Emma Mills

“There were some deeply moving mashed potatoes—I’m not going to lie.”

I took offense to that. I wrote it during at least four commercial breaks.

Jane didn’t shy away from the truth about people. I felt like I knew her from reading her books, like I knew the kind of person she had been, and it was someone I liked a great deal. Someone who saw people for who they really were, someone who was capable of calling bullshit in the most elegant way imaginable. Jane would tell it like it was.

I had even gone as far as composing an essay in my head, written in the style of Jane Austen. Jane was my favorite author, hands down, and I knew that my true life’s story would be told in her style.

“I hate being selfless.”

I made a face. “I hate being yelled at.”

“Because he doesn’t hang around and wait for you. Don’t you want a boyfriend who waits for you?”

“You don’t have sex in there?”

“I’m sure there are people having sex right now. All the way around the world. I’m sure there are millions of people having sex right now. It’s nighttime in Europe. People have more sex at night, don’t they?”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? Does Cas make you uncomfortable? I could punch him, you know. I know how to punch.”