Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

His couch is plush and white and marshmallow-like and sits in front of a small oriental rug —the light glaring in from the floor to ceiling windows makes it glow. I want to sink into it with a mug of hot chocolate and a fleece blanket while watching Hallmark Channel movies on his TV that’s bigger than my entire apartment.

“I had three donuts before I got here.” “Then why are you eating my bagel?” “Because I’m an emotional eater and your lack of Christmas cheer is making me very sad.”

I’m offended that your lawyer thinks Elle Woods, a Harvard graduate, isn’t a legitimate lawyer. She owes me a box of milk chocolate sea salt caramels for all this pain and suffering.

Asher I want a refund. Olivia I’m nonrefundable.

The only person I want requesting my presence at a party is Harry Styles.

I felt that

“Olivia?” Asher’s voice is muffled by his pillows and sheets. “Yeah?” “I think I’m in love with you.”

I’m the human embodiment of someone hitting play on every single Taylor Swift song at once.