Ashley Shepherd

I don’t have time to run to the bathroom to cry.

When I pull away, there are snowflakes on his eyelashes. I laugh and brush them off with the pad of my thumb. I wait for a response, but he’s frozen. Shocked. Maybe mesmerized? I’m a fantastic kisser. He’s definitely savoring the moment. I bet he’s going to send me a wine and cheese basket tomorrow.

“Olivia!”
“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.”
“That’s awful.”
“She’s awful.”
“Says the emotionally inept rock.”

“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.”

“It must be nice having a big family.”
“Nice is one word for it,” he says. “I prefer dysfunctional.”
“It’s a group of people that love you.”
“Tolerate me,” he scoffs and bites off another piece of bagel. “And most of the time they barely do that.”
“You still have a family. Whether you like them or not.”
“What are you? Some kind of orphan?”

“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.

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.