Blooming in the Spring

Chapter 18

Dr. Aurelius comes back a few times after that, much to my own disdain. He asks us about things that I prefer not to speak about, like Peeta's family and hijacking and my sister and war and memories of dead children and losing Finnick--who was a friend to the both of us--to the lizard mutts. These sessions are almost unbearable but Peeta holds my hand through them and always squeezes it extra tight when we talk about particularly awful things. It hardly gets easier but I do manage to sit through them without running off again, though the temptation is always there and especially so when Peeta cries as he recounts the things he's been through. I try not to let myself feel guilty. I know he doesn't blame me for these things and I know he doesn't want me to blame myself either. But the heaviness is always there, lingering in the deepest part of my chest. I'm not sure if it'll ever go away. I think I will be indebted to the boy with the bread forever. 

It's only a couple of weeks before Aurelius has to return to the Capitol again, as the new hospital in 12 is progressing nicely and he's needed more elsewhere. Still, he doesn't leave without insisting that I continue to talk to him over the phone. He says he's proud of us both, Peeta and me, but believes there's still more to be discussed. Of course. I think we both know I will not be making good on my promise to return his calls but he must feel obligated to make the effort anyways. Besides, Peeta is much better than me at keeping up with the doctor so he can fill him in for the both of us. 

Once Aurelius finally leaves, I feel desperate to get away. After weeks of pouring out my every emotion and fear, I feel exhausted and I crave nothing more than peace and quiet. Peeta must feel this too because he suggests we take a day trip into the woods. I agree immediately and without hesitating, offer up my father's lake. For a long time, I wanted to keep the lake my own little secret. Even the thought of taking Peeta there felt a little odd. But as we've grown closer together and I've felt myself grow to love him, I suddenly have the strongest desire to share this place with him--a place that was so special to me and my family. Peeta and I have shared the worst kind of history together and I want nothing more than to show him who I used to be, before all of it. It used to scare me, the thought of fully opening myself up to someone else. But through everything, we've somehow managed to push through all of the heavy darkness and instead spend our days teaching each other about who we are underneath it all. And it's not frightening as I thought. With Peeta, it's easy. 

So I tell him, "I know a place we could go." 

"Not the pond?" he asks, referring to our usual place that I've been taking him to. 

"Not the pond," I say with a light smile. "Somewhere else, a little farther in the woods. A place my father used to take me." 

At this, he just smiles and says, "Alright, then. I'll pack extra cheese buns." 

So, we fill one of my mother's old wicker baskets from the linen closet upstairs with loaves of bread and cheese and fruit and a couple of canteens filled with water and Peeta stuffs his leather pack with art supplies. 

It's just after 9 am when we set off into the woods. Peeta, still pretty unfamiliar with the forest, follows behind me carefully. I tell him that there's nothing in the woods to fear, not really, but I can tell he's still weary of going too far past the treeline. 

"I've been through here a thousand times," I assure him.

"Well, no one better to protect me than you, I guess," he says slyly with the sort of boyish grin that reminds me so much of the way he used to tease me in the first Games. Charming and sarcastic and effortlessly flirty. I suppose it was easy to be so coy when you're sure you're going to die. Only this isn't the case anymore, of course. Now, we're simply comfortable with each other. 

The hike out to the lake takes a few hours, especially because we take frequent breaks whenever Peeta sees something particularly beautiful that he insists on sketching in the little notepad he keeps in his pocket. Sunlight through the trees, little pinkish flowers growing in the underbrush, tiny little birds peeking out of their nest. Tiny things, things of life and of beauty, that I'd all but miss if it wasn't for him. Peeta sees all of it; he's got such an eye for beautiful things and is able to replicate them with just a few strokes of a pencil on paper. I don't even mind that it takes us longer to get to our destination. I like watching him watch the world. I like to see it through his eyes, all of the beauty I'd almost forgotten was still there.