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The damn cough was relentless when I was in Afghanistan. At first, I thought it may have been an allergy, but my staff sergeant and the corpsman thought otherwise. Doc, the corpsman, said it sounded serious, maybe pneumonia. So they sent me to Germany.

Germany was like a little vacation until the doctor walked into the exam room. He put the stethoscope up to my back and listened for a couple of minutes. His face kept shifting and twisting— he
looked
puzzled. He sent me for a set of x-rays, and I assumed it was to confirm pneumonia, but when he met me back in the exam room, I
learned pneumonia would have been the best-case scenario.

“Son, do you see this?” He held up my x-ray against the light.

At first I wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but then my eyes focused on a large foggy spot in the middle of my lungs. “That?” I
pointed to the puffy cloud that most likely shouldn’t be there.

“We’re going to run some more tests on you, but this here,” he pointed to the cloud, “This is cancer. It’s hard to tell without doing some more tests, but it looks like it may have been there for a while, which I find strange since your pre-deployment medical tests didn’t indicate a problem.” He places the x-ray down and leans on the edge of his desk. “I suppose there is the chance that this cancer started a few months ago and advanced faster than normal, but it’s hard to say for sure.”

The word cancer ironically made me start coughing. I coughed until I ran out of breath, until blood misted out of my mouth for the
first time—right onto the doctor’s white lab coat. It was as if my body was trying to spell out the diagnosis for me, making it very
clear that whatever this doctor was saying, was true.

I had days more of tests, and an MRI before I spoke with that doctor again. I already knew there was no good news, so it was easier to sit in the waiting room, waiting for him to arrive. He came
out to get me and
simply waved me over. He closed the door quietly behind us and walked around to the back of his desk where he sat and faced me. He looked at the papers in his hands for a moment, probably trying
to stall
the inevitable. He finally placed the papers down and looked up at me while removing his glasses—another sympathetic move, I thought.

“Son, I’m not sure there’s any easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it how it is. You have an advanced stage lung cancer, and I’m afraid it’s too late to try any interventions. At best, I can
assume you
will have two to three months to live. The cancer is moving so rapidly that you will probably feel like you have a nasty chest cold until the day it gets bad. But the day it turns bad, will probably be an
inkling of—”

“The end. Death knocking on my door?”

He nods his head, confirming my incisive assumption.

Being rude was not my intention, but with the bad news I already had, he had placed a death sentence on top of it. My heart
felt like it had stopped beating. I wasn’t panicked into coughing that time. I
just felt nothing, almost like I was already dead. I stood up from my chair and saluted the doctor. “Thank you, Doc.” And I turned around and left.

I asked to use the phone at the front desk and I contacted my
staff sergeant. He told me an officer would be waiting for me on base in North Carolina to discuss our ‘plan.’ The plan being to discharge me and send me on my merry way toward a hole in the ground.

Two days later, I arrived on base. No welcoming committees. No family. No cheering. Nothing. I entered into my unit headquarters building. An officer I had once worked with approached me. It
seemed
he knew why I was there and not in Afghanistan. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and then I knew for sure he knew why I was in front of
him. He pulled a folder off of a nearby desk and ushered me down a hall. “Let’s start the discharge process,” is the last thing I really listened to. Everything else was robotic and said thousands of times before, I’m sure.

At the end of the meeting, I was asked if there was anything they could do to make this time easier on me. That’s when I asked them to
tell my parents I had died in the field. Mom and Dad didn’t need to watch me suffer for the next two months. They didn’t need to feel hope
when they knew I had come back from war alive, only to find out I would be dead within weeks. Maybe part of me wanted to be
remembered as a hero, rather than a sick man. It was selfish and I regret it now. But it was a decision I can’t take back.

CALI

We stocked up at a Wal-Mart—bought some things to help us survive a long-ass road trip and hit the road. We drove through lunch and were both famished around three in the afternoon, which is when we pulled off the highway into a diner smack dab in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

Burned grease and French fries aromatize the joint—some of it smells pretty good, but some of the smells are making me wonder how many times they’ve reused the frying oil.

Tango and I sit beside each other at the booth, both of us with
our
chins propped up by a hand. Exhaustion is setting in, probably more
for him than me.

The waitress approaches us with two menus and places them down in front of us.

Her black hair is up in a knot at the base of her neck, and a hairnet stretches over the mess, constricting all but a few sprigs of
frizzy strands are poking out above her ears. Her lips are a fluorescent pink and her eyelids have been painted with a shimmery teal shadow, complimenting her Alice-in-Wonderland-like uniform. I can imagine why smiling might be more work than serving people here.

“Do ya want to order drinks first?”

“I’ll have a coke,” I say.

“Mountain Dew, please,” Tango says after me.

Her gaze floats between my face and Tango’s and I swear I see a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “Ya two are cute,” she says. “I’ll be right back with ya drinks.”

My eyes are pinned on the popcorn ceiling, avoiding Tango’s likely-to-be cocky smirk. “We are kinda cute,” he says with a subtle
wink, the same kind of wink he gave me in the airport.

“Well, I am, at least.” I wrap my hair behind my ears and try my hardest to maintain a straight face.

“You didn’t respond with anything snide to her. I’m proud of you.” He picks up his menu from the table and opens it. “Want to share a menu?” he teases, nudging his shoulder into mine.

“No touching on this road trip. That’s a rule I just made.” After
covering miles of pavement, I’ve had time to think about this, and I’ve had to make the decision that I can’t fall for him any more than I already have. There’s no telling whether or not we’ll find Dad, which means he could easily be dead in a matter of weeks. I refuse to put my heart through any more. I can be his friend, though. Just his
friend.

He hits me with the menu. “You held my hand at the beach this
morning, remember?” he laughs, but a tinge of disappointment
washes over his face. “Now you’re making that rule?”

I point my finger at him and wink, feeling guilty for possibly giving him the wrong impression. “You’re a quick learner, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I never can seem to take a hint.” His knee sweeps against the outside of my leg and I automatically twitch and shift
away from him. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. My legs are so damn long.” He’s going to make this so impossible.

I twist my legs over to the other side of my stool. “There. That better?” I ask, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. His
mouth twists to the side, seemingly trying to suppress a smile.

The waitress returns with our drinks, places them down and
pulls out her little pink sparkly coiled-notepad. “What can I grab for ya folks today?”

“I’ll have the cheeseburger with everything on it,” I say, closing my menu and placing it back down on the counter.

 “And what will you be having, sir?” the waitress asks. A broad smile stretches across her lips, showcasing smudged pink lipstick on her top four front teeth.

“I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with no lettuce,” Tango says while closing his menu.

The waitress finishes scribbling down our order and then shoves the pencil behind her ear while dropping the notepad into her apron. “Those will be right up.”

“Pardon me for asking, but how long have you two been
together?” the waitress asks.

“It will be six months this Saturday,” Tango says without
missing a
beat. His lips contort into a silly grin as he leans into me. Then his arm wraps around my neck and he pulls me against the side of his body.

And I melt.

He smells like soap mixed with musky cologne. It forces my body to relax within his hold. I have the urge to lie my head down
on his shoulder and breathe him in even more. My body doesn’t relax. Not for anything . . . or anyone. The feeling is foreign to me.

This feeling is amazing.

The waitress has walked away and Tango still has his arm
around me. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Having some fun,” he responds. He removes his arm from
around me and straightens his posture.

“How are you this upbeat when you know you’re dying in a
matter of weeks?” Kind of blunt, but I have to know.

“Why be miserable? It’s not going to change anything. I’d rather seize my days and enjoy what’s left of my life.”

I can’t help but think it takes a certain type of person to view life that way. I could probably learn a thing or two. If someone gave me a death sentence, I don’t think I’d be able to continue on. I think I’d
lie down and wait for whatever was going to happen. I’d be asking, why me? I’d wonder what I’d done so wrong to deserve an eviction notice from my body. I wouldn’t be able to smile, or have fun, or eat
like I was starving. I can’t even comprehend how he has a smile on his face right now. “That’s good that you can do that,” I say.

“You can too. You’re not dying, but you don’t have to focus on everything negative. It can ruin your life, and you just never know when that last day might be.” He looks down at the napkin he’s fumbling with and then back up at me. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying
this, but your sister wouldn’t want you to be living like this. Don’t you think she’d want you to be happy?”

Why should I be happy when the man I was in love with slashed
her throat? “I don’t deserve to be happy when she can’t be happy.” He doesn’t seem to have a response. It is logical. It’s not like I’m forcing
myself to be miserable every day. I just can’t find much that makes me happy.

The waitress brings out the tray with our burgers and places them down in front of us.

“My name is Peggy. If ya need anything, just holla,” she says as she pulls a wad of napkins out of her apron. “Here ya go.”

We’ve been eating in silence, and I’m devouring this burger, which seems to have caught Tango’s attention.

“You always eat like a pig?” he asks. His question almost causes
me to choke on my last bite. I narrow my eyes at him; unable to
speak
with the large mouthful I’m trying to push down my throat.
“Seriously,
I’ve never seen a girl eat like you before. It’s nice.” I still can’t respond, realizing I did take way too large of a bite. “I kind of
thought you were one of those calorie counting chicks when I held that Cinnabon bag up in front of your face at the airport.”

I finally swallow my food and wash it down with a sip of water. “First, I can’t believe you just called me a pig.”

“I didn’t call you a pig. I said you were eating like one. And I
think it’s a good trait. Not a bad one.”

“Second, I love food. I was blessed with a speedy metabolism, and I don’t want to let it go to waste. And third, you were pissing me off in the airport that day. I wanted nothing more than to eat that damn Cinnabon, but you were just a random guy following me around at the time.” I smirk. “As a matter of fact, Tango, since you’re
counting your days, and eating makes me happy, I say we eat like pigs all the way to Mexico.”

“I think I love you,” he laughs.

TANGO

What am I doing? I think I’m losing control. I don’t lose control. I
have to fight this urge. I can’t put her through any more shit.

I sink back into my seat, mentally preparing myself for this lengthy ride we have to survive together all while keeping our hands to ourselves.

“So just to summarize the rules for our trip,” I say to her. “No touching, and eat as much fattening and greasy food as possible.”

“Exactly,” she says with a tight-lipped grin.

“Well, okay. I’ll try,” I say. I think both of those rules might kill me, though.

She gives me this look that tells me she knows every thought
going through my head, which means she knows I think she’s so
fucking
hot and I’m doing everything I can to keep my hands off of her.
What a stupid rule.

CALI

“WHAT PART OF
Mexico are we fleeing to?” I ask. “Cancun, I assume?”

“We aren’t going for spring break, Cali. Your dad’s coordinates point to the Copper Canyons. Although, I’m assuming he’s not just sitting out in the open.” He looks over his shoulder at the left lane,
glides over, and
ups the speed even more. “How long has it been since you slept
under the stars?”