Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

But as far as I’m concerned, it’s been Christmas since November 1st and I would like to personally thank all of you for humoring my playlists—even that one person who turned it off on November 11th at 1:49 p.m. when they thought I left the building. I’m not upset. Anymore. Asher.

“Are you the carbohydrate police?” “Of course not,” I say. “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 would hope that if I was assaulted, which I wasn’t, you’d be a little more concerned about my well-being and less about whatever inconveniences I may have caused you.” “Olivia, our entire relationship is one giant inconvenience that you’ve caused me.” “Well it wouldn’t hurt for you to pretend to care about my current state of distress.” “When aren’t you in a state of distress? You almost started crying this afternoon when you couldn’t find staples.”

“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.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say and I’m beaming. The human embodiment of the sun. I’m responsible for global warming. I could melt glaciers. I look up at Asher and I’m completely enamored. I should have gone into acting. I’m killing this whole pretending-to-be-in-love thing. The hearts in my eyes are going to explode. 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.

I should probably mention to her that someone has stolen my identity and my credit card and has ordered me a collection of holiday decorative pillows and a robotic vacuum that chases me around the house. Olivia It has 4.5 stars on Amazon. Asher It has 4.5 demons living inside it.

“I need to pee!” I announce. “I’ll come,” Bree says, glaring at me. “We need to discuss some very important matters.” “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.”

It’s what I like most about drinking. It’s all giggles and confidence and fun. Until it’s not. Until you’re sitting on the bathroom floor and you can’t feel anything and you haven’t felt anything in years. And you’re just existing. And you want to cry, but you can’t.

“That look of absolute misery really turns me on. I’m practically falling out of my clothes right now.” “Well, fall back into them,” he says and turns onto his side. “And get out of my bed. You smell like the everything bagel you vomited up on the side of the road.”

I live and breathe clichés. I want to bathe in them. I’m that girl. I’m every meme you’ve ever seen.

“You’re looking at her like you just realized you picked the wrong ex to fake date,” Asher says. “She’s hot as hell,” I say. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”

need those releases by three o’clock.” “Right, four o’clock.”

I do a very good job of destroying men who think they’re untouchable. It’s probably my favorite pastime.”

“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.”

“You didn’t give me pants,” I tell him. “I believe you told me you don’t trust people who wear pants to bed.” “I know, but it’s still polite to offer. You might give a girl the wrong idea.” “Would you like pants, Olivia?” “Of course not,” I say. “Who wears pants to bed?” It

Something to traumatize me—and probably a platform full of people—into realizing that these are outrageous and irrational thoughts to be having over the actions of a man. 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.