A thousand Boy Kisses

save me. Me. Save me from the pain of being so far away and not being able to
comfort her or hold her when she was in pain. You made it so I couldn’t be with
her while she fought.” I swallowed, but managed to add, “And now it’s too late.
She has months…” My voice broke. “Months…” I threw my hands down and
stepped back, more tears and pain taking hold.
With my back to him, I said, “There’s no coming back from this. I’ll never
forgive you for taking me away from her. Never. We’re done.”
“Rune…”
“Get out,” I snarled. “Get the hell out of my room and get the hell out of my
life. I’m done with you. So damn done.”
Seconds later I heard the door shut, and the house fell into silence. But to me,
in this moment, the house sounded like it was screaming.
Pushing the hair from my face, I slumped down on the overturned mattress,
then leaned my back against the wall. For minutes, or it could have been hours, I
stared at nothing. My room was dark save for the light from a small lamp in the
corner of the room that somehow had survived my rage.

---

I lifted my eyes, and they settled on a photo hanging on the wall. I frowned,
knowing I hadn’t put it there. My mamma must have hung it today when she
unpacked my room.
And I stared.
I stared at Poppy, only days before we left, dancing in the blossom grove, the
cherry blossoms she loved so much in full flower around her. Her arms were
stretched to the sky as she twirled, her head tipped back as she laughed.
My heart clenched at seeing her this way. Because this was Poppymin. The girl
who made me smile. The girl who would run to the blossom grove, laughing and
dancing all the way.
The one who told me to stay away from her. I’ll stay away from you. You stay
away from me. We’ll finally put us to rest…
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave her. She couldn’t leave me. She needed me and
I needed her. I didn’t care what she had said; there was no way I was leaving her
to endure this alone. I couldn’t if I tried.
Before I could over-think it, I jumped to my feet and raced to the window. I
took one glance at the window opposite mine and let instinct take control. As
quietly as possible, I opened my window and climbed through. My heart beat in
tandem with my feet as I pounded across the grass. I stopped dead. Then with a
deep breath, I placed my hand under the window and pulled up. It moved.
It was unlocked.
It was as if no time had passed. I climbed inside and gently closed the window.
A curtain was in the way, something that wasn’t there before. Silently pushing it
aside, I stepped forward, stopping as I drank in the familiar room.
Poppy’s sweet-scented perfume, the one she’d always worn, hit my nose first. I
closed my eyes, chasing away the heaviness on my chest. When I opened them
again, my eyes fell to Poppy in her bed. Her breathing was soft as she slept,
facing me, her body illuminated only by the dull glow of her nightlight.
Then my stomach dropped. How the hell did she think I would ever stay away?
Even if she hadn’t told me why she cut me off, I would have found my way back

---

to her. Even through all the hurt, pain and anger, I would have been drawn back,
like a moth to a flame.
I could never stay away.
But as I drank her in, her pink lips pursed in sleep, her face flushed with
warmth, I felt as if a spear had slammed into my chest. I was going to lose her.
I was going to lose the only reason I lived.
I rocked on my feet. I struggled to cope with the thought. Tears fell onto my
cheeks, just as an old floorboard creaked beneath me. I squeezed my eyes shut.
When my eyes opened, it was to see Poppy staring at me from her bed, her eyes
heavy with sleep. Then, clearly seeing my face—the tears on my cheeks, the
grief in my eyes—her expression morphed into a mask of pain, and slowly, she
opened her arms.
It was instinctive. A primal power that only Poppy held over me. My feet
dragged me forward at the sight of those arms; my legs finally gave out as I
reached the bed, knees hitting the floor, head falling into Poppy’s lap. And, like
a dam, I burst. The tears came thick and fast as Poppy wrapped her arms around
my head.
Lifting my arms, I wrapped them—iron-tight—around her waist. Poppy’s
fingers stroked through my hair as, shaking, I fell apart in her lap, tears
drenching the nightdress covering her thighs.
“Shh,” Poppy whispered, rocking me back and forth. The sweet sound was like
heaven to my ears. “It’s okay,” she added. It struck me hard that she was
comforting me. But I couldn’t stop the pain. I couldn’t stop the grief.
And I held her. I held her so tightly I thought she would ask me to let go. But
she didn’t, and I wouldn’t. I didn’t dare let go, in case when I lifted my head she
wasn’t here.
I needed her to be here.
I needed her to stay.
“It’s okay,” Poppy soothed again. This time, I lifted my head until our eyes
met.

---

“It’s not,” I said hoarsely. “Nothing about this is okay.”
Poppy’s eyes were shining, but no tears fell. Instead, she tipped my face up,
one finger under my chin, and she stroked down my wet cheek with another. I
watched, not breathing, as a small smile began tugging on her lips.
My stomach flipped, the first sensation I had felt in my body since the
numbness that followed her revelation had overtaken me.
“There you are,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it. “My Rune.”
My heart stopped beating.
Her face melted into pure happiness as she pushed the hair off my forehead and
ran her fingertip down my nose and along the edge of my jaw. I stayed
completely still, trying to commit this moment to memory—a photo in my mind.
Her hands on my face. That look of happiness, that light shining from within.
“I used to wonder what you looked like, older. I wondered if you had cut your
hair. I wondered if you had grown taller, changed in size. I wondered if your
eyes had stayed the same.” The side of her lip twitched. “I wondered if you had
grown more handsome, which seemed impossible to me.” Her smile fell. “And I
see you have. When I saw you in the hallway last week, I couldn’t believe you
were there, standing in front of me, more beautiful than I could ever have
imagined.” She pulled playfully on my hair. “With your bright blond hair longer
still. Your eyes as vibrant a blue as they’d ever been. And so tall and broad.”
Poppy’s eyes met mine, and she said softly, “My Viking.”
My eyes closed as I tried to chase away the lump in my throat. When I opened
them, Poppy was watching me like she always did—in complete adoration.
Rising higher on my knees, I leaned closer, seeing Poppy’s eyes soften as I
pressed my forehead to hers, as carefully as if she were a china doll. As soon as
our skin touched, I drew in a long breath, and whispered, “Poppymin.”
This time it was Poppy’s tears that fell to her lap. I pushed my hand into her
hair and held her close. “Don’t cry, Poppymin. I can’t stand to see your tears.”
“You mistake their meaning,” she whispered in return.
I moved my head back slightly, searching her eyes. Poppy’s gaze met mine and

---

she smiled. I could see the contentment on her pretty face as she explained, “I
never thought I would hear you say that word to me again.” She swallowed hard.
“I never thought I would feel you this close to me again. I never dreamed I
would feel this again.”
“Feel what?” I asked.
“This,” she said and brought my hand to her chest. Right over her heart. It was
racing. I stilled, feeling something in my own chest stirring back to life, and she
said, “I never thought I’d ever feel fully whole again.” A tear fell from her eye
and onto my hand, splashing on my skin. “I never thought I’d regain half my
heart before I…” She trailed off, but we both knew what she meant. Her smile
dropped and her gaze bored through to my own. “Poppy and Rune. Two halves
of the same whole. Reunited at last. When it matters most.”
“Poppy…,” I said, but couldn’t fend off the whip of pain cracking deep inside.
Poppy blinked, then blinked again, until all her tears were gone. She stared at
me, her head dropping to one side, like she was working out a difficult puzzle.
“Poppy,” I said, my voice husky and coarse. “Let me stay awhile. I can’t … I
can’t … I don’t know what to do…”
Poppy’s warm palm landed gently on my cheek. “There’s nothing to do, Rune.
Nothing to do but weather the storm.”
My words became trapped in my throat and I closed my eyes. When they
opened again, she was watching me.
“I’m not scared,” she assured me confidently, and I could see that she meant it.
One hundred percent meant it. My Poppy. Tiny in size but filled with courage
and light.
I had never been more proud to love her than I was at that moment.
My attention dropped to her bed—a bed that was bigger than the one she had
had two years ago. She seemed too small for the large mattress. As she sat in the
center, she looked like a little girl.
Clearly seeing me looking at the bed, Poppy shuffled back. I could detect an
edge of wariness in her expression, and I couldn’t blame her. I knew I was not

---

the boy she waved goodbye to two years ago. I was changed.
I wasn’t sure I could be her Rune ever again.
Poppy swallowed, and after a moment’s hesitation, she patted the mattress
beside her. My heart raced. She was letting me stay. After everything. After
everything I’d done since I returned, she was letting me stay.
Making to stand up, my legs felt unsteady. The tears had stained my cheeks,
grated my throat to soreness, and the grief, the surreal revelation about the pain
of Poppy’s illness … it had left a residual numbness in my body. Every inch of
me broken, patched back up with Band-Aids—Band-Aids over open wounds.
Temporary.
Futile.
Useless.
I toed off my boots, then climbed onto the bed. Poppy shifted to lie on her
natural side of the bed, and I, awkwardly, lay on mine. In a move so familiar to
us both, we turned onto our sides and faced one another.
But it wasn’t as familiar as it once was. Poppy had changed. I had changed.
Everything had changed.
And I didn’t know how to adjust.
Minutes and minutes of silence ticked by. Poppy seemed content to watch me.
But I had one question. The one question I had wanted to ask her when the
contact stopped. The thought that had burrowed inside of me, turning dark for
want of an answer. The one thought that made me feel sick. The one question
that still had the potential to rip me apart. Even now, when my world couldn’t
shatter anymore.
“Ask me,” Poppy said suddenly, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her
parents. Surprise must have shown on my face, because she shrugged, looking so
damn cute. “I may not know the boy you are now, but I recognize that
expression. The one that’s building up to a question.”
I ran my finger over the sheet between us, my attention focused on the
movement I was making. “You do know me,” I whispered in reply, wanting to

---

believe that more than anything. Because Poppy was the only one who ever truly
knew the real me. Even now, buried under all this rage and anger, after the
distance of two silent years, she still knew the heart underneath.
Poppy’s fingers moved closer to mine in the neutral territory between us. The
no-man’s-land that separated our bodies. As I watched our two hands, straining
for each other, but not quite reaching, I was engulfed with the need to get my
camera, a need I hadn’t felt for a long time.
I wanted this moment captured.
I wanted this picture. I wanted this moment in time, to hold onto forever.
“I know some of your question, I think,” Poppy said, pulling me back from my
thoughts. Her cheeks blushed, deep pink spreading over her fair skin. “I’ll be
honest, since you’ve returned, I don’t recognize much. But there are times that
there are glimpses of the boy I love. Enough to inspire hope that he still lies in
wait underneath.” Her face was determined. “I think, above anything, that I want
to see him fight through what has him hidden. I think seeing him again is my
biggest wish, before I go.”
I turned my head away, unwilling to listen to her talk about leaving, about the
letdown I was, about the fact that her time was running out. Then, like a soldier’s
act of courage, her hand breached the distance between us and her fingertip
grazed over mine. I turned my head back around. My fingers opened at her
touch. Poppy ran her fingertip along the flesh of my palm, tracing the lines.
The hint of a smile came on her lips. My stomach sank, wondering how many
more times I would see that smile. Wondering how she found the strength to
smile at all.
Then, slowly retreating to where it had lain before, Poppy’s hand grew still.
She looked at me, patiently waiting for the question that I still had not asked.
Feeling my heart race in trepidation, I opened my mouth and asked, “Was the
silence … was it only about … your illness, or was it … was it because…”
Images from our final night flashed into my brain. Me lying over her body, our
mouths pressed together in slow, soft kisses. Poppy telling me she was ready. Us

---

losing our clothes, me watching her face as I pushed forward, and afterward as
she lay in my arms. Falling asleep beside her, nothing left unsaid between us.
“What?” Poppy asked, wide-eyed.
Taking in a quick breath, I blurted, “Was it because I pushed too far? Did I
force you? Pressure you?” Biting the bullet, I asked, “Did you regret it?”
Poppy tensed, her eyes glistening. I wondered for a minute if she was about to
cry, confess that what I had feared these past two years was true. That I hurt her.
She put her trust in me and I hurt her.
Instead, Poppy rose from the bed and knelt down. I heard her pulling
something out from underneath. When she rose to her feet, in her hand was a
familiar glass mason jar. A mason jar filled with hundreds of pink paper hearts.