting, it feels so right, and so I tilt my head to deepen the kiss, and release a sigh through my nose (as if saying Finally), while raising my hand to cup his face.

Except when I touch him, he pulls back.

I pull back my hand as if I’ve been burned. And I can feel my heart beating fast again, but this time it’s not out of anticipation, and instead out of panic. I can feel my eyes blown wide, too. But Peeta doesn’t meet my gaze. He’s staring at his lap again.

His jaw ticks. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I stare at him in horror, and my heart climbs into my throat. I want to slap myself in the face. Stupid, I think to myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! What are you doing? What was that?

“I can’t,” he adds a moment later, when I still haven’t responded.

I know, I think to myself. Because you actually did move on, didn’t you? And I never did. I never left, not really. I’m still in love with you.

And I was so stupid to think he might still want me after all these years.

I nod, hoping he doesn’t look at me because I can feel tears pricking at my eyes. I roll my lips inward to keep them from trembling. When the silence has become too much, I stand up abruptly and face away from him. “I should go,” I say.

He doesn’t protest.

It makes me want to cry even more.

I brush past him and into the kitchen, grabbing my purse from the kitchen counter. I feel a tear escape my eye and I blow out a breath, mentally scolding myself for feeling so much. I wipe away the wetness on my cheek and turn around – but he’s standing there behind me, looking at me and chewing on his cheek, and my breath catches.

“Um,” I start, but my voice breaks on that one syllable. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that just makes more tears fall. And I was going to apologize – for kissing him maybe, or maybe for everything else, but I don’t really think I’d be able to get any more sounds out without crying. But he must notice that, (or he sees my obvious tears) because his face contorts in a pained expression.

“Katniss,” he says, reaching for me, but I dodge his hand.

“Call me, if you need anything, okay?” My voice still cracks and breaks, but I shuffle around him and toward the exit, managing out, “If – if Rose needs anything.” And I take one last look at the blue of his eyes, rimmed in red, then turn around, leaving through the door.

Leaving the house where he built a life with a girl he wasn’t in love with. A girl he settled for because of me.

And tonight, just like that one night nine years ago, he doesn’t follow me out.

I climb into the car, managing to keep my composure until I’m out of the driveway. Then I burst into tears, sobbing in full as I drive down the street.

It’s okay, I tell myself, but it doesn’t calm me down any. Nothing could have happened anyway.

Right. That’s exactly why I broke up with him.

Because he wanted to become a father. And I can’t be a mother.

***