The Holly Dates

by Brittainy C. Cherry

If my emotions were like a river stream, Mom’s were like an ocean—expansive, complex, and full of depth.

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I felt like the abandoned old banana sitting on the countertop, now bruised and unappealing. I was almost certain if a man touched my inner thigh, I’d collapse into a pile of banana pudding.

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I traveled with novels the same way people traveled with their vape pens—glued in my hands. Imagine being in an awkward situation and you didn’t have something to occupy your hands with. Books had saved me multiple times on the city buses. You’d be shocked at how many times I’d escaped into reading during unpleasant commutes around the city.

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What in the Mortal Kombat…did he just sucker punch me with his words?

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I hated men. If someone asked me an interesting fact about myself, it would be that I hated men. I wished my lower region despised them as much as my heart did.

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Men were making me consider going another year without inner thigh touches.

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“Dick me. Be a dick to me and tell me what mistakes I’ve been making over the past few weeks.” “I don’t know if ‘dick me’ is the right way for you to express that, but I’ll go with it.”

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He snickered again. It was quiet and tame, but I made him laugh. I puffed my chest out in pride. “See! I’m growing on you.” “Like a witch’s wart.” “Did you just call me magical?”

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Holly and her laughs felt like medicine to my soul, and I didn’t even know my soul felt sick.

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“Don’t do that, Holly,” I whispered, lacing my hands together in my lap. “Don’t do what?” “Read the parts of my book that I don’t share with people.” “It’s a good book, Kai. I wish you’d let me read it all.”

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She sat straighter. “You’d watch a holiday romance with me?” “Sure. Why not?” Her brows lowered. “They are extremely corny. That’s why I like them. The cornier, the better.” “I love a good elote,” I replied. Holly stared at me blankly after I said that. “It was a corn joke.” She shook her head. “It was bad. It would be best if you stuck to your grimacing. You’re a much better grimacer than a jokester.”

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Sometimes I wished our emotions were like faucets. Something we could turn on and off at our demand.

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I let her fall apart. I let her rage against me because another man broke her heart. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that a heart like hers was breaking.

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I leaned in toward her. “Holly, I need you not to make the next thing I say weird, okay?” She leaned in closer toward me and whispered, “I’m a master at making things weird, Kai.”

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“Kai?” “Yes?” I hugged my pillow against my chest and whispered, “You’re the kind of man I’d put at the top of my Christmas list.”

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“What do you need from me, Holly? How can I fix it?” “Fix what?” “Your heart.”

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“That’s the problem with trauma. Those who inflict it aren’t the ones who have to do the unpacking to heal from it.”

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I need you to know that you are lovable in every single way, and I hate every person who made you doubt that.”

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You couldn’t speak the truth to those who chose to be deaf to your words.

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