Prologue

You’re wondering why our former Mr. President, now running for office again and generally considered one of the most powerful men on the planet, acted, let’s say, a little strangely last weekend and then promptly disappeared, sending the entire world into a state of collective hysteria.

Well, you’ve come to the right place.

Full disclosure up front: what I’m about to tell you may sound a bit fantastical. Maybe more than a bit. Doesn’t make it any less true.

And just so we’re clear, Dan is the one behind all of this. The man deserves a monument. A proper one. Stone. Something people can lay flowers at. Or, alternatively, the latest issue of Hustler. Dan had a thing for that. Both Dans, actually. But we’ll get to that.

Naturally, I’ve got my own angle on what happened. Hardly a surprise.

Here’s the problem: Dan and I are friends. Which makes me a terrible witness. I’m biased. Everybody’s biased. And when you’re biased, you’re always looking through some kind of lens. Not necessarily rose-colored, but colored all the same. Enough to throw things off.

That said, bias or no bias, everything I’m about to tell you happened exactly the way I say it did. This isn’t „fake news,“ as everyone’s been calling things these past few years. And honestly, what is that even supposed to mean?

Fake news.

As if somebody out there actually knows the truth. Owns the truth. Holds the exclusive franchise rights to truth. As if truth were cast in steel and left unchanged for all eternity.

Nonsense, if you ask me.

But if such a thing as truth exists, then this story gets about as close as humanly possible. We’re talking skin-contact close. Breathing-on-the-same-neck close. Closer to reality than anything the CIA, your tax accountant, or the guy standing in a pulpit every Sunday dispensing divine press releases is ever likely to tell you.

Anyway. Dan.

I’ve known him since elementary school in Rockville. We’ve been friends ever since. Dan is basically my lifelong community service assignment. I look after him. Protect him from the world. Which is only fair, because the world has always seemed weirdly eager to attack anyone with an obvious weakness. And Dan came factory-equipped with several.

For starters, he’s fat. That’s the polite version. Even as a kid, his parents, Susan and Richard Beckett, expressed their love through industrial quantities of fat, sugar, and carbs. The predictable result was that Dan quickly became every bully’s favorite hobby.

Which is where I entered the story. Felix Tanner. Friend. Protector. Veteran of countless epic playground battles against Bruce Birdman and Steven Wright. Steven eventually became a cop. Bruce, meanwhile, the sneaky little bastard, that treacherous human rat, became a psychiatrist and, more recently, started sleeping with my girlfriend Sandra.

This is relevant. Because that’s what got Dan and me on a plane to Acapulco. The official purpose of the trip was to cut loose, drink too much, and take my mind off things. Mostly my things.

At the time I was losing my mind. What I didn’t know was that losing my mind was about to become my default setting.

It all started almost exactly three weeks ago. I woke up one morning while Sandra was lying beside me making those soft little snuffling sounds she makes when she’s asleep. I’ve always found them ridiculously comforting. She always sleeps later than I do.

And that’s pretty much the beginning of the story right there. Sorry if I’m skipping over the idyllic suburban childhood and fast-forwarding a few chapters, but who knows how much time we’ve got left? As for my current situation, it feels a lot like sitting on top of an atomic bomb with a countdown timer attached. And the thing just keeps ticking.

So no detours.

No epic digressions.

Let’s get right to it.

Chapter One

I have no idea why Dan and I became friends. Maybe it’s because we were both outsiders in our own way. I’ve always suspected there are invisible hormonal signatures floating around out there, helping like-minded people find each other. Or, to put it more simply, we were both losers from the very beginning, and that kind of thing creates a bond.

The second Dan stepped onto a playground, Steven Wright and Bruce Birdman would be there to knock him around. As for me, I was already the biggest social disaster in our grade simply because I’d always been obsessed with science fiction, spaceships, aliens, and everything that came with them. When I was twelve, I spent an entire week wearing pointed Vulcan ears to school. Yes, those Vulcan ears. The ones Spock wears in Star Trek. And honestly, they looked great.

For a few days, I felt like a completely different person. Then Bruce Birdman took one look at me during recess and asked why I had labia growing out of my ears.

Things escalated from there.

I don’t remember every detail, but I do remember managing to make Bruce swallow one of the plastic ears before the recess monitor, Ms. Makowski, stepped in and ended the festivities.

From that day forward, Birdman considered me his mortal enemy, which conveniently placed me on the same list as Dan. External pressure has a way of bringing people together. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that. You know how it goes.

Anyway, let’s skip over our mostly happy years as suburban outsiders spending unhealthy amounts of time in front of a PlayStation and move directly to what happened three weeks ago. As I already mentioned, I walked out of my house that morning thinking my life was doing reasonably well.

You think „reasonably well“ doesn’t sound particularly impressive? Come on. Who actually gets more than that?Reasonably well is the dream. It’s the gold standard. A certification of carefree living.

I had a job. A beautiful girlfriend. A nice apartment, even if it was rented and slightly overpriced. A Ford F-150 parked outside. My favorite bar was three blocks away. Once a week I’d go bowling with Dan and Zack Dayman. Every now and then we’d catch a Redskins game and drink far more beer than was medically advisable, because football without alcohol is like Thanksgiving without turkey. Technically possible, but something important is missing.

So yes, everything was reasonably well. Not perfect. Just reasonably well.

Then you walk out your front door one morning, minding your own business, and suddenly your entire world folds in on itself like a house of cards.

I worked for Red-S. And yes, that’s the porn site specializing in amateur productions. Everybody specializes these days. That’s how business works now. You find a niche, you serve the niche, and you pray there aren’t already fifty other companies serving the exact same niche more efficiently than you are.

Anyway, I got to the office and immediately noticed I was the only person there. A few moments later my boss, Bernie Crowe, appeared beside my desk and informed me that I could go home again. We were offline, he said. And we were probably going to stay that way.

„Why?“ I asked, wrinkling my nose the way I always do when something refuses to make sense.

Crowe shrugged and gave himself a shake like a wet dog.

„The Jeff Benino case is over,“ he said. „He won. Which means we’re bankrupt. Completely bankrupt. If the electricity cuts out in the next few minutes, don’t be surprised.“

What surprised me wasn’t the news. It was how calm Crowe seemed while delivering it. Meanwhile, I could feel panic spreading through my body. My stomach tightened. My pulse stumbled. For a moment I honestly thought my heart might stop beating altogether.

The Jeff Benino story requires a little explanation.

Benino is, depending on who you ask, either a moderately successful comedian or proof that America occasionally rewards persistence more than talent. He made a few appearances on Saturday Night, eventually landed his own show, and somehow built a career out of it. Plenty of people think he’s funny. Personally, I always found him exhausting. He talks too much and carries himself with the kind of confidence usually reserved for peacocks and hedge fund managers.

Anyway, Benino was having an affair with a stripper named Lynn Blowow. And no, Blowow wasn’t a stage name. Though it might as well have been.

The affair became public, Benino’s wife went nuclear, and the divorce circus began. She immediately claimed her husband was the real victim in all this and that the stripper was entirely to blame. Unfortunately, some whistleblower released a video shortly afterward showing Benino and Lynn engaged in a little recreational mattress athletics.

A very short video. Extremely short, in fact.

And I suspect that’s the part that really bothered Benino.

The video takes place in a hotel room. Benino asks Lynn whether she’d like him to show her a good time. She nods, does exactly what her last name would lead you to expect, and Benino immediately begins convulsing.

End of film. The whole thing lasts less than twenty seconds.

You can probably still find it online if you search for The Shortest Porno Ever Made. Or just type Benino Superquickie. That usually works too.

Under normal circumstances, Benino probably would’ve hidden under a rock for a few months and waited for the internet to become distracted by something else. But Benino happened to be friends with Ronald Trumper, our newly elected Mr. President, whom we’ll be discussing at considerable length later on.

Trumper gave him the money to sue Red-S Enterprises. Red-X, the division I worked for, was one of Red-S’s subsidiaries. And that, as it turned out, was the end of us.

Crowe stood there with the calm resignation of a man who’d already gone through all five stages of grief and come out the other side. Then he informed me that a court had awarded Benino one hundred and fifty-five million dollars in damages.

One hundred and fifty-five million. Red-S was finished. The bankruptcy filing had already gone through.

Game over.

You can go home now. I remember staring at him, trying to process the number.

A hundred and fifty-five million dollars because of a twenty-second premature ejaculation. Incredible, isn’t it? I mean, if Sandra had received comparable compensation every time I’d disappointed her, we’d both be retired by now. Instead, I was unemployed.

I told Crowe I needed some air. After that, things become a little blurry.

The next thing I clearly remember is sitting in my truck, driving aimlessly through town until I found myself parked outside Will’s Tavern.

Some people claim salmon always return to the place where they were born. Apparently, I do the same thing with bars.

Whenever life punches me in the face, my internal navigation system automatically guides me to Will’s Tavern.

Officially, the place wasn’t open yet. Fortunately, Will was inside. He took one look at my face, unlocked the door, and immediately understood this wasn’t a social visit. Neither of us could quite believe how much money Benino’s lawyers had squeezed out of a twenty-second video.

„Other than having a few extra million in the bank,“ Will said with a crooked smile, „the whole world still knows he’s the fastest gun in the West.“

„That’s why they call it damages.“

Will snorted.

„Some things money can’t fix. Do you honestly think Benino’s ever going to have relaxed sex again? Every time he gets into bed with a woman, he’s probably sweating bullets wondering whether he’s about to break another speed record.“

„For a hundred and fifty-five million dollars, every woman on Earth could laugh at me during sex and I wouldn’t care.“

„I thought that was already happening,“ Will said.

Then he grew serious again.

„Besides, I don’t believe you. The humiliation would follow you forever. You wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without wondering who’s seen the video. And the worst part? Afterward, he actually apologized to Lynn Blowow. Said he’d been under a lot of stress, his ratings were terrible, and he hadn’t had sex in a week.“

Will shook his head.

„What a loser.“

I’d seen the video myself. More than once, actually. Strictly for professional reasons, of course. When the story first broke, we’d watched Benino’s legendary speed run at the office, grinned at each other, and reassured ourselves that there was no way he’d win. Red-S had published a video. That’s all. We did that sort of thing every day. And God knows how many of the embarrassing, ridiculous, deeply regrettable acts preserved on our servers had probably ruined somebody’s weekend. The world is one giant circus filled with people enthusiastically making fools of themselves. Personally, I’ve never had a problem with that.

As long as I wasn’t the one staring back from the screen.

„That loser,“ I said, „now has so much money he’ll never have to worry about anything again, while I’m unemployed and my professional experience consists entirely of working for a porn company.“

Will tried to cheer me up.

I had a degree in computer science, he pointed out, even if it came from a college nobody was particularly impressed by. I’d find something else. Probably sooner rather than later.

„It’s not that bad,“ he said, sliding another beer across the bar.

It turned out to be considerably worse than that.

By early afternoon the place had started filling up. I was already quite drunk.

Meanwhile I’d texted Dan and told him there was an emergency. My job was gone. He needed to get to Will’s Tavern immediately.

Dan worked at the local high school, teaching computer classes as an assistant instructor. We’d gone through part of college together, which was more than enough time to establish that Dan possessed very little actual talent when it came to computers.

He wasn’t particularly creative. He had the attention span of a goldfish whenever programming was involved. And his code contained so many bugs that debugging usually took longer than writing the program in the first place. Years earlier, his father had arranged a substitute teaching position for him at Beacon Hill High. Dan had somehow remained there ever since. Not because he loved it. Dan had a remarkable ability to settle into a life that wasn’t making him particularly happy and then become comfortable there. You could call him an optimist. Or maybe a professional accepter of circumstances.

Remember what I said earlier about life being reasonably okay?

That was Dan in a nutshell.

He’d carved out a small corner of existence for himself and furnished it nicely. No major changes, please. And absolutely no catastrophes. Dan and I probably could’ve had that printed on matching T-shirts. Fortunately, we never did.

Anyway, if Dan wasn’t a gifted programmer, he was the most reliable friend a person could ask for. Less than forty-five minutes after I sent the text, he walked through the door of Will’s Tavern and devoted his full attention to me. I unloaded everything. The lawsuit. The bankruptcy. The job.

Then I drank a few more beers and predicted, with complete certainty, that I would never find employment again.

Dan and Will joined forces to talk me off the ledge. They both reminded me repeatedly that I still had Sandra, and that a woman like Sandra would obviously stand by me through something like this. There wasn’t the slightest doubt about it. Dan even placed a hand on my shoulder and looked at me the way people look at scruffy shelter dogs right before deciding to take them home despite every warning sign. The words had some effect.

Maybe it was also the seventh or eighth beer. Alcohol in those quantities works a lot like psychiatric medication. The main difference is that nobody can predict exactly what side effects you’re about to get.

That day, the side effect was Sandra. An overwhelming desire for Sandra.

I suddenly needed to see her. Needed to hold her. Or, preferably, have her hold me while I buried my face in her shoulder and informed her that my career at Red-X had died a tragic and untimely death. The urge became so strong that I stood up and nearly collapsed onto the floor. Dan caught me before gravity finished the job.

„I gotta go see Sssandra,“ I announced, pointing vaguely toward the exit.

„All right, buddy,“ Dan said. „I’ll drive you. Don’t worry. You’ll be with your girl in a few minutes. And I’m sure Sandy can think of plenty of ways to make you feel better.“

„You bet she can,“ I shouted loudly enough that several of the regulars turned around and grinned.

„A whole buncha ways. Whole buncha ways.“

And because alcohol has a well-earned reputation for loosening tongues, I followed this with a brief lecture on Jeff Benino’s sexual performance and the statistical improbability of becoming one hundred and fifty-five million dollars richer as a direct result of twenty seconds of stimulation and a premature orgasm.

The next thing I remember, I was sitting in Dan’s Prius as it glided through town like a spaceship while I continued delivering unsolicited commentary about Sandra’s many comforting qualities.

Dan kept both hands firmly locked on the steering wheel.

„You want me to walk you to the door?“ he asked when we finally arrived.

I shook my head.

„Nope.“

I waved him off and hauled myself out of the passenger seat with what remained of my dignity. Dan had parked on the street, and that detail probably changed everything.

Hybrid cars are ridiculously quiet. They don’t announce themselves. My F-150 sounds like freedom, bad decisions, and testosterone rolled into one. Dan’s Prius, meanwhile, hums along like it’s being powered by ghosts.

I climbed the steps to the porch as carefully as I could. The last thing I wanted was to stumble through the front door looking drunk. How exactly did health insurance work when you were unemployed, anyway? I pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t about hospitals.

This was about Sandra.

Like always, alcohol had shut down the more advanced regions of my brain and replaced them with optimism and libido. What better way to deal with a terrible day than some therapeutic sex and a reminder that life wasn’t actually ending?

I’d lost a job that had made me reasonably happy.

Reasonably.

But I wasn’t paralyzed. I wasn’t dying. Most of my bodily functions were still working perfectly. I wasn’t even thirty-five yet. Everything would be fine.

The front door opened. I stepped inside quietly and looked around.

Sandra wasn’t in the living room. She wasn’t in the kitchen either.

Normally she’d be sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee or talking on the phone with one of her intellectually challenged friends about vacation plans, makeup tips, or whatever reality show was currently poisoning civilization.

I checked the clock. Four-thirty.

Either she’d stayed late at the salon or she’d gone shopping. Disappointment settled over me immediately. The alcohol lost its magic. My libido deflated like a punctured balloon.

Suddenly I wasn’t an optimistic guy with a loving girlfriend. I was an unemployed loser whose future consisted of job applications, interviews, fake smiles, and pretending to be passionate about spending eight hours a day inside an air-conditioned office building.

Exhaustion followed close behind. For a moment I considered grabbing another beer from the refrigerator and collapsing onto the couch. Instead, I decided a nap sounded smarter. One hour of sleep. Clear my head. Start over.

So I headed upstairs, shuffled across the hallway carpet, and opened the bedroom door.

For a brief moment, I honestly thought I was dreaming.

I was still at Red-X. Still sitting at my desk. Still reviewing amateur pornography in the line of professional duty. Any second now I’d wake up and discover Bernie Crowe standing behind me, clearing his throat like an irritated African buffalo.

The lawsuit. The bankruptcy. The unemployment.

None of it was real. Just stress-induced hallucinations cooked up by an overworked brain.

Human beings can convince themselves of almost anything when reality becomes sufficiently ridiculous.

Then I saw Sandra. Naked. Kneeling on the bed.

Looking toward the nightstand where a framed photograph from our Florida vacation stood smiling back at us. And behind her… Behind her was Bruce Birdman. It took me an extra second to recognize him because I’d never seen him in a position this intimate before. Bruce Birdman was pumping away like a nineteenth-century steam engine.

I don’t know exactly how my brain recovered from the shock. I only remember wondering, absurdly enough, what category of adult entertainment this particular scene belonged in.

Then Bruce turned around. And everything exploded into motion. Birdman jumped off the bed. Sandra screamed. A blanket appeared from nowhere and she yanked it over herself as if modesty had suddenly become relevant after I’d already seen every square inch of her body countless times. I opened my mouth and wanted to say something. Ask a question. Maybe ask Bernie Crowe to pinch me because none of this could possibly be real.

But the words never arrived.

Bruce rushed toward me, waving his arms and insisting it wasn’t what it looked like. It was a one-time thing, a mistake or misunderstanding. Which, as I later discovered, was complete bullshit.

My speech center may have been temporarily disabled, but my arms were still operational. The first punch missed. The second one clipped him across the ear.

Sandra’s screaming increased in both volume and intensity. From what I could gather, she believed I had completely lost my mind, was an asshole, and that our relationship was over anyway.

When Bruce hit me back, considerably harder than I’d expected, I found myself reflecting on the meaning of the word over.

My job was over.

My relationship was over.

But over could also mean the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Things ended all the time. New things started. That’s how life worked, wasn’t it?

Over.

I absorbed a few more punches before a straight right finally connected and sent me crashing to the floor. Something swung above me like a pendulum. A long object belonging to Bruce Birdman that I very much did not want to look at.

The shadows closing in from every direction were almost a relief.

I know, I know. I’ve been talking about myself for quite a while. But I need a little room to set things up. This is the introduction. You’re not going to understand what happened afterward unless you know how we got here.

Ever show up late to a movie and miss the first ten minutes? It’s almost impossible to make sense of the story if you miss the opening.

My old man used to call it the prelude. Whenever a moderately sized disaster was on the horizon, he’d nod gravely and announce that this was merely the prelude. According to my father, everything was a prelude to catastrophe. The man spent his entire life expecting the Apocalypse to kick down the front door at any moment.

Still, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

A proper disaster deserves a proper introduction. And this story is considerably bigger than moderately sized. So yes, the prelude matters. You need to know where my head was at and how everything managed to come apart so spectacularly.

Anyway.

Back to the Birdman disaster.

I’d just suffered the latest defeat in what was turning into a truly remarkable day, and I still wasn’t entirely convinced any of it had actually happened. Which brings us back, once again, to fake news.

When I came to, my skull felt like somebody had rented it out as a construction site. A sharp, rhythmic pounding seemed to travel through my temples straight into the primitive parts of my brain. Every breath made my ribs hurt.

I opened my eyes and saw the warm light of the evening sun shimmering through the leaves overhead. For a moment I had no idea how I’d gotten there.

„Over,“ I whispered.

The word brought Sandra and Bruce Birdman flooding back into my mind. It still didn’t feel real. It felt like fake news.

Like my brain had fabricated something absurd and then convinced me it had happened. I am not exaggerating when I say that part of me still considered the possibility that I was trapped inside some kind of dream. Why not? Maybe there were forms of mental collapse I’d never experienced before. Maybe reality wasn’t what I thought it was.

I pushed myself upright and looked around, half expecting to discover I’d entered some bizarre fantasy realm. Maybe there’d be mythical creatures frolicking nearby. Maybe a guy with angel wings would be waiting to give me an orientation lecture about the afterlife and explain the basic rules of posthumous integration.

None of that happened.

I was lying on the front lawn of my house. A few yards away stood Ken, the neighbor’s kid, straddling his bicycle and staring at me in silence.

„What’s wrong with you?“ he asked.

„No idea,“ I said, shaking my head. „Guess I fell asleep.“

I added this because there was no reason to traumatize a six-year-old unnecessarily.

„Why’d you fall asleep on the lawn?“

„It’s very relaxing,“ I told him. „Almost like camping. You just lie there, look at the trees, and enjoy life.“

I nodded. Immediately regretted it. Pain shot through my chest.

„Are you hurt?“

„Nope. Just need to wake up a little.“

As I said it, I glanced toward the front door. Clothes and two suitcases were scattered across the porch and front steps. Although the house itself appeared undamaged, the sight of my belongings strewn all over the yard immediately brought to mind those annual news reports from Tornado Alley.

„What the hell…“

„Your girlfriend threw all that out,“ Ken said. „She told you to get lost.“

I stared at him.

„What?“

„That’s your stuff.“

„My stuff?“

„Yep.“

I looked back toward the porch. The suitcases. The clothes. All of it. My stuff.

„She threw my things out of the house?“

Ken nodded.

„First the man dragged you out here. Then your girlfriend threw all your stuff outside. You were already asleep when he dragged you across the lawn. I think you lied about the sleeping thing.“

I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

At that particular moment, I desperately wanted Ken to get back on his bike and disappear. Discussing the details of my public humiliation with a first grader wasn’t high on my list of priorities. Fortunately, his mother chose that exact moment to intervene. Her voice cut through the neighborhood like an air-raid siren.

„Ken! Get over here right now! Leave Mr. Tanner alone! Get inside this instant!“

Ken climbed onto his bike without another word and pedaled away. I waved at his mother.

She responded with the briefest possible lift of her arm before pulling her son indoors like she was rescuing him from an active crime scene. The situation was becoming increasingly clear. I had been officially reclassified as a social problem.

An outcast. A man best observed from a safe distance.

I was willing to bet that Mrs. Gordon would spend the next hour peeking through her curtains, waiting for me to remove myself from the lawn and, preferably, the neighborhood. For all I knew, Sandra was doing the same thing from somewhere behind the blue walls of our house, quietly talking things over with Bruce Birdman while receiving comfort and reassurance because apparently I was the violent lunatic in this story. Not to mention the inconsiderate bastard who’d had the audacity to come home unexpectedly.

How exactly had I become the villain?

Slowly, painfully, I got to my feet. Part of me considered gathering up my belongings. Another part considered kicking in the front door. Stuffing T-shirts and underwear back into suitcases felt humiliating. Starting Round Two with Bruce Birdman seemed unlikely to end well in my current condition. So I reached into my pocket and felt the smooth shape of my phone. The relief was immediate. Without even thinking about it, my thumb moved across the screen and dialed the only person I knew would still be on my side.

My friend Dan.

Chapter Two

I spent the next few days camped out in front of Dan’s television.

We replayed the video game classics of our youth, drank far too much alcohol, mostly me, and ordered pizza from Mr. Pepperoni’s at least twice a day. Dan left for work ridiculously early every morning, but he was usually back by mid-afternoon, where he assumed the role of part-time nurse, part-time prison guard. His primary responsibility was preventing me from driving over to my old apartment and challenging Bruce Birdman to a duel to the death.

I stopped shaving, reduced personal hygiene to the occasional sponge bath, and kept the curtains closed as if I were a vampire for whom even moderate amounts of sunlight posed a serious health risk.

Despite our friendship, Dan wasn’t entirely sure how to cheer me up. When it came to relationships, he had roughly the same level of experience as a newly hatched chick.

Back when we were twenty, he’d dated a girl named Sue Cluver, who’d also gone to high school with us. At the time, Sue was still in the process of figuring out her sexual orientation. After a few months she broke up with Dan and, a couple of days later, started dating another woman. That was pretty much the end of Dan’s romantic career. Apart from a few brief episodes and a long-distance affair with an older teacher from New York he’d met during a professional development seminar, his love life had spent the last several years wandering through a desert without water.

Objectively speaking, he’d had much worse luck than I had. Unfortunately, at that point I wasn’t in a frame of mind to appreciate that fact. Instead, I continued subjecting him to lengthy monologues about betrayal, heartbreak, and the devastating realization that I would probably never be able to love another woman again.

I also developed several elaborate theories explaining why relationships were fundamentally pointless.

Human beings, I informed him, were unreliable, fickle primates. Slightly more sophisticated than bonobos, perhaps, but not by enough to build a lasting civilization around.

Dan usually responded with a halfhearted nod, pointed out that his own biography wasn’t exactly a triumphant endorsement of romance either, and then attempted to steer the conversation toward Lucia Zedana.

Lucia was a teacher from Costa Rica who worked at his school. Once a week, thanks to a fortunate alignment of schedules, Dan and Lucia had lunch together. Though he’d never openly admitted it, that shared lunch was quite possibly the highlight of his entire working week. Aaa

I’d seen Lucia once at a football game and felt reasonably confident that she wasn’t going to start a relationship with Dan unless the two of them ended up stranded on a deserted island with no hope of rescue. She was simply out of his league. Or, depending on how you looked at it, several weight classes below his.

Naturally, I kept that particular observation to myself. What are friends for, after all, if not to distort reality and provide hope where none exists? So we comforted each other.

Dan would say things like, „Sandra’s going to come crawling back on her hands and knees once she realizes what a complete idiot Bruce Birdman is.“

I’d shrug and change the subject.

„And things will work out with Lucia,“ I’d tell him. „You just need to give it time, be nice, and wait for the right moment to ask her out. It’s all about timing. The situational situation, so to speak.“

That’s how we spent our evenings, comforting one another. Or, to put it more accurately, shamelessly lying to each other because the truth was a corrosive acid that would’ve burned our eyeballs out if we’d stared at it for too long.

A week passed before I finally worked up the nerve to call Sandra. Partly because I needed some of my clothes back, but mostly because I couldn’t avoid the conversation forever. The conversation was going to be unpleasant, but by that point it had become unavoidable.

Sandra didn’t answer.

Bruce Birdman did.

The surprise robbed me of speech for a moment. Bruce, meanwhile, seemed perfectly comfortable.

„Felix?“ he said. „If that’s you, she doesn’t want to see you.“

„What’s that supposed to mean?“

It took considerable effort not to smash the phone against Dan’s coffee table and imagine it was Birdman’s skull. Instantly, the image of Bruce rhythmically going at it with Sandra flashed through my head. My insides transformed into a hormone-powered steam boiler whose rivets were already groaning under the pressure.

„She doesn’t want to see me?“ I shouted. „You’re telling me that? You piece of shit. You’re in my apartment, screwing my girlfriend, and you actually have the nerve to—“

The line went dead.

Bruce had hung up.

Fortunately, I was still rational enough not to call back. The situation required a more strategic approach. For a brief moment I considered hiring a professional assassin, but I was a fundamentally peaceful person who wanted nothing more than to be loved.

When Dan got home that afternoon, still glowing from another lunch break with Lucia, I told him about my failed attempt to reach Sandra.

„Bruce just hung up on me,“ I said.

„What did you expect?“ Dan asked. „That he’d turn into a crisis hotline operator and give you advice on how to win Sandra back?“

I shook my head. No, that wasn’t what I’d expected. What I wanted was for Bruce Birdman to crawl back into whatever filthy hole he’d emerged from before he decided to dismantle the foundations of my life.

The Benino lawsuit had been a punch to the stomach. Given enough time, I would’ve recovered from that. But losing my job and then walking in on Sandra and Birdman in our bedroom on the very same day had been too much.

The bumper on my emotional vehicle wasn’t dented. It had been torn off completely. There was nothing left in reserve and no clear path back to whatever passed for normal.

„I just want everything to go back to the way it was,“ I said. The words came out thinner than I’d intended. Miserable, really. By the time I’d finished speaking, my eyes were already burning.

„I want Sandra to come back, apologize, and explain what the hell happened. I mean, I come home completely wrecked and find her in bed with Bruce Birdman. Do you have any idea what that did to me?“

Dan did.

Unfortunately, I’d spent the previous week explaining it to him in exhausting detail.

„Okay,“ he said. „You need to talk to Sandra. And if she won’t talk to you directly, I’ll talk to her.“

„No. I need to do it. I need to see her and find out why she treated me like this. A few days ago I thought we had a reasonably healthy relationship. It never even crossed my mind that she’d cheat on me. Especially not with someone like Bruce Birdman. It’s disgusting. It’s like finding out she slept with Kim Jong Un. Or Assad. Or both of them at the same time. I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to touch her again without shuddering. A threesome with Assad and Kim Jong Un is just deeply upsetting.“

Dan chose not to comment on that particular observation. Instead, he came up with a plan.

„Let me call her,“ he said. „I’ll explain things, and if she agrees to talk, she can come over here. She can bring some of your clothes and the two of you can talk on neutral ground.“

„You mean I can’t even go to my own house and talk to my own girlfriend? That’s insane.“

„The last time you tried, you ended up unconscious on the lawn outside your house. Maybe we try a different strategy first.“

When he wanted to, Dan could be surprisingly persuasive. Getting me into a room with Sandra mattered to him. Partly because he cared about me, and partly because he wanted me functioning again instead of wandering around his apartment radiating heartbreak and self-pity. He never said that, of course. But I knew. I was painfully aware of how exhausting I must have been, especially for Dan. Whenever the alcohol kicked in, or the weed Dan bought from his dealer managed to numb my synapses, I’d laugh. But it was the end-of-the-world laughter of a man who felt like he had nothing left to lose. So yes, it was in Dan’s best interest for me to talk to Sandra, clear the air, and figure out how to put my life back together.

To my surprise, Sandra agreed.

After work she would stop by Dan’s apartment, bring some of my T-shirts and underwear in a bag, and talk to me. According to Dan, there wasn’t much to explain. And I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

„She’ll be here around three,“ he said after getting off the phone with her. „I’ll still be at school. It’s lunch day with Lucia, so at least you’ll have some privacy. Whatever happens, I’ll be back around four. Just stay calm and don’t start a fight.“

I nodded and didn’t feel any better.

I’d get my conversation with Sandra, but she’d already taken away the one thing I’d been clinging to: the possibility that this might somehow turn out to be a terrible misunderstanding. A moment of weakness. A bizarre lapse in judgment.

„Look at it this way,“ Dan continued. „At least she’ll give you an explanation. People always feel better when they understand something. Right now you have no idea why she cheated on you. Give her a chance to explain.“

I wanted to tell him how perfect our relationship had been. How Sandra and I belonged together. How we complemented each other like Bonnie and Clyde, Romeo and Juliet, or Barack and Michelle Obama. We’d talked about marriage. We’d talked about starting a family. Everything had been good. More than good.

Then fate had stepped out of nowhere and hit me with a steel chair.

„Thanks for doing all this,“ I said.

I resisted the urge to romanticize the past any further. Dan’s patience had already suffered enough.

She arrived exactly on time.

Sandra was always on time. She’d inherited that from her father, whose parents had emigrated from Germany. He’d drilled into her the importance of discipline from an early age. That’s the thing about traditional virtues. They’re excellent for organizing things, building reliable cars, and, occasionally, running concentration camps. Less useful when it comes to helping people make the right decisions.

Sandra placed a bulging Walmart bag on the kitchen island and informed me, rather brusquely, that she’d rescued the clothes inside from the trash. They’d probably smell a little, she added, so I should wash them before wearing them. Sixty degrees, minimum.

„Want some coffee?“ I asked.

Dan had advised me not to react to provocations. No arguing, no accusations. Just ask for an explanation. Crying, begging, or crawling around on my knees had also made his list of things to avoid.

„No coffee. I’m leaving in a minute.“

I stood behind the kitchen island while she remained on the opposite side, arms folded across her chest. Her face looked sealed shut somehow, the lips thin and tight, as though every trace of warmth had been packed away and stored elsewhere.

„Can you explain what happened?“ I asked in the calm, measured tone of a social worker.

„What do you want me to explain? You saw most of it yourself. I’m with Bruce now, and that’s not going to change. If you hadn’t surprised us, which admittedly was a terrible way for you to find out, I would’ve told you soon.“

„Very considerate of you,“ I said.

The sarcasm bounced off her without effect.

„Unlike you, I actually tell people what’s going on. You’re more the type who leaves notes on the refrigerator. Gone to Dan’s. Gone to Will’s. Gone to football. Gone somewhere. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve waited for you over the past year and you never showed up?“

That had to be a trick question. As far as I knew, the answer was zero.

The notes part was true. If I went somewhere spontaneously, I’d leave a note or send a text message. Why wouldn’t I? Sandra wasn’t my mother. I didn’t need permission to spend an evening with Dan.

„I’m not sure what you’re getting at,“ I said.

„Of course you’re not. That’s exactly the problem. You don’t even understand what this is about. You’re never around. Either you’re working or you’re hanging out with Dan.“

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that work wouldn’t be much of an obstacle in the foreseeable future, but using unemployment as a relationship strategy felt a little desperate.

„Why do you even need a girlfriend?“ she asked.

I shrugged as though the answer were obvious. Wasn’t it?

I’d spent years maintaining Red-S, implementing cookies and security updates, but also reviewing endless hours of video footage featuring human beings engaged in one of their most fundamental activities. From where I stood, sexuality was one of the defining aspects of a person’s identity.

Love.

Companionship.

Soulmates.

I probably should have said something along those lines. Instead, what came to mind was sex.

„You don’t know,“ Sandra said on my behalf. „You don’t know because you don’t actually need a girlfriend. You’re perfectly happy smoking weed with Dan, talking nonsense, and getting drunk on weekends. You’re selfish, Felix. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit it.“

„That’s not true,“ I blurted out. „When I came home early last Tuesday, all I wanted was to be with you. I’d just lost my job, and thinking about you was the only thing making me feel better. Then I walk into the bedroom and you’re having sex with Bruce Birdman. Do you have any idea what that felt like? It hurt. It really, really hurt.“

I made a theatrical gesture indicating the approximate location from which she’d ripped my heart. The performance achieved very little. Sandra watched me without the slightest visible reaction.

„Of course it hurt, and I’m sorry for that,“ she said. „But it doesn’t change anything. I’ve been seeing Bruce for three months. If you really want to know, it started shortly after our fifth anniversary.“

„Our fifth…?“

„See? You don’t even remember now. In March we’d been together for five years. I cooked dinner, put on something nice, and planned to surprise you. I wasn’t expecting much. Maybe some flowers. Maybe a bottle of perfume. Or maybe just for you to come home. Instead, around six o’clock, you texted me that you were on your way to Baltimore with Dan for a concert.“

„Wooden Temple?“

That afternoon Dan had texted me asking if I wanted to drive to Baltimore and see the show. I only knew two songs by the band, both of which were about drug abuse and the fundamental meaninglessness of existence. They were fantastic. So I’d said yes.

The anniversary had genuinely slipped my mind.

Then again, I forgot birthdays all the time. Including my mother’s, and she’d at least gone through the trouble of giving birth to me and feeding me until adulthood. After that, fast-food restaurants and bowls of complimentary peanuts sitting on greasy bar counters had largely taken over responsibility for my nutritional well-being.

„I have no idea what kind of grunge crap you two went to see. What I do know is that you came home at three in the morning completely wasted and fell asleep next to me in your jeans and shirt. That was our anniversary. The next day Bruce came into the salon, like he does every three weeks, and I cut his hair.“

She shrugged as though the connection between cutting a man’s hair and sleeping with him was perfectly obvious and required no further explanation.

„Whatever,“ she said with a dismissive wave. „Bruce remembers anniversaries. He’s attentive. He’s capable of committing to someone because he’s an adult and not a giant child.“

„Bruce?“ I asked, and it’s possible my smile became a little exaggerated at that moment.

If there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that Bruce was an idiot.

People don’t change. Little idiots who spend high school bullying their classmates grow up to become bigger idiots who sleep with other people’s girlfriends.

„You’re talking about the same Bruce who used to spend all his time showing off, picking on people, and covering his answers during tests so nobody could copy them?“

„I’m talking about Bruce Birdman, an adult man who actually cares about a relationship. Bruce, who takes me out to dinner at least once a week, brings me flowers, and gives me compliments. Bruce, who grew up instead of getting stuck in adolescence.“

She paused.

„That’s all there is to say. I don’t want to see you for the next few weeks. Let’s give each other some space. After that, we’ll deal with whatever still needs dealing with and stay friends.“

With that, she turned and walked toward the door while I remained standing by the sink, completely numb.

The door swung open.

Sandra stepped through without looking back once and pulled it shut behind her. Her footsteps gradually faded until there was nothing left but silence.

The entire conversation had lasted less than ten minutes.

Dan showed up about an hour later. He looked pale, as though he were coming down with something or had narrowly avoided a serious accident on the drive home. I wanted to tell him about my conversation with Sandra. Or, more accurately, I wanted to unload my misery onto him. The expression on his face, however, gave me pause.

Dan tossed his narrow leather bag onto the couch, where the Walmart sack containing my trash-marinated wardrobe was already waiting, and headed straight for the refrigerator.

„Everything okay?“ I asked carefully.

He took a long drink from a beer, set the bottle down, and looked at me with watery eyes.

„Lucia,“ he said.

Then he took another drink.

Honestly, that was enough information.

A woman’s name spoken in a wounded tone, watery eyes, an urgent need to drown something in alcohol. The signs were unmistakable. Dan was heartbroken. The only thing I didn’t know was why.

„She found someone else,“ he said. „She told me today. Just like that. Like she was talking about the weather or a difficult student. Completely casual.“

I let out a sympathetic groan. That was about all I could manage.

The Lucia situation had been doomed from the start. A classic Dan story. Whenever Dan chose a woman to obsess over, she inevitably turned out to be someone who would remain forever beyond his reach. I knew his habits. I knew how consistently he managed to fall in love with exactly the wrong women.

The worst part was that Dan never created distance afterward. He did the opposite. The more a woman rejected him, the more determined he became to stay in contact. He’d call. Meet for coffee. Listen to her problems. Become the dependable friend.

Self-inflicted suffering was one of Dan’s specialties. Unfortunately, a Dan preoccupied with his own heartbreak wasn’t particularly useful to me at the moment. What I needed was Nurse Dan. Caregiver Dan. The version of Dan whose primary concern was my emotional well-being rather than a Costa Rican goddess who was currently sleeping with somebody else.

So I began telling him about Sandra’s visit in an effort to redirect the conversation toward what I considered the more pressing crisis.

After all, Sandra and I had been together for five years. By my calculations, that made my problems considerably more important than Dan’s.

He listened, occasionally shaking his head to signal sympathy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that his thoughts remained fixed on whatever Lucia had told him earlier that day. Sometimes he’d stare at his beer for several seconds as though counting the carbonation bubbles. Other times he’d nod in entirely the wrong places or mumble vague sounds of agreement.

It took me nearly an hour to explain a conversation that had lasted less than ten minutes.

Among other things, I informed him that I was seriously considering running Bruce Birdman over with my truck. Once going forward, once in reverse, and possibly a few additional times depending on how the situation developed. I also pointed out that Sandra had no business accusing me of being immature and that it was deeply unfair to criticize me for occasionally spending time with him.

When my anti-Sandra manifesto finally began running out of steam, Dan abruptly stood up, thrust out his chin, and raised his beer as though preparing to deliver a toast.

What was that supposed to mean?

I was an unemployed emotional wreck desperately in need of comfort. I didn’t require an inspirational speech. I required moral support and someone willing to listen while I talked about my broken feelings without thinking too hard about them.

„I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,“ Dan announced. „We’re leaving all of this behind. And to do that, we need to get out of Washington. You and me. New horizons. New frontiers. A voyage into the unknown…“

„…civilizations no man has seen before,“ I finished.

„Exactly. Emotional distance can only be achieved through physical distance.“

„You want to go on vacation?“

„We’re going on vacation. The mother of all vacations. Next week, when school breaks for summer, we’re getting on a plane…“

He paused dramatically.

„…and flying to Mexico. Cancún. Little cocktails with little umbrellas. Beautiful sun-tanned señoritas. Sun. Ocean. Beach. That’s what you need right now.“

The way he stood there looking at me, there was something almost hypnotic about it. Instantly, images began forming in my mind. Dan and I sitting in deck chairs with umbrella drinks in our hands. Every humiliation and disappointment forgotten at last. The two of us finally at peace while the sun dissolved into the ocean in a reckless, impressionistic explosion of reds and golds.

„Mexico, here we come,“ I said.

A grin spread across my face so quickly it felt like I was falling from a great height at terminal velocity.

Chapter Three

In theory, Dan’s suggestion that we travel to Mexico and get our minds off our problems was a good one. Even now, I maintain that there’s nothing better for lifting your spirits than a change of scenery and a few new experiences. A trip like that has to be chosen carefully, though, if it’s going to serve its intended purpose. It probably isn’t advisable for a drug addict to travel to California to stock up on narcotics, nor should a gambling addict head to Las Vegas to discuss his problems at a blackjack table.

There was nothing inherently wrong with Mexico. The trouble was that I had no real idea what I was getting myself into. Apart from a few family camping trips to Canada, I’d never been outside the country. Everything I knew about Mexico came from movies in which ruthless drug dealers with impressive mustaches were shot into small bloody pieces by upright American law-enforcement officers carrying oversized firearms.

On top of that, as I only discovered while boarding the plane, I suffered from a fairly serious fear of flying. It manifested itself in trembling hands and the persistent sensation that my stomach was attempting to escape from the rest of my body. Dan, fortunately, had a remedy. Once we reached cruising altitude and everything around us vibrated as though the Boeing had been assembled over a long weekend by an enthusiastic hobbyist, he ordered two beers. When the flight attendant finished her round, he immediately ordered two more so we wouldn’t risk running dry during turbulence. I drank quickly, gripped the armrest with one hand and my beer with the other, and tried to find something positive in my terror. The fact that I was so deeply afraid of crashing suggested that life, with or without Sandra, still meant quite a lot to me.

By the time we reached Cancún, I was bordering on euphoria, and only part of that feeling could be blamed on the whiskey bourbon we’d switched to somewhere over the coast of North Carolina. Mostly, I was thrilled because I’d survived my first flight. Suddenly the entire world seemed open to me in a way it never had before. Thanks to the miracles of modern transportation, I could travel to virtually any point on the planet, provided I had enough money. There wasn’t even a relationship standing in the way anymore. I was free, as free as a man can be, and the feeling tasted bittersweet, like a cocktail that would leave you with a terrible hangover the following morning but, for the moment, sent pleasant waves of happiness rolling through your mind.

We staggered out of the terminal and were immediately hit by a wall of heat. The sun hung directly overhead, bombarding us until our T-shirts clung to our bodies like wet rags. Under normal circumstances I perspire with admirable restraint, but under these conditions I was sweating like an Ironman competitor approaching the finish line in Hawaii.

Dan led the way, pushing through the crowds with the kind of determination normally associated with military campaigns. Most people stepped aside voluntarily and with remarkable speed. Dan looked as though he’d taken a shower immediately after landing without bothering to change clothes afterward. Eventually we reached a man holding a small sign that read DREAM SANDS CANCÚN. That was our hotel. Better still, the hotel provided a complimentary shuttle service that would transport us directly into the paradise of all-inclusive vacation heaven. I was grateful that Dan handled the communication while I concentrated on producing ever greater quantities of sweat and fanning myself with my baseball cap, even though the air consisted mostly of exhaust fumes and leftover oxygen and offered no meaningful cooling effect whatsoever.

We were directed onward: past the taxis, across the street, through the estacionamiento, and toward a white shuttle bus with DREAM SANDS painted on the side.

Welcome to Mexico.

The whole thing felt a little like being herded from one pen to another. Marching alongside us was a family of five: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and three overweight children whose fashion sense leaned heavily toward neon colors and oversized T-shirts covered in logos.

„Way too hot here,“ the father complained. „We should’ve stayed in Nebraska. It’s a pleasant seventy-three degrees back home and cloudy.“

„Phil, I didn’t fly across an entire continent to listen to you complain,“ his wife replied.

I sincerely hoped this family was headed somewhere else, but wishes tend to work the same way as prayers along the lines of Dear God, please let me win the lottery. They go unanswered because God is busy devising some fresh and disappointing surprise for an unsuspecting sinner like me.

A few minutes later, Dan and I found ourselves sitting in a battered shuttle bus alongside the Nebraska clan and a dozen other tourists, most of them retirees. The air-conditioning blasted freezing air into the cabin. It felt as though we’d been teleported directly from the Sahara to Greenland.

The family had settled into the seats in front of us, and two of the children, both boys, kept peering suspiciously at us through the gap between the headrests, as though they suspected Dan and I might suddenly sprout fangs and drain them of their bodily fluids.

Our driver was either in a tremendous hurry or actively suicidal. Possibly both. Without bothering to signal, he darted from lane to lane along a wide expressway, weaving between gleaming cars, most of them Japanese or German, naturally, as he hurtled toward our destination.

Outside the window stretched a landscape of concrete interrupted only occasionally by patches of greenery and the odd palm tree. I’d imagined something different. Instead, much of it looked like a neighborhood in Miami. Palm trees, cars, concrete, and more concrete. For modern humanity, concrete occupies roughly the same position that vast untamed forests once occupied for our Neolithic ancestors.

Even though my first impression wasn’t overwhelmingly positive, and despite the fact that our bald chauffeur appeared to be participating in an illegal motor race without informing the other contestants, I was happy to be here. Happy to be in Mexico with my best friend, who cared enough about me to drag me halfway across the continent in an effort to help me get my footing back.

Dan, however, sat by the window looking strangely withdrawn. He stared out at the passing cityscape as though he were somewhere else entirely. I assumed Lucia was still on his mind. During the previous few days I’d tried more than once to find out whether he was still mourning the collapse of his latest romantic fantasy, but without success. Every time I brought her up, Dan would shrug, shake himself like a wet dog, and change the subject.

Clearly he didn’t want to talk about his feelings, and I respected that completely. It gave me more opportunities to talk about mine.

People are different that way.

I tended to broadcast my emotional suffering to anyone who failed to escape quickly enough, including the cashier at the grocery store around the corner. Dan preferred silence. He grumbled, stared at his phone, and behaved as though somewhere inside it existed an app capable of distilling negative emotions into something more manageable.

At least, as far as I knew, the situation with Lucia hadn’t gotten any worse. During the previous few days, Dan had only left the house in my company, with the exception of occasional trips to Will’s Tavern, and every outing had served the same purpose: distracting me. He hadn’t called Lucia, written her emails, or done anything else that might have involved confessing his feelings. I assumed he would eventually relax and, no later than our first visit to the pool bar, realize that our vacation had officially begun.

That, of course, was another wish. And by now you know how often wishes come true.

The closer we got to the hotel, the more tense Dan became. At the same time, the scenery improved dramatically. Sad concrete buildings and questionable roadside establishments gave way to elegant hotels, swimming pools, palm trees, and stylish bars where deeply tanned people in minimal clothing were already enjoying the first, or perhaps second, drink of the day.

Against all expectations, we reached the Dream Sands without dying in a fiery traffic accident. In a spontaneous act of collective relief, the passengers applauded, whereupon the driver rose from his seat and delivered a bow that Frank Sinatra himself couldn’t have improved upon.

The mood was excellent. Almost festive. As for me, I had only one objective: take a quick shower, put on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of shorts, then spend the remainder of the day parked at the pool bar. Dan and I had specifically researched the existence of said pool bar before booking the trip. We intended to spend a significant portion of our vacation sitting on stools in front of it, sipping cocktails and conducting our own private Miss Bikini competition, if you catch my drift.

Dan took longer than I did to get changed, so I headed to the pool bar without him. When he finally appeared a little later, shuffling along the edge of the oversized pool dressed in a plaid shirt that made him look either like a Canadian lumberjack or a hillbilly serial killer, I began to worry.

Shaking my head, I took a sip of my Flying Kangaroo and motioned to the bartender, whose pink shirt displayed a name tag identifying him as Roberto, to prepare another one for my friend.

„Strong,“ I instructed.

Roberto acknowledged the order with an accommodating smile.

„What’s wrong with you?“ I asked when Dan reached the bar. „You’re not relaxing at all. This place is fantastic.“

As discreetly as possible, I nodded toward two bikini-clad women a few yards away who appeared to be engaged in a serious and highly disciplined worship of the sun.

„Everything’s fine. Hotel’s nice. Room’s nice.“

Dan delivered the report in the clipped style of a man being charged by the word. Then he fell silent again and looked back toward the hotel.

„Something bothering you?“

„No. Just tired from the trip.“

Roberto set the cocktail on the counter, and I immediately handed it to Dan.

He accepted the drink, clinked glasses with me, took a tiny sip, and set it back down. Then he pulled out his phone and stared at it, just as he’d done countless times over the previous week.

„Waiting for a call?“ I asked jokingly.

At least it was supposed to be a joke.

Dan and I were on vacation. We’d gone into exile, given the world the finger, at least temporarily, and retreated here to lick our wounds. Calls from outsiders were not welcome unless, perhaps, Dan’s mother phoned to inform him that his father had suffered a stroke.

„No call. I just have to…“

Dan started typing a text message.

„What’s so important?“ I asked. I wasn’t trying to sound bitchy. After all, I wasn’t Dan’s girlfriend. I was his friend.

Vaguely, and with surprising speed as my memories of Sandra continued fading beyond the horizon of my consciousness, I remembered her complaining during our trip to Florida because I’d checked my phone a few times and spent an afternoon on my laptop implementing and testing a new component for the Red-S website. Sandra had never understood that I didn’t work in a hair salon like she did and that my job didn’t simply cease to exist the moment I walked out of the office.

Dan, on the other hand, was a teacher, and not even a particularly dedicated one. I couldn’t imagine him needing to send urgent messages to colleagues or maintain the school’s website while on vacation.

„I promised a friend I’d let her know when we got here,“ he said.

He looked at me. His cheeks sagged slightly, and his expression resembled an apology that hadn’t quite found the courage to become words.

„Who’d you promise? Lucia?“

He nodded.

„Why?“ I asked. „I thought we came here to leave all that crap behind. Distance, remember? Isn’t that exactly what you told me? We were supposed to get our minds on other things. Other things means nothing to do with Sandra, nothing to do with Birdman, and definitely nothing to do with your Costa Rican connection. Lucia’s history for now. Sitting here at the pool bar texting her is like walking over to the pool and peeing in it.“

„I wouldn’t put it quite that way.“

„I would,“ I replied, waving an accusatory finger through the air like a conductor leading an overture.

Roberto had already begun glancing in our direction. Our conversation had become considerably more heated than the standard poolside exchange. I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs-up to indicate that nobody was about to be murdered.

„Felix, I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you’d be upset. Don’t you get that? I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain it to you this whole time.“

Suddenly the barstool felt a lot harder than it had a moment ago. I narrowed my eyes, exhaled slowly, and shook my head.

Dan’s expression worried me.

We were in paradise. Pool included. Bikinis included. Ice-cold cocktails included. Bad news and unpleasant confessions were the least appropriate things imaginable. Yet there was no mistaking what Dan’s words implied, even if I still didn’t understand why he felt obligated to Lucia in the first place.

„Explain what?“ I asked with all the enthusiasm of a corpse floating face-down in a river.

From speakers mounted above the shelves, syrupy Latin pop spilled across the pool area. Heartbreak music. The sort of mournful wailing that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and left my ears feeling numb. Until a minute ago I hadn’t minded it. Now it felt different.

My nerves were shot.

I wrapped my lips around the straw and drew on the Flying Kangaroo as though I’d spent a week crossing the desert without a single drop of water. Coconut syrup, rum, vodka, and pineapple flooded my mouth. The sweetness settled onto my fillings and sent a sharp ache crawling through my jaw.

„I have… well, I’m… I don’t know…“

Dan got no further.

A dark-haired woman suddenly appeared beside our barstools as though she’d fallen from the sky or materialized directly out of the humid air.

„Hi, Dan. This is fantastic. I can’t believe we ran into each other here.“

Lucia.

It was Lucia.

Lucia, who promptly wrapped Dan in a hug.

I was too stunned to fully process what was happening. The feeling reminded me uncomfortably of the moment I’d walked in on Sandra and Bruce in my bedroom. Images began inserting themselves between me and reality, and my mind struggled to interpret them, like a computer freezing because the source code contained contradictory commands.

Or something like that.

Escape Lucia.

Lucia is here.

Dan annoyed by Lucia.

Dan grinning while hugging Lucia.

How was anybody supposed to keep up?

„This is Felix,“ Dan said, gesturing toward me. „You met during the charity football game last summer, remember?“

„That’s right,“ Lucia said, and her smile was at least as sweet as the cocktail in my hand.

I could absolutely understand why Dan had fallen in love with her.

That didn’t excuse her presence.

„You’re the guy with the hot dog sauce on his shirt and beer stains on his pants.“

I winced.

Those were unfortunate details, and memories I only vaguely recalled. Dan had taken me along because he wanted to show me his school and introduce me to some of his colleagues, especially Lucia, who had just joined the faculty. I’d consumed slightly more beer than was medically advisable, managed to spill hot dog toppings all over myself, and then, while attempting to clean up the damage, poured beer directly into my lap.

Even now, more than a year later, the memory was capable of producing a mild blush.

„Yeah,“ I admitted. „That was me.“

We shook hands with all the warmth and spontaneity of two diplomats meeting before trade negotiations.

„So how exactly is it that you’re staying at the same hotel we are?“ I asked, shooting Dan a sideways glance that communicated my disapproval with reasonable clarity.

„Didn’t Dan tell you?“

„No,“ I said, turning toward him. „Dan did not tell me. What exactly didn’t you tell me?“

„Well…“ Dan stammered. „Lucia kept talking about Cancún and this hotel, and I thought it might be nice to come here for a few days and maybe spend some time together.“

„I thought it was a great idea,“ Lucia added. „There’s nothing worse than going on vacation and not meeting any nice people. Spending all your time alone as a couple gets boring.“

I slowly nodded my head like a lizard sunning itself on a warm rock.

„Besides, Steven’s here with me, my new boyfriend. And if things don’t work out, Dan is here to rescue me. You promised, remember?“

She gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and unveiled that sugar-cookie smile again, complete with two rows of perfect teeth.

Dan laughed awkwardly, halfway between a cough and a choke. He looked completely overwhelmed, caught somewhere between the hormonal shockwave generated by Lucia touching him and the increasingly hostile looks I was directing in his direction.

„That’s your vacation plan?“ I asked, and the disbelief in my voice wasn’t exactly subtle.

Lucia waved the idea away.

„I’m kidding. Steven’s great. Dan can relax. No rescue operation will be necessary. Speaking of which, there he is. You haven’t met him yet, have you, Dan?“

She pointed toward the pool.

At that exact moment, a man emerged from the water beside whom Michael Phelps would have looked like a recreational swimmer.

Dan’s facial features appeared to liquefy.

The Adonis ran a hand through his black hair and started walking toward us. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, like a commercial for some aggressively masculine new fragrance.

„Steven!“ Lucia called, a little louder than necessary. „This is my colleague.“

„He’s so cute,“ she whispered to Dan.

Then Steven arrived.

His eyes were two dark marbles. His eyelids slightly lowered. A confident smile resting on his lips.

Young Robert De Niro, I thought.

Remove the head, attach it to an upgraded version of Michael Phelps, and voilà.

„Hey, guys,“ Steven said. „Everybody doing good?“

„Couldn’t be better,“ I replied, offering him my finest hyena smile.