Faking Under the Mistletoe

by Ashley Shepherd

I’m not supposed to leave the talent unattended, but the most controversial question that had been asked tonight was which One Direction member she preferred, which sparked a heated debate that I wasn’t prepared to referee.

“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.”

It’s Asher, who conveniently had to miss tonight’s festivities because his favorite episode of Friends was on. When I told him he could watch it on Netflix, he told me it wasn’t the same.

The only person I want requesting my presence at a party is Harry Styles.

Also reindeer? Frolicking in the snow? Like the whimsical creatures they are? That’s a big jingle bell hell yes from me!

He’s watching a rerun of Friends with an intense focus, but his eyes flash to me briefly.

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

“C’mon, Ash.” I sit up as he sits down, the box of cake nestled on his lap. “Cozied up on the couch. Snuggled under blankets. Snow falling outside. Christmas movies. Cake. We’re living a Lifetime special.” He takes a bite of cake. “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.”

“Elf? Home Alone? My personal favorite: To Grandmother’s House We Go? Or we can go in the more romantic direction. Love Actually? The Holiday? Jude Law is so hot.” He rips the remote out of my hand. “I’m offended you didn’t suggest The Santa Clause.” “I’m offended you haven’t offered to make me hot chocolate.”

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.