We stop at a motel that night. Dexter says we only have a few more hours do driving until we get home, but I've been driving all day and he's too tired to take over. That's when I should have known something was wrong. Dexter didn't admit weakness.

He showers and carefully sets up his clothe for the next day. Just the general sweatshirt and jeans, yet by the way he places them so gently I know it's important. Dexter's in love.

I shower.

When I come out, I know what he wants. He's sitting on the bed, and a black creature is sitting next to him. I recognize it as a camera.

"You want to shoot now?" I ask.

He nods. He looks so pale.

So I flip my dripping blonde hair behind my back and turn on the camera, adjusting to the appropriate setting. "Should I count you down?"

He nods again.

"Three, two, one . . ."

Dexter swallows. "I know this should just be addressed at a sort of metaphysical You. So You can be the promise of my parents or friends or anyone that's watching, but the truth is, this is addressed to Grace Riordan. My sweet Grace, who I know is foolish to love but I can't help myself nonetheless. And I know that I really should have sent this to You and that if I wasn't dying, my relationship with Grace might not last and be artificial. But I want to be remembered for living my life when I could, so if by sending this to the girl I love who doesn't know I love her does so, then I have succeeded in my mission.

"I don't . . . I don't know if I'm going to make it back to see you, we're close but I just don't. So I want you to know that I love you; that you are the only sunshine in this dark world, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. But I can't alive for you, and for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't break you with me, but I didn't want you to remember me in this degenerating form, but for I am. I want you to know I will always remember our nights and our jokes and your laugh, where I may go after this, because your voice is my favorite song."

He pauses for a moment. "I wanted to see the world before I died, because it seemed so infinitely cruel that I would die without a legacy. It was so sickening that I knew how many grains were left in that fucking hourglass. So Bliss and I went together, because there was something in her eyes that told me she needed to escape as well, and we saw what we could. We saw Alcatraz and Disneyland and the Rocky Mountains and New York and motels and nights and days and . . . and it's so stupid that I'm dying because I want to go see it all with you, Grace. My sweet Grace, my amazing Grace.

"I wish I could say I learned something amazing on this trip, that I discovered the meaning of life or some bullshit. but the truth is, I'm just a kid who's dying, and that's all I know. I know that I don't have much time left and after all this traveling, I just want to spend the rest of it with the people I love and love me. So I didn't learn of true love exists or if everyone deserves a second chance or if God is real or who I really am. All I know is that I'm dying and, if you're watching this, I probably loved you while I was alive. So go out and figure all of those things out, discovery all the mysteries of humanity, because wherever we may meet again . . . I want to know everything."

I'm crying and I don't know when it started. I end the video and turn off the camera, turning away from Dexter so he won't see my weakness, but he knows everything.

"Bliss, what's wrong?" He demands, gently grabbing my shoulders to turn me around.

"Nothing," I insist, casting my eyes down.

"Bliss," he groans. "I've known you for long enough now to know when you're upset or not."

"I'm fine-"

He grabs my chin with his fingers and pulls my face up, so in forced to look at him. I didn't realize until then that our bodies are pressed flush against each other, and all I'm wearing is a damp towel.

When he places his lips against mine, I am surprised but don't fight him. His lips are so soft and his kisses so gentle, he tastes of the sea and Cheetos and dirty motel rooms and hand holding.

I get lost in the little movements of his mouth, not even noticing when he removes my towel like a shell. He separates our lips for a moment to look at my body and his gaze seems to set a fire beneath my skin, which only he can quench. He starts placing kisses against my neck and rubbing my stomach with his palms and his hair smells like home and I'm crying again and he moans, "Grace."

And I don't push him away because he's dying and, in a way, I am, too.