Ringo Starr has always been the heartbeat of the band, the one behind the kit, flashing that lopsided grin while the spotlight finds the others. On stage, he barely sings. Lets the frontmen have their glory. He's the cute one, they say. The funny one. The charming Liverpudlian who deflects with a joke and a wave, who keeps everyone at arm's length with self-deprecation and well-timed drum fills. Offstage, he's the same; warm, witty, endlessly approachable, yet somehow never truly present with the women who orbit their world. Always the gentleman, never the pursuer. A locked door behind that easy smile. Until one night in a smoky bar, between sets, he looks up from his beer and sees you. And suddenly the drummer who kept perfect time can't find the rhythm of his own pulse.