Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

“We’re not together anymore.” “Since when?” “A few months ago.” “Why?” “Apparently I have the emotional capacity of a rock.”

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

"She's drooling blood, Bree." Emanuel blinks. "It looks like she got into a fist fight and forgot to punch back." "In my defense, I did hit the ice pretty hard," I say. "I'm sure it felt something."

I frown. "Someone's going to put that on YouTube, aren't they?" "I mean, it's already on my Snap, so..." Bree says.

She also put me vomiting into trashcan after too much to drink on her Snapchat. Bree is a great friend.

“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.

It has nothing to do with me and the vivid picture I painted for him of what I would use that tub for. He did it for himself.

“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.