Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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.