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It had been three months since the initial announcement. Three long, grueling, and painful months. Finnick had spent most of them pleading with Delia or Mags, trying to convince them that Delia was better outside of the arena. Of course both women refused to budge. When he realized that begging was futile, Finnick played a dirty move.
"You can't go!" Danielle shouted, her face red. The young girl held onto Delia, her thin arms wrapped around her waist. Finnick was standing by the door with a raised brow. Delia narrowed her eyes at him. Cheap trick. Then again, when Finnick was desperate, he would try anything.
While Danielle was guilting her, Brock had also been very upset. He was sitting on the edge of Delia's bed with crossed arms. "Brock," Delia started, "You need to look out for her while I'm gone. Anne and Mags have agreed to give you shares of their monthly allowances, so money shouldn't be a problem-"
"Stop it," Brock said in a low voice. An unsettling silence fell over her bedroom as Finnick slowly backed away from the door. As long as he could get her siblings to convince her that she shouldn't go back, he wouldn't have anything to worry about. "Stop acting like you're going to die, he wouldn't let you die," Brock told her.
"I'm not giving him that choice," Delia responded.
🐚
The only air she could breathe was the salted wind. The breeze that gently swept in from the beach. Delia's feet melted into the sand as she walked onto the beach. The Reaping was the next day, and she could hardly get any rest. Delia had anticipated the inevitable, of Finnick being in danger again. Her stomach was in knots; she had to go with him.
Those knots in her stomach, the ones that Finnick could tie so well, unraveled when she saw him. He was sitting on the shoreline, staring out at the vast ocean. There were other people from the district there as well, fishermen at work on their boats or families splashing and playing in the waters. They all greeted Delia with smiles, but she could see the sadness masked behind it.
Even if their children were safe from this Reaping, they still knew that none of it was fair.
Delia sat down next to Finnick. Her dress would be ruined by the sand, but she didn't mind. The sea was just an extension of her. She felt his calloused hand run over hers before gripping it tightly. He didn't look at Delia, and she didn't look at him. They didn't need to see each other, just feel each other.
"Is there any way I can convince you?" Finnick asked, his voice barely above a whisper as the question rasped through his mouth.
Delia shifted her position. "Do you remember the first time we met? At this beach?"
"Yes, I was ten and you were nine. You were wearing those brown cotton pants and your shirt was all torn, but your hair was all wavy and messy," Finnick reminisced. Delia leaned back, tilting her head upwards towards the clouds. The waves lapped on the shore, growing larger and harsher every time.
