“I mean, when she came in here, she looked familiar. She danced at La Crème, right?”

Ray didn’t reply. Back in those days, Fester had bounced at a few clubs. He and Ray had been acquaintances, if not friends, but Fester had a reputation as one of the best. He knew when to strike and more important, he knew how to show restraint. The girls felt safe around him. Hell, Ray felt safe.

“Sucks, I know,” Fester said.

Ray took another deep sip. “Yep.”

“So what did she want?”

“We aren’t going to talk about this, are we, Fester?”

“It will help.”

Everyone thinks they’re Dr. Phil nowadays. “The hell it will. Just shut up and drink.”

Ray poured himself another. Fester said nothing. Or if he did, Ray didn’t hear it. The rest of the night passed in an eerie, pathetic haze. He thought about her face. He thought about her body. He thought about the way she looked at him with those eyes. He thought about all he had lost and more painfully, he thought about all that could have been. And of course, he thought about the blood. It always came back to that—all that damn blood.

Then he mercifully blacked out.

At some point, Ray opened his eyes and right away knew that he was home in bed, that it was morning. He felt like something twirled in a cement truck. It all felt so familiar. He wondered whether he had gotten sick last night, whether he had prayed to the porcelain god at some point during the blackout. The growl in his stomach was craving food, so he thought, probably.

Fester was asleep—more likely passed out—on the couch. Ray got up and shook him hard. Fester woke with a start, then groaned and put his hands on either side of his enormous skull as though trying to keep it from cracking open. Both men were still in their clothes from last night. Both smelled like a Dumpster, but neither cared.

They stumbled out the door and to the diner down the street. Most of the patrons looked even more hungover than they did. The waitress, a seen-too-much big-hair, brought them an urn of coffee before they even asked. She was on the plump side, just the way Fester liked them. He gave her a smile and said, “Hi, sugar.”

She put down the urn, rolled her eyes, walked away.

“Rough night,” Fester said to Ray.

“We’ve had rougher.”

“Nah, not really. You remember much of it?”

Ray said nothing.

“Another blackout?” Fester asked.

Again Ray didn’t reply, pouring the coffee instead. They both took it black—at least, they did right now.

“I know what you’re going through,” Fester said.

Fester didn’t have a clue, not really, but Ray said nothing.

“What, you think you’re the only guy who’s had his heart crushed?”

“Fester?”

“Yeah?”

Ray put his index finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Fester smiled. “You don’t need to talk it out?”

“I don’t need to talk it out.”

“Maybe I do. I mean, what happened last night. It brought it back for me too.”

“Your heartbreak?”

“Yep. Do you remember Jennifer?”

“No.”

“Jennifer Goodman Linn. That’s her name now. She was the one. You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“Some girls, you just lust after. Some girls, you just really want or you like or you figure will be fun. And then some girls—well, maybe only one girl—she makes you think about forever.” Fester leaned forward. “Was Cassie that for you?”

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”

“So you get what I mean then.”

“Sure,” Ray said. Fester was a huge man, but like all men, when you talk about heartache, they get smaller and more pathetic. Ray took a breath and said, “So what happened to you and Jennifer?”

The big-haired waitress returned. She asked what they were having. Ray ordered pancakes, nothing else. Fester ordered a breakfast that included every food group on every chart ever made. It took nearly two full minutes to say it all. Ray wondered if the order came with a side of Lipitor.

When the waitress left, Ray went back to his coffee. So did Fester. Ray thought that maybe the moment had passed, that he would now be able to sit and sulk in peace, but it was not to be.

“Some asswipe stole her away from me,” Fester said.

“Sorry.”

“She’s married now—to a plumbing contractor in Cincinnati. They got two sons. I saw all these pictures of them on Facebook. They did some Carnival cruise last year. They go to Reds games. She looks really happy.”

“Everyone looks happy on Facebook.”

“I know, right? What’s up with that?” Fester tried to smile, but it couldn’t make it through the ache. “I wasn’t good enough for her anyway, you know what I mean? I was just a lowly bouncer. Maybe now, with this new business and all, I probably make as much coin as the plumber does. Maybe more. But it’s too late, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re not going to encourage me to go after her?”

Ray said nothing.

“You should see her photos. On Facebook, I mean. She’s still just as beautiful as the day she dumped me. Maybe more so.”

Ray stared down at the coffee a moment. “You know what beer goggles are?”

“Sure,” Fester said. “The more you drink, the better the girl looks.”

“You’re looking at those Facebook pictures through heartache goggles.”

“You think?”

“I do.”

Fester considered that. “Yeah, maybe I am. Or maybe those aren’t heartbreak goggles. Maybe those are true-love goggles.”

They fell into silence for a moment. The coffee was God’s nectar. The headache had become a dull, steady thud.

“The plumber is probably making her happy,” Fester said. “I should leave it alone.”

“Good idea.”

“But,” Fester said, holding up a finger, “if she walked through that door right now—or, for example”—he shrugged theatrically—“if she, let’s say, walked into the Weak Signal looking for me after all these years, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Subtle, Fester.”

He spread his arms. “What about me hits you as subtle?”

Fair point. “She didn’t come back to start up again.”

“So she just wanted a fling? To slum for a couple hours? That sucks.” Then thinking more about it, Fester said, “But hell, I’d take it.”