More Like Her by Liza Palmer

stunned.
    “Nice to meet you,” Jeremy says, extending his hand.
    “We’ve actually met,” I say through gritted teeth.
    “Oh, yeah?” Jeremy asks.
    Oh. My. God.
    I continue. “Yes, at Martin and Jill’s Labor Day barbecue?” I hear Jill scuttle around the kitchen. A kitchen replete with knives with which I will gut Jill and smoke her in Martin’s ridiculous new contraption. I can hear Lisa and Grady arriving in the other room. Loud, boisterous greetings.
    “Oh, sure—you were playing that great music.” Jeremy nods. As Jeremy and Martin reacquaint themselves with the Labor Day barbecue, introducing the two of us again , I sneak a quick glance at Sam as That Little One approaches him. She asks if someone is sitting next to him on the couch. No, he says. She squeezes her body in next to him, thanking god, she exclaims, that she’s so tiny, otherwise there clearly wouldn’t have been enough space. Yes, Alex Trebek: I’ll have Things I’d Never Say for $500. I look away. I can’t watch.
    I refocus back on Martin and Jeremy as their relaxed Southern California drawls erode into just saying, “Dude,” over and over again. Jeremy could be the poster child for Southern California. Sun-streaked blond hair, tanned skin, blinding white teeth and ice-blue eyes always at half-mast. His easy, gravelly speech and the deep, pensive nods he affects as he follows various conversations seem to connote a depth of character. The fact is, he’s probably thinking about some Grateful Dead lyric right now. Of course, he has that apathetic detachment thing down pat. Maybe it’s more the marijuana than genuine apathy.
    “What was that . . . that one great band . . . with the song?” Jeremy searches his memory banks. This won’t take long.
    “Lynyrd Skynyrd,” I say.
    “ Dude ,” Jeremy says, nodding and smiling.
    “Indeed,” I say.
    “Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Jeremy repeats.
    “Which song?” Sam asks, inserting himself into our little circle of awkwardness.
    “What?” I ask. Stunned . Who would’ve thought stunned would be a word I’d use so much tonight? I thought I was just being invited to dinner.
    “Which Lynyrd Skynyrd song were you playing?” Sam says.
    “I believe it was ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ ” I confess.
    “Oh,” Sam says, clearly disappointed.
    “I’m more of a fan of ‘Simple Man’ myself,” I add truthfully.
    “Me too.” Sam smiles and nods. Crinkly-eyed, face-changing smile.
    Jill is watching intently as she puts together her famous guacamole. She leaves the pit in. It’s the custom and keeps the guacamole from turning a less desirable brown, as she has informed me.
    “Gotta love that ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ though, right? Jeremy Hannon, man,” Jeremy says, extending his hand to Sam.
    “Sam Earley.”
    “You from there? Alabama? The accent,” Jeremy asks, clarifying why he’s asked the question as if we hadn’t already put it together.
    “No, sir,” Sam answers.
    “Oh, ha! I get it,” Jeremy says.
    We all act like we understand what Jeremy is talking about.
    “I’d better get back out to the smoker,” Martin says, swigging the last of his beer.
    “How long you been at it, man?” Jeremy asks, pulling two new ice-cold beers from a red bucket and handing Martin one.
    “For like . . . I don’t know . . . three or four hours now,” Martin says, exhausted.
    “You’ve only been smoking for three or four hours?” Sam asks, clearly concerned.
    “Yeah, why?” Martin asks, taking a swig of his beer. Jeremy is now checking out the group of women that originally included That Little One.
    Martin asks again, “Why?” Sam clears his throat and looks around at the house filled to the brim with guests waiting for some smoked Boston butt.
    “I hate to tell you this . . .” Sam trails off.
    “Dude, spit it out!” Martin says.
    “Have you ever heard the saying ‘low and slow’?”
    “Sure,” Martin answers, getting more and more anxious.
    “Okay. Good. Well, a smoker runs