Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

“What was I supposed to do? You were standing there pining over her!” “I was not pining. I was telepathically trying to break her leg.”

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

“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.”

“Here.” He tosses a bagel at me, which would have been a sweet gesture if he didn’t, y’know, throw it at me. “I certainly hope this is bacon, egg, and cheese on an untoasted everything.” It is a bacon, egg, and cheese on an untoasted everything. “How did you know?” I ask. “There are always two bagels in the bag,” he says. “I assume the other atrocity is yours.” “I’m offended.” “Your untoasted bagel is what’s offensive.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I can be a decent person.” “I’ve never doubted that.” “Just don’t get used to it,” he says. “I have a reputation to uphold.” And believe me, he upholds that reputation the entire drive to East Hampton. He swats my hand away from the radio. He puts the child lock on the window. He makes me wait forty-five minutes for a bathroom break. And then locks the door and pretends he doesn’t hear me banging on the window.

“Olivia, we need to go.” I don’t have the heart to tell him that we're not going anywhere for at least thirty minutes.

It’s ill-advised to get sloppy when you’re not wearing panties.

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

“We’re not too different, are we, Ash?” “Levi, we’re not even in the same realm.”

There’s something about Asher McGowan that makes every last atom inside of me burst into tiny pieces of confetti. He’s surly and dramatic and weird, but there’s something about his quiet breathy laugh and the way he smiles when he rolls his eyes at me.

“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.”

“Asher, you didn’t order a car.” “I didn’t?” “You ordered twelve lemon loaves from a Starbucks in Utah.” “We’ll never make it there before they close.”

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

“It’s my job to instill professional wisdom in Olivia,” Ana says. “That being said: safe sex is great sex and don’t keep your read receipts on.”

I want to sleep the day away. Wake me up in 2020.

OH NO, GIRL!!

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.