More Like Her by Liza Palmer Page A

at about two hundred and twenty degrees,” Sam says gently.
    Quiet.
    Sam continues. “I’m from Tennessee, we take our barbecue very seriously.”
    “I thought you were from Alabama,” Jeremy says. Sam ignores him. Jill approaches our group with the fresh guacamole in one hand and a bowl of corn chips in the other. So, if I’m following where Sam is going with this, those chips will be our dinner this evening.
    “Who’s from Alabama?” Jill asks. We all ignore her.
    “That meat needs to smoke for at least eight hours. It’d be best if it went to twelve, truth be told.” Sam crosses his arms across his chest and waits. He gives me a look. Like a little shared glance of “I had to tell him, right?” I secretly think this means he loves me. Martin is quiet. Stunned. Again with the stunned.
    “Wait, what?” Jill asks, her voice cracking.
    “I’m sorry, Martin. I really am, but serving that meat before that is just downright unsafe, not to mention . . . it would taste terrible,” Sam says, and clears his throat.
    “Serving what meat? Is this conversation hypothetical? Please tell me this conversation is hypothetical!” Jill blurts, slamming the guacamole and chips down on the large buffet table. Over the din of the crowd plus the music only a few select guests hear Jill’s little outburst. She doesn’t seem to care. Lisa and Grady approach.
    “Is everything okay?” Lisa asks, a bottle of beer perched in her front jeans pocket and Grady’s arm laced around her waist. From the look of it, things are apparently cruising along with Lisa and Grady. Cruising along with no questions about either of their intentions. They’re together now. This is what that looks like. I sneak a quick glance at Sam.
    “He’s only smoked the meat for three or four hours,” Sam says to Grady.
    “What now?!” Grady asks, horrified.
    “I know,” Sam says. Martin is growing more and more fidgety. He’s doing the math. It’s seven P.M. That Boston butt will be ready for consumption right around three A.M.
    “It needs to go to twelve hours, son,” Grady drawls.
    “I told him maybe eight,” Sam says.
    “Eight?” Grady winces. Sam shoots him a very pointed look.
    “Martin, what are we going to do?” Jill asks, motioning to the crowd of guests.
    “Pizza Joe’s is open,” I say.
    “Pizza Joe’s?” Jill says.
    “It’s right on Lake Avenue. I’ll go pick it up. People won’t care,” I say, choosing not to tell her that this is most assuredly her karmic punishment for inviting Jeremy Hannon to tonight’s doomed festivities.
    “People won’t care? That’s our best-case scenario?” Jill is distraught.
    “People just want to hang out. It’ll be a funny story. We’ll do the smoker thing another time,” I say, looking from Jill to Martin, hoping I’m not overstepping my bounds.
    “Go for it,” Lisa says, swigging her beer.
    “I can’t believe I did that. I bought this great rub and everything,” Martin says, shaking his head.
    “ Bought a rub?!” Sam and Grady say in unison.
    “Yeah,” Martin says.
    Sam and Grady share a look of deep, deep concern.
    “Let’s definitely do the pizza, chief,” Grady says, patting Martin on the back.
    “And maybe Grady and I will take over next time?” Sam asks, shaking his head. Martin looks panic-stricken.
    Jill huffs into the kitchen in search of the phone. Lisa and I follow, leaving the men to discuss the wonders of barbecue.
    “You know my theory,” I say as Jill pulls out a phone book from under the kitchen sink. She takes a long pull from her bottle of sparkling water as she violently flips through the pages.
    “Don’t you even say it,” Jill says.
    “That if you invite douchebags like Jeremy Hannon to parties where they don’t belong your entire meal will be ruined,” I say, smiling at Lisa, who barks out a laugh.
    “That’s who that dude is? He’s the texting guy?” Lisa asks.
    “In the flesh,” I say.
    “Cute,” Lisa says, checking Jeremy