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New York, Christmas Eve. Haymitch's Bar.
Outside the windows, snow was falling slowly — the kind that on holiday cards always looked magical, almost fairytale-like, but in reality quickly turned into gray slush underfoot and caused perpetual traffic jams in Manhattan. Haymitch Abernathy stood behind the counter of his bar, lazily wiping a glass. He absently watched as the few customers slowly dispersed to their homes, wrapping themselves in scarves. Christmas Eve had crept up unnoticed. The time when even the most hardened loners preferred their usual seclusion to a noisy family atmosphere.
Usually, Haymitch closed up early on such evenings, but today something kept him in place. Maybe just habit — a ritual honed over years that was hard to break. Perhaps he simply didn't want to return to an empty apartment where the only "conversation partner" was an old refrigerator humming so monotonously and drearily, like a bar regular who no longer hoped for another round of whiskey.
He was about to pour himself a measure of the amber liquid and turn off the lights, plunging the place into semi-darkness, when the door burst open with a crash, letting in a swirl of frosty air and a woman he was certain he had never seen before. Or had he? In this neighborhood, where life flowed according to its own strange laws, anything could happen — from sudden encounters to unexpected revelations.
The stranger looked as if she had just escaped from the set of a December Vogue photoshoot. An exquisite coat of cream cashmere, boots with dizzyingly high heels — Haymitch winced involuntarily, imagining what it must be like to balance at such a height on snow-covered streets. Beneath the coat, a dark red dress was visible, which without a doubt cost more than his first motorcycle.
But now this splendor had lost its luster: the coat had slipped off one shoulder, one boot was untied, and tracks of smeared mascara and tears ran down her cheeks. She wasn't even trying to wipe them away, as if her strength had finally abandoned her, leaving her alone in the middle of a vast, heartless city where no one guaranteed a fairytale life.
"Is the bar open?" she asked in a tone that was clearly used to commanding, giving orders, and meeting no objections. But now it sounded cracked, like an old violin with a broken string.
"Only for those who can pay," Haymitch replied, setting a glass down on the counter with a soft clink. He gave the stranger an appraising look. "And for those who don't faint after the first sip."
She clumsily plopped down onto a high stool, nearly sliding off it — the heels were clearly not designed for such maneuvers. Then she looked up at him. In her red, swollen eyes, some stubborn spark still smoldered.
"Double whiskey," she requested. "The strongest."
Haymitch grunted, reached for the shelf with bottles, and took out a dark flask with a minimalist label.
"Easy there, princess," he said. "Want some Laphroaig? It's just what you need to clear your head and warm your soul."
The stranger hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words, then nodded sharply — a strand of hair fell onto her tear-wet face. Haymitch smirked. Surely this lady had never drunk anything stronger than champagne or red wine before.
"Whatever," she nodded carelessly. "Just pour."
Haymitch silently splashed the amber liquid into a glass, pushed it toward her, and lingered on her fingers — thin, with perfectly manicured nails, but now clenched tightly around the edge of the counter.
"Do you know me?" she asked after she had drained the glass and winced, feeling the burning wave of whiskey roll down her throat.
"I don't know you," Haymitch replied calmly, watching her carefully set the glass back on the counter. "But your expensive clothes and tears in a bar on Christmas Eve don't quite match up. Either someone in your family died, or you're a leading fashion magazine editor who just broke up with her boyfriend and ran away from a family dinner where everyone kept asking the same question: 'So when are you getting married?'"
She froze, as if struck. In the silence, only the monotonous hum of cars and the muffled rustle of snow against the frozen window could be heard.
"Are you psychic?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.
Her voice held a mixture of irony and genuine curiosity.
"I'm a bartender," Haymitch shrugged, wiping the counter with a rag as if that might lend weight to his words. "And in our line of work, it's the same thing."
The stranger finished the rest of her whiskey and silently held out her glass for a refill. Haymitch silently poured her another, then poured a measure for himself as well — the amber liquid softly shimmering in the light of the dim lamp above the counter. He took a small sip, letting the warmth slowly spread inside him.
"My name is Effie," she introduced unexpectedly. "Effie Trinket."
"Haymitch Abernathy," he nodded, looking at her.
"And how did you guess about the family dinner?" genuine surprise, mixed with bitterness, sounded in her voice.
Haymitch smirked crookedly, as if he had suddenly remembered something painfully familiar. He set his glass on the counter and ran a hand over his stubble.
"Because three hours ago, I got a message from my younger brother's wife," he began quietly, looking somewhere through her. "She decided that the perfect Christmas gift for me was a subscription to a dating site. Then my mother called and said: 'Haymitch, you have such a good business, why can't you find a decent woman?' As if business and a woman are two types of cheese in the same store."
"Good business?" Effie suddenly smiled, and it was a strange, almost magical sight: she, all tear-stained, with smeared mascara on her cheeks, but with an incredibly beautiful smile. "It's quite cozy in here. And the alcohol really is good."
"Thanks," Haymitch inclined his head slightly. "It's my only achievement."
"Not the only one," she gave him a quick, piercing look — the way a professional fashion magazine editor evaluates clothes on a runway. But this time, her gaze lingered on his face longer than etiquette required, traveling along his jawline, to the wrinkles around his eyes, as if she were trying to read an entire story behind them. "You also look pretty good for a man who listens to complaints every day and probably witnesses fights."
Haymitch raised an eyebrow in surprise. Something like disbelief mixed with irony flickered in his eyes.
"Is that a compliment?" he clarified, squinting slightly.
"It's a fact," Effie replied firmly. "Although, I admit, I don't often dispense such 'facts.'"
Haymitch grunted. She was definitely the type who was used to being clever, demonstrating her subtle psychological skills. But it wasn't off-putting at all. He suddenly realized that he didn't want to close the bar. He didn't want Effie to leave.
"Do you want to know why I ran away?" Effie asked, already slightly drunk but holding herself with that desperate grace that belongs to people used to controlling everything except their own hearts.
"Go ahead," Haymitch nodded toward the window, where snowflakes, caught by a gust of wind, whirled in a mad dance. "The snowfall's gotten heavier anyway. Now I can only get home by taxi, and taxi drivers charge triple on Christmas Eve."
And she told him. About her younger sister, who had gotten married first — at twenty-three, "as it should be," with a church wedding and a hundred guests. About her mother, who every Christmas counted suitors like sheep: "Effie, that banker is very nice, I gave him your number." About a guy named Garrett, who, in response to her request to "meet the family," replied: "Effie, you work too much, it's off-putting." About how she came to her parents' house alone today, under a barrage of questions, and heard from her father: "Darling, maybe you're too demanding?" And from her mother: "We just want you to be happy, but at your age…"
"At my age," Effie repeated, gripping her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I'm thirty-two. I have no children, no husband, not even a dog. But I do have a magazine with a print run of half a million, and a mortgage on an apartment on the Upper West Side. But that, you see, doesn't count. And do you know what's the most hurtful thing? They really do mean well. And that makes it even more painful."
"I understand," Haymitch admitted.
"Do you really?" Effie looked up at him, tears glistening again in her eyes.
"Really," he set aside his glass and looked directly at her. "I have a bar that makes more than I spend, and an apartment where I don't have to answer to anyone. But every family event ends the same way: 'Haymitch, when are you going to settle down?' Or: 'Aren't you afraid of dying alone?' And you know what's the funniest thing?"
"What?" she leaned forward slightly, hanging on his every word.
"I'm not afraid of dying alone," he confessed, thinking he had nothing to lose. They probably wouldn't see each other again anyway. "I'm afraid that they're right, and the only reason I'm alone is because I don't know how to be any other way."
Effie fell silent after his words. Then she slowly tilted her head to the side, and her expression began to change. Haymitch frowned. Was she completely drunk? But then Effie suddenly burst into ringing laughter, clapping her hands enthusiastically.
"I have an idea," Effie finally found her voice again.
"How much have you had to drink?" Haymitch raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Two whiskeys. But that's not important, I want to talk about something else now," Effie waved her hand. "The idea is brilliant."
"That's the scariest combination," Haymitch grunted.
"Listen," she straightened up and squared her shoulders. "We're both tired of the questions. You don't want to hear about marriage. I don't want to hear that I'm 'too demanding.' What if we just… pretend to be a couple? Just for the holidays. Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter. Friends' weddings. Nothing personal. Just… acting and props. To get everyone off our backs."
Haymitch set down his glass and stared at her. At first, he thought she was joking. Then — that she was insane. And only then did it dawn on him that she was completely serious, and that this was, damn it, actually brilliant. A plan that could only have been born in the mind of someone used to thinking several moves ahead.
"You want us to lie to everyone around us?" he clarified, still trying to grasp the scale of the idea.
"I want us to be left alone. That's different," Effie shook her head, and a strand of hair fell across her face. She didn't brush it away.
"And what about…" he hesitated, not knowing how to phrase it. "What if one of us falls in love?"
Effie laughed again:
"Don't worry. I don't fall in love. I'm too busy."
"Neither do I," Haymitch lied, though in truth he was simply too afraid.
Afraid of getting too attached to someone, of trusting them, and of discovering that the illusion might turn out to be more real than life itself.
They shook hands. Outside the window, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the streets in white, and New York grew quiet, preparing for the most family-oriented holiday of the year. The city had no idea that in a small bar on Bleecker Street, the strangest alliance in its history had just been forged — an alliance of two solitudes, deciding to deceive the world in order to finally find peace.
February, Valentine's Day.
February in New York was gray as old concrete and cold as an ex's stare after a breakup. Effie, standing by the window of her impeccable apartment, automatically adjusted her silk robe — everything had to be perfect, even the waiting for a "scheduled date." She expected the standard gentleman's package from Haymitch: a candlelit dinner at an expensive restaurant, a dozen roses, some pretentious observatory where they could lie to relatives about a "romantic evening."
Instead, he pulled up to her building in a beat-up pickup truck, from whose speakers Tom Waits rasped, and shouted, rolling down the window:
"Put on something unfashionable. We're going to the Adirondacks."
"Where?!" Effie froze on the doorstep, instinctively fixing her hair.
*"I have a meeting with the advertising department at seven in the morning… This isn't part of the agreement… I don't have the right shoes…"* raced through her mind.
"To the mountains, Trinket. Have you ever seen stars without light pollution?" Haymitch grinned broadly.
He looked at her with such excitement that Effie hesitated for a moment. She wanted to object, but Haymitch had already opened the door, and a stream of frosty air mixed with the aromas of coffee, old wood, and — perhaps — the smell of freedom, which had never existed in her life, poured into the cab. Effie hesitated, then decisively stepped into the truck.
They drove for three hours. Haymitch hardly spoke, only occasionally, at traffic lights, turning to look at her with an expression she couldn't decipher.
"What is it?" Effie finally broke down, feeling her usual composure crumbling under his gaze.
"I'm thinking that when you're not trying to be in charge, you have a fairly tolerable face," Haymitch replied, turning back to the road.
"Is that a compliment?" Effie couldn't help but smile, even though she tried to maintain her seriousness.
"It's a fact," he winked, and she unexpectedly laughed.
The mountain cabin turned out to be tiny, with no internet, and a woodstove that only provided heat if you fed it every two hours. Effie spent the first half of the evening pacing nervously around the small room, trying to find an outlet for her phone. The second half she spent sitting on the porch in someone else's jacket, far too big for her, watching the sky fill with ink, and realizing that Haymitch hadn't lied: there were so many stars here that it made her dizzy. They seemed closer and more real than ever before.
"You'll freeze," Haymitch said, coming out with two mugs of hot chocolate. His breath turned into little clouds of steam in the frosty air. "And you won't freeze glamorously, but for real."
"No one makes hot chocolate with salt," Effie took a sip and raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"I do. Because salt enhances the sweetness. Just like in life," Haymitch sat down next to her. "Sometimes you need a little bitterness to really appreciate the good."
Effie took another sip and suddenly felt something warm spread not just down her throat, but in her chest, in her heart — the place she hadn't let anyone into for a long time. It was an unfamiliar, almost frightening feeling.
"Are you always such a philosopher?" she asked, wanting to break the silence and not let this feeling take her over completely.
"Only when I don't want someone to guess what I'm really like," Haymitch looked at the stars, avoiding her gaze.
"What are you really like?" Effie turned to him.
"Ordinary. A boring grump who wakes up at five in the morning to check deliveries and falls asleep with a book about old whiskey. No fanfare," he shrugged.
She set down her mug and, before she could stop herself, said:
"This is the best Valentine's Day of my life."
Haymitch smirked. In the darkness, her eyes sparkled just like the stars above them. He slowly turned to her, and Effie suddenly realized how close they were sitting.
"Don't say that," he asked softly. "Or I'll start believing."
"Believing what?" she asked, feeling her pulse quicken.
"That this isn't a game," Haymitch reached out his hand, as if he wanted to touch her cheek, but at the last moment, he thought better of it.
Effie didn't comment on his tactical retreat. They pretended they were just tired from the road, but gradually, a strong thread began to wrap around them.
April, Easter.
Effie Trinket's family was what Haymitch mentally called "a beautiful hell." A mansion in Connecticut surrounded by fir trees, a table set for twenty with impeccable precision, crystal that seemed untouchable without special permission, and conversations about stock prices interspersed with cautious questions directed at Effie — the most popular, of course, being the one aimed at finding out about his job.
Haymitch honestly replied that he owned a bar, and silence fell over the table. He chuckled softly: here it was, the moment of truth, when all those perfect smiles begin to crack. Effie's mother, Patricia, smiled so widely that Haymitch's jaw involuntarily tightened. Her smile — polite and absolutely cold — reminded him of a blade.
"A bar, then. That's… interesting," she said with an expression as if she were trying to find some value in a trinket given by an unwanted guest.
"It's profitable," Haymitch retorted, deliberately casually pouring himself some wine from a bottle that no one had opened because it was "for special occasions." "And unlike some investments in dubious startups that later have to be bailed out with family money, my business doesn't let me down."
Someone at the table choked. Effie gave him a light kick under the table, warning him not to be any more sarcastic. Haymitch just winked back at her. And an hour later, when her uncle enthusiastically began telling them about the new board member of some corporation, Haymitch noticed that Patricia was looking at Effie and him, and in her gaze, something new flickered — not approval — that was as far away as the nearest star system — but rather interest. She stopped asking about "serious intentions" and instead thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the rim of her glass. Surprisingly, Effie's father — whose name Haymitch hadn't bothered to remember — didn't deign to watch him so closely. Though Mr. Trinket spent almost the entire time answering important phone calls.
"You did well," Effie whispered when they stepped out onto the veranda to get some fresh air. Behind them were muted voices discussing something animatedly. "Maman didn't eat you alive."
"I'm tasteless and harmful. You know that yourself, Effs. I drink too much," Haymitch pretended to be seriously pondering this.
"You had one glass today," Effie snorted, but immediately covered her mouth with her hand, as if frightened by her own lack of restraint.
"See? I deserve a medal. Maybe even two," he smirked and looked at her.
In the lamplight, her curled, golden ringlets looked charming. But Haymitch would have preferred them to be simply loose.
And then, when the guests began to leave and the hosts went to see the last of them out, Haymitch and Effie found themselves alone in the guest room. Effie walked to the window, pressed her forehead against the cold glass, and suddenly confessed:
"My father started out as a simple builder. My mother married him because he was handsome and promised to make money. He did make money, built this house, provided us with everything. And she became ashamed that he doesn't speak French, doesn't know wine, doesn't know which side to approach the crystal from. Now she wants me to find someone 'from the circle.' But I don't care about that. I want someone who won't be intimidated by her pearl earrings. Someone who will tell her the truth to her face without flinching."
Haymitch pondered her words, barely stopping himself from asking a question. After all, everything she had listed reminded him of himself in one way or another. However, he, accustomed to relationships without commitment, was afraid that the answer to that question would be yes. And Haymitch didn't know what to do with that. An unfamiliar feeling enveloped him, as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff and couldn't decide whether to step forward or step back. Instead, he simply moved closer and quietly said:
"Your father seems like he was a decent man."
Effie turned around and smiled. She nodded, unable to speak, and Haymitch understood that this evening had changed something between them — imperceptibly, but irreversibly.
A friend's wedding, June.
Haymitch saw Effie without the gloss for the first time — without the flawless makeup and carefully curated image she presented to the world. A simple, linen, white dress, almost tasteless by the standards of her usual wardrobe. Her hair was tied up in a careless bun, with a few strands escaping and softly framing her neck. He could even make out the freckles that Effie usually hid under foundation, and the light flush from the June sun.
Effie stood by a flowering hedge covered in roses, laughing at something said by a neighbor from a nearby house on Long Island: tall, with a square jaw and hands that smelled of expensive aftershave. His smile was open, and he stayed close to her with damnable confidence. If only anyone knew how annoying that was.
Haymitch was supposed to walk over. Take Effie by the arm. Play his role as the perfect partner in their little game. But instead, he stood ten steps away, gripping his glass of champagne so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and felt something heavy and sticky, like tar, rising in his chest.
"What's up with you?" asked their friend Burdock, silently coming up behind him. "You're looking like your bar burned down. Or you got audited by the tax authorities. Or both at once."
"It's fine," Haymitch forced himself to relax, but his voice came out too sharp.
"You're jealous," Burdock stated with a smile. And he was right, for he had seen Haymitch hungover, in a fight, and in moments of rare, almost childish confusion. "Damn it, Abernathy. You're in love."
"Don't talk nonsense," Haymitch tried to laugh, but the laugh came out fake.
"Then why did you spill champagne on your only decent shoes?" Burdock nodded toward the dark stain spreading across the leather.
Haymitch looked down. The shoes were indeed stained with champagne — drops running down the toes, leaving marks on the tiles. He swore under his breath. At that same moment, Effie turned around, and their eyes met. The man was saying something, but she was no longer listening. Her smile became more beautiful, and she beckoned to him. Haymitch felt something grow much warmer inside.
That evening, as they drove back to the city, Haymitch was silent for thirty minutes, staring at the trees and suburban lights flashing past the window. The car was filled with an unfamiliar, tense silence, like before a storm. Finally, he forced out:
"That guy put his hand on your lower back."
"He's just being polite," Effie was looking out the window, but Haymitch noticed how her fingers clenched on her knees.
"He's not being polite. He wanted to kiss you," he remarked.
"And you wanted to hit him for it," Effie replied calmly, turning to him. "I saw. We didn't agree on jealousy, Haymitch."
"We also didn't agree that you'd look at him like that. This is, damn it, my close friends' wedding!" he turned the steering wheel sharply, overtaking a slow-moving van.
"Like what?" Effie raised an eyebrow, but there was irritation in her eyes.
"Like he's someone you actually like," Haymitch swallowed, feeling the words burn his throat. "Maybe I should have asked him to play along with you?"
The car stopped at a red light. And that only made things worse.
"I like you, you idiot," Effie said, staring straight ahead. "And that breaks all the rules."
Green. Haymitch stepped on the gas. The engine roared, the car shot forward. Neither of them said another word until they reached her house.
Thanksgiving, November.
Effie came to the holiday alone. Haymitch couldn't find anyone to cover for him and had to urgently get behind the bar: take orders, mix cocktails, keep an eye on things. She understood, of course, but it still hurt. And it was lonely. Especially when all around was family, noise, laughter, and inside — an emptiness that not even the aromatic smell of roasted turkey could fill. At the table, the usual atmosphere reigned: the clinking of silverware, polite smiles, conversations about the latest exhibitions and new collections. And, of course, the inevitable comments from her mother. Patricia, with her impeccable posture and a smile honed by years of social events, was carving the turkey.
"Darling, this… Haymitch of yours, your father and I have been talking," she began, exchanging a glance with her husband. "He's charming, of course, in his own rough-around-the-edges way. But you need someone who moves in your circles. Someone who understands what Condé Nast is and why it's important to be able to distinguish between types of dessert forks."
Effie clenched the napkin on her lap, feeling something that had been building up for a long time begin to boil inside, threatening to burst out.
"He has perfectly fine manners, Mother," her voice came out more evenly than she had expected.
"He's a bartender. Social etiquette and a bar are two different things," Patricia lifted her chin, demonstrating her certainty. Effie had hated it since childhood when her mother did that.
And that was the last straw. Effie stood up. Everyone at the table froze: her father put down his knife, her sister froze with her glass at her lips, and her uncle stopped pouring the wine.
"You know what, Mother?" Effie spoke quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I've spent my entire life trying to live up to your standards. I have a good job — check. An apartment — check. Expensive clothes — check. But happiness — no. And do you know when I was last happy? In February. In the mountains. With a man who treated me to hot chocolate with salt, 'because salt enhances the sweetness.'"
Silence fell over the dining room.
"And if you think I'm going to trade that for your approval," she paused, looking her mother straight in the eye, "you're wrong."
She left the table without waiting for an answer. In the foyer, she pulled her coat on over her fancy dress — the fabric rustled, a reminder of all those "proper" evenings. Her fingers trembled as she dialed Haymitch's number.
Rejected. Again. Rejected.
On the third try, she didn't call. She just stood by the window, looking at the remains of the yellow leaves, and for the first time in years, she didn't know where any of this would lead.
A few days later, November.
Haymitch and Effie met at a café three days later. Officially, they had agreed to "discuss the December schedule," but both understood: the conversation would be about something entirely different. Haymitch arrived first. He automatically ordered black coffee, but the cup remained untouched. Eventually, it grew cold, covered by a thin film. Effie appeared ten minutes later. Unusually pale and agitated.
"I had a fight with my family," she blurted out instead of a greeting. "Because of you."
"More precisely, because of us," Haymitch corrected, not looking up.
"Because of who we're pretending to be," Effie clarified.
Haymitch finally looked up. In his eyes was not just the fatigue of a sleepless night, but the weight of months of a game that had long ceased to be a game.
"What if I don't want to pretend anymore?" he said confidently.
Effie flinched.
"What do you mean?" her voice wavered.
"I mean I'm tired of lying to your mother, pretending we're a couple. Because, Trinket, we're not a couple. We're two people who are afraid to face the truth. I'm afraid that if I confess to you, say three damn words, you'll run away. You have everything planned, on a schedule — and love doesn't fit into it. And you're afraid that if I say it, it'll turn out to be just made-up words without meaning. Empty."
"It's not just words, Haymitch," Effie whispered.
"Then why are we still playing?" he gripped his cup so hard his knuckles turned white.
She fell silent. For a long time. So long that the waiter, thinking she was waiting for something, brought another cup of coffee — which she hadn't ordered.
"Because…" Effie finally exhaled, "if it's not a game, then it's the truth. And the truth is scarier. It demands responsibility. What if we try — and it doesn't work out? What if I let you into my life, and one day you wake up and realize that I'm that 'boring woman with a schedule' you've been running from all these years?"
"And what if you wake up and realize that I'm that same gruff bar owner who doesn't know how to talk about feelings and brings home only the smell of whiskey and exhaustion?" his voice was hollow, almost hopeless.
"You're not an alcoholic," she shook her head.
"And you're not boring," he declared.
They froze, looking at each other across the table. On it sat two cups of cold coffee. There was only half a meter between them, but that half meter seemed like an insurmountable chasm they were afraid to cross.
"So here it is," Haymitch continued. "I love you. And I hate it because I don't know what to do with it. I've never made plans for two. I don't know how to give flowers on the right days or remember anniversaries. But I know how to listen. And I know how to be there when you cry. And I won't leave, even if you ask me to."
"I didn't ask," Effie whispered, and pain sounded in her voice.
"You ask when you're silent," he leaned forward slightly. "I've learned to read that."
She stood up. Haymitch thought she was leaving. But instead, Effie walked around the table and sat down next to him. Immediately, he was enveloped by the scent of her perfume: apple and cinnamon, just like that very first evening in the bar when it all began.
"I love you," she said. "And it's terrible because I control everything, but I can't control you. You're like a snowfall. Sudden, unpredictable, doesn't fit into any schedule. But when you're near, I don't want to look at the clock."
"What are we going to do?" Haymitch asked.
"I don't know," Effie smiled slightly. "But it seems we'll have to figure it out. Together."
They kissed passionately for the first time, not playing a role. Now Effie's coffee, forgotten on the table, had completely gone cold. But neither of them noticed.
And then… Effie abruptly pulled away and ran from him.
Late that evening, Effie let him know where she was going. She simply sent a short message in the messenger: "Business trip. Two weeks. Don't wait."
And she flew to London, where the launch of the European edition of her magazine awaited her. But it wasn't about London. It was about fear — that sticky, suffocating fear that gripped her chest every time she thought about Haymitch. In London, it rained incessantly. Effie sat by the window in her five-star hotel room, mindlessly staring at the blurred silhouette of Big Ben through the veil of the downpour, rereading her own rules for the hundredth time, written in her phone's notes: "don't get bogged down in mutual grievances." What bitter irony — she had broken every single one. Because there was only one grievance, but the most painful one: why did you turn out to be better than I planned?
Haymitch called. First once a day. Then twice. Then every hour — insistent calls that she methodically rejected. On the fifth day, he left a voicemail. His voice, hoarse and tense, broke through the wall of her defenses:
"Effie, damn it, let's just talk. No games. No props. Just you and me. Like that evening in the bar."
She listened to it ten times. Ten times. Each time, she caught herself holding her breath, her heart skipping a beat. Then she sat up straight, took a deep breath, switched off all her emotions, and dictated a response. Her voice sounded even and impassive, but the fingers gripping her smartphone trembled treacherously.
"We've gotten lost in the pretense, Haymitch," she said clearly, enunciating every word. "But I'm tired of our game and all these props. Why did we decide this was love? And not just habit? Goodbye."
She pressed "send" and, without giving herself a second to think, blocked his number. Then his email. Then all his social media pages. Done. Clean. Neat. Perfect.
She was afraid that if he answered — if he said again what she wanted to hear — she would break, collapse like a house of cards. Or if he said what she was afraid to hear — she would break too. Blocking him was easier. The pain you choose yourself doesn't burn as much — at least, that's what she told herself.
But it still hurt. It burned from the inside, like a red-hot coal hidden under a layer of ash. Effie wrapped her arms around herself, watching the rain blur the outlines of the city outside the window, and understood: you can't run away from yourself. Why had she fought so desperately with her mother at that dinner, defending Haymitch, and then thrown it all away and run? Why?
Christmas, end of December.
Effie didn't go to her family. On Christmas Eve, her phone came alive with short alerts: her mother sent a text with wishes, her father — a card with an embossed gold pattern, her sister — a chain of emojis with a Christmas tree and a snowman. Reconciliation would come later, but not today. Today, she stayed in her apartment — in that glass box on the thirty-seventh floor, where the city lights flickered like distant stars.
She lit candles to fill the space with the light that was missing inside. She put on a jazz record and tried to convince herself that she was fine alone. It didn't work. Effie drank white wine straight from the bottle — she couldn't be bothered to wash a glass, and what difference did it make? She watched the lights of the metropolis outside the window, the dancing snowflakes illuminated by neon, and thought that this holiday was like a stage set in which she had been assigned the role of spectator.
She ignored the tenth ring at the door — deciding it was a courier who had gotten the wrong address. At the fifteenth, she sighed in irritation and went to open it, mentally preparing a tirade about the irresponsibility of courier services on Christmas Eve.
On the doorstep stood Haymitch. In a ridiculous red hat with a pompom, his shoulders wet from snow, holding a bouquet of mistletoe branches that he had probably stolen from the nearest park. He smelled of whiskey, frosty air, and pine needles. And he was drunk just enough to have the courage for this, but not so drunk that he would forget why he came.
"How did you get past the concierge?" Effie asked instead of "hello," trying to hide the tremor in her voice.
"I said I was your husband and I left my keys in my other jacket. The intern believed me. You need to hire professionals," Haymitch smirked crookedly, brushing snow from his boots.
"We're not married," Effie protested.
"We'll see about that," Haymitch grinned.
She wanted to slam the door. But he had already crossed the threshold, shaking snow onto her parquet floor — the very same floor she cleaned with a special mop from Japan, spending half an hour on each movement.
"You let me in," Haymitch stated, glancing back at the door. "So not all is lost."
"I let you in because you'll freeze and die on my doorstep, and I don't have enough garbage bags to wrap a corpse," Effie snapped, but her voice trembled betrayingly.
"Witty. That's what I love about you," he took a step forward.
Effie froze. He said it so simply, as if he were talking about the weather.
"You're drunk," she declared.
"Yes. But that doesn't change the facts. I love you. I don't know how to cure it, and I don't want to cure it. I tried for two weeks without you — it turns out a bar without your complaints about the cleanliness of the glasses is just a room with alcohol. And life without you…" he faltered, searching for the word, and chose the most frightening one, "…is nothing. Why did you run away from me, Effie? What's wrong?"
Effie turned to the window so he couldn't see her face. Her silhouette was reflected in the glass — fragile and lonely against the backdrop of the glittering city.
"How do you know we didn't just get carried away with the game?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I just know," he stepped closer. "You know I always talk like that about things that really get to me."
"You said you didn't know how to give flowers," Effie blurted out for no reason.
"I brought mistletoe. That's almost flowers. And also…" Haymitch pulled a crumpled package from his jacket pocket, "…chocolate. With salt. Like in the Adirondacks."
"Did you go to that cabin on purpose?" her eyebrows shot up.
"I bought it on purpose. Three months ago," he confessed. "In case you said 'yes.' I don't know to what. Just 'yes.'"
The jazz was still playing — someone singing about how better late than never.
"You broke all the rules," Effie said, not turning around.
"And you made them up so you wouldn't break them. But look at us, Trinket," Haymitch smirked. "We both broke them. Especially when we kissed in the café."
"Was that kiss real?" she asked stupidly.
"Were you doubting it?" he gently touched her shoulder.
She turned around. Her eyes were wet with rising tears, but she no longer tried to hide it.
"If I say right now that I love you, what will you do?"
"Probably hug you," he drawled. "I don't know, Effie. I wasn't taught this. But I want to learn. Together with you."
She took a step. Then another. And then her lips were on his, and he smelled not only of whiskey, but also of pine needles, and freedom, and that same hot chocolate she had remembered every day for the past months.
"You smell like Christmas," she whispered, pulling away from him.
"And you smell like home. I didn't know it could feel this good," he held her tighter.
They stood in the foyer until midnight, and when the clock struck twelve, Haymitch took out his phone and unlocked it himself.
"Now you can't run away. I have your number. I've memorized it."
"You're an idiot," Effie shook her head.
"Your idiot. For all the holidays to come," Haymitch smiled, and for the first time in a long while, Effie felt that everything had finally fallen into place.
Here is the English translation of the text.
One year later. Christmas again.
In the cabin in the Adirondacks, a fireplace crackled cozily, casting dancing shadows on the log walls. Outside the window, snow fell without asking permission, blanketing the world in white silence.
Haymitch stirred the cocoa in two mugs, making sure the foam didn't overflow. Effie sat on the floor by the fireplace, wrapped in his old flannel shirt. She scrolled through photos on her phone, occasionally chuckling softly.
"Look," she said, holding out the screen. "That's us at Easter at my parents'. Mom has finally stopped wincing when you drink straight from the bottle."
"I only drink from the bottle if it's open," Haymitch replied seriously.
"You drink from the bottle even if it's not open. I've seen it," Effie squinted mischievously.
He set the mugs on the low wooden table, sat down beside her, and put his arm around her.
"Listen," he said, looking into the fire. "Remember our first conversation?"
"I remember," she turned to him, and the flames reflected in her eyes.
"I have a proposal," Haymitch smiled.
"What kind?" surprise sounded lightly in Effie's voice.
"You said I pretend I don't need anything. But I do. I need you to nag me about an unwashed mug. I need you to set your alarm for six in the morning because you have a meeting, and for me to wake up and watch you fix your makeup, frowning at your reflection. I need us to argue about where to put the Christmas tree — by the window or by the door — and make up under it, tangled in the garlands. I need you to leave your hair clips on the sink, and for me to almost lose them afterwards. So, will you marry me, Effie Trinket?"
Effie froze, then laughed brightly.
"It sounds less like you're proposing and more like you're listing a wish list," she whispered.
"Well, then grant them all. It's Christmas, after all," he winked.
She ran her finger along the rim of his mug, thoughtfully watching the steam rising from the cocoa.
"I agree to become your wife," Effie smiled slyly. "But then you have to grant mine as well."
"What is it?" Haymitch looked at her attentively.
"Let's get a dog," she said.
Haymitch kissed her temple tenderly, smirking.
"Deal," he said. "Next time, the three of us will be hanging out here."
Haymitch picked up the mugs and handed one to Effie. They sat, pressed against each other, listening to the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace. Outside the window, the snow continued to fall, creating their own magical fairy tale.