Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

Life is too short to be unhappy all the time. And he’s too cute for frown lines.

“I’m not participating,” he says. “Yes, you are,” I tell him. “Your name is in there. You have to.” “I didn’t put it in there.” “I did.” “That’s forgery. It’s illegal.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “And I’d rather not discuss my personal life with you. I don’t even like you. You’re shrill and annoying and you write in purple ink.” “I like purple ink.” “It’s tacky.”

“Trust me,” I say to him. “What? Why? More importantly: no!”

“By creating some elaborate scheme about how we’re dating? As if I would ever date someone who I’m fairly certain has escaped a mental facility.”

“Laugh at me.” “You are a joke.” I frown. “Laugh.” “No, I’m annoyed with you.” “I don’t care,” I say. “Laugh!” “No!” I jam my foot down on his. He grunts. I laugh.

“Because I’m an emotional eater and your lack of Christmas cheer is making me very sad.”

“Do you have very specific tastes in decorative pillows?” “Just that you specifically don’t buy them.” I’m sure he’ll change his mind when they’re delivered on Tuesday.

“It’s hardly unethical for two consenting adults to be involved.” “I don’t recall consenting to being involved with you.” “I don’t recall consenting to being your personal bagel delivery girl and yet, here we are.”

And when Francesca leans in to kiss Asher on the cheek, I feel a pang of jealousy twist in my stomach. Even my emotions deserve an Oscar. We’re so good at faking it.

He probably laced them with arsenic. I pop another into my mouth and decide that death by expensive poisoned chocolate is a noble way to go.

“Do you need something, Olivia? My breakfast order for tomorrow? Some work to take home? Levi Booker’s phone number?”

“Requested?” The only person I want requesting my presence at a party is Harry Styles. Or Beyoncé. Or Jonathan Van Ness.

“No, I need to pee alone. I get nervous when there’s an audience.” “Last week, I literally stood in a stall with you while you peed.” “It’s a newly developed issue. Don’t judge me.”

“Have you seen my boobs in this shirt?” “I believe the whole bar has.” “Then you agree I’m a fucking catch.” “You have a filthy mouth when you’re drunk.”

But we keep fighting it. And he hands me his heart in the form of a greasy slice on a white paper plate. I’m in love. “Here’s your pizza.”

I think he caught The Feelings too. They’re very contagious. Sort of like the plague, but with less death and more boob touching.

“When do I get accused of murdering you? Because I won’t even try to deny it. I’ll walk into the courtroom and say you’re welcome.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” I tell him. “I know you are.” “Are you suggesting I’m predictable, Mr. McGowan?” “One could assume what your intentions were when you climbed on top of me.”

Men have been disappointing women for centuries. And if I’m going to throw myself in front of a train, it’s not going to be because of a man. It’ll be because the government found my blog about the extraterrestrials.

me. I don’t have the luxury of calling my parents for some extra cash. I don’t have a trust fund or a rich relative waiting to bail me out. I have to support myself. And that means dealing with a handsy boss and gross customers because the tips are good. And that’s sad, isn’t it? That I have to suffer the gross side effects of misogyny to make a living.”

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

That’s what death does to you—it eats you alive until you’re a hollow shell of a human who lives in a limbo of grief and guilt and denial.

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

She is the only person I will suffer through twelve alarm clocks for. The only person I will willingly kiss under a mistletoe. The only person I will close down a karaoke bar with. The only person I will order an untoasted bagel for. The only person I will see Six the Musical with twenty times (and still counting). She is the only person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

“Oh, no!” she says suddenly, the box slipping from her hand. “My eyesight! It’s gone! And my memory! Who am I? Who are you? Call an ambulance! I have forgotten! All the things!”