More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  “We cool?” I ask, apparently channeling Ice-T.

  “I will be once you get out of my private bathroom,” Jamie says, moving just enough so I can ease by him but not enough so that it’s not . . . well, weird.

  “Then let’s make that happen as soon as possible,” I say, taking another step out of the bathroom.

  “I won’t tell Emma about this,” Jamie says as I finally pass him.

  “I don’t care if you do; it would actually help if you did,” I say, apparently now believing my own lies and need for a tampon.

  “I won’t,” Jamie says, not looking at me.

  “You can if you want to,” I say, turning around and facing him.

  Jamie is quiet.

  I’ve always been tall. I’ve never been particularly fond of being tall until right this very moment. I don’t know what comes over me in these seconds, but I hold my ground. I stare Jamie down. Tilt my head just a bit and swear that if he does or says anything, I don’t know how or why, but I’m pretty sure the next words out of my mouth will be, “You want a piece of this?” I turn around to walk out of the ever-shrinking bathroom.

  Jamie is quiet.

  I continue as I stride. “Next time you want privacy, maybe don’t throw a party.” Out of the corner of my eye I see it in the mirror: Jamie reaching up as if to grab my hair. The swipe of his hand is as chilling as hot breath on my neck. I can feel him—slowed down and threatening—in the deepest, most basic part of me. I’m in danger. In that same way you know to pick up your pace in a darkened parking lot or keep walking past a particularly ominous alleyway. Jamie is that darkened alley. I turn quick. My eyes dart from his still swiping hand to his crazed sunken dark eyes.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, my voice low and powerful.

  “Closing the door behind you,” Jamie says, his hand falling clumsily on the door handle.

  “I won’t tell Emma about this,” I say, staring right at him. He says nothing, but his entire body is seething. And I walk out of that bathroom. Quickly. I need to get out of here. I walk. And keep walking. Out of the master bedroom, down the hallway and down the stairs quickly. My heart is racing. Jamie is right behind me. I see Jill see me . . . then Jamie. Her face is cartoonish as she sees both of us. I try to act like I didn’t just get caught going through the Dunhams’ personal belongings. I try to act like the person who caught me—and then threatened me—isn’t behind me right now. What exactly just happened?

  I finally reach the first floor and go over to stand next to Jill. Quiet. I can feel her entire body buzzing just beside me. As I speak, Jill tries to stop me at every pause, trying to jump in as I relay my crimes and misdemeanors.

  “I was caught, Jill. After All-Balls Ferrell jacked me on the staircase, I then got caught rifling through the personal belongings of Ichabod Crane and his comely wife. I need you to really take this in, Jill. I need you to really take this in,” I say, taking a genteel sip of a water I grab from a passing waiter’s tray.

  “All-Balls Ferrell.” Jill crumbles into a fit of hysterics.

  I smile. And then laugh. And laugh. All of the adrenaline from my run-in with Jamie bubbles up into uncontrollable laughter. I spot Jamie as he walks into the kitchen with Emma. Great. Now the job is really Jill’s. He’s probably retelling the story now. As I scan the room, I see Ryan. He’s swaying and slurring his way through what looks to be quite the involved story. As usual, his audience is riveted. I don’t have the time or energy to go into what that was about on the staircase. Actually, it doesn’t take time or energy. Despite my inability to see him clearly, Ryan has always been transparent. He wants me to do the heavy lifting of a friend, but without all the muss and responsibility of a real relationship. I believe this is what one would call having one’s cake and eating Jessica, too.

  “Why is Emma married to that guy?” I ask as Jill and I catch our breath.

  “Money?” Jill suggests quickly.

  “I think she genuinely loves him, but he gives me the creeps,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I think he took a swipe at me. Up in the bathroom. You know, after he caught me going through their stuff?” I hear myself say it. After he caught me going through their stuff.

  I continue as Jill opens her mouth. “I know. I just heard it. Totally.” Jill nods in agreement as she tries to control her laughter.

  “Ladies.” Pamela, the lower master and school psychologist. Perfect. I take a deep breath and try to collect myself. Jill’s sniggering takes on a life of its own. The partially suppressed bursts of laughter. The convulsing shoulders.

  “Pamela, so good to see you,” I say, shaking her hand.

  “Pamela,” Jill squeaks out, motioning to the bartender that yes, she’d like a glass of wine. Stat.

  “Pretty amazing house, right?” Pamela says, gazing up high into the rafters.

  “Yes, definitely,” Jill and I say. I look into the sleek kitchen, complete with Carrara marble countertops and an oversized island in the middle. The entire back of the house is French doors leading out to the backyard that is lit with Japanese lanterns and colored lights floating in the dark blue pool.

  “You met the crypt keeper, I see,” Pamela whispers.

  “What?” I am taken aback. Is the school psychologist talking shit right now?

  “Emma’s husband, Jamie? Gives me the creeps,” she says, taking another sip of wine.

  “Yeah, what’s up with that?” Jill asks.

  “Definitely an intense guy. I mean, I get it, my husband wouldn’t be all that thrilled if I invited half the school over for dinner,” Pamela says, tugging a tall gentleman in a tweed coat in close. “Frances Reid, Jill Fleming, this is my husband, Paul.” We shake hands with Paul. He seems delightful. Wide smile, beautiful cocoa skin and salt-and-pepper hair. I’m tempted to check his blazer for elbow patches.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I say as we finish shaking hands. He pulls Pamela close and they melt into each other.

  “I didn’t know this mixer was for significant others,” Jill says.

  “Oh, sure. It’s the only thing that makes it bearable,” Pamela says, looking up at Paul. A slight gasp from Jill as she succumbs again to All-Balls Ferrell. Pamela pats her back, thinking she’s choking on her wine. Jill smiles. Embarrassed.

  “For you. It’s the only thing that makes it bearable for you, dear,” Paul says, giving me a quick wink. I didn’t know Pamela was married. And I certainly didn’t know that Pamela was married to the nicest guy in the world and that they were ridiculously cute and so clearly still in love.

  “Pamela, Paul, will you please excuse us?” I say, tugging a still gasping Jill aside.

  “Oh, sure. Poor thing. Went down the wrong pipe. Maybe you can use it as an excuse to leave early,” Pamela says, curling into her husband. I feel as though I’ve misjudged everyone. Pamela Jackson couldn’t be lovelier. Emma Dunham wanted to be a painter and loves her immortal dog beyond the telling of it. Ryan is clearly not the man I thought he was. Jamie, not for nothing, is just as vile as I remember and thought, so that’s at least one in my column.

  As Jill and I say our good-byes, I come back to the idea of really noticing people. Maybe I spend so much time and energy hiding behind walls I never realized that people will stop looking after a while.

  Is it too late to change my mind?

  Chapter 7

  Prelude to a Restraining Order

  Don’t be mad,” Jill says, opening her front door for our big Boston butt smoke-a-thon.

  “Are you going to slam the door in my face?” I ask, holding a bag of peanut M&M’s and a bottle of wine.

  “No,” Jill says, laughing.

  “Then why would I be mad?” I ask, stepping inside her house.

  “No reason,” Jill says, closing the door behind me. I walk inside Jill and Martin’s house, shaking my bag of peanut M&M’s like a tambourine.

  “Now, who wants some Boston buuuuuuutt?!” I announce, doing what can only be d
escribed as a shoulder-twitching come-hither dance worthy of a 1980s music video. Like I’m lamenting that love is a battlefield.

  Sam.

  “You remember Sam Earley?” Jill asks. He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans and approaches me.

  “Nice to see you again,” I say, clearing my throat and shaking his hand.

  “Ms. Reid,” Sam says. He’s as inconveniently remarkable as ever.

  “Please. It’s Frannie,” I say.

  “Frannie, then,” Sam says.

  “Honey, can you help me in the kitchen for a quick sec?” Jill asks, motioning for me to follow her.

  “Good seeing you again,” I say to him as I follow Jill into the kitchen. Sam smiles and sits back down on Jill and Martin’s large sectional with a group of Martin’s colleagues.

  “Where’s Martin?” I ask.

  “Out by that damn smoker.” We make our way through the smattering of guests who have already arrived. Jill quickly introduces me to a few neighbors (all married), an old friend from college (he’s gay) and a trio of women Jill knows from various other places (they’re desperate and looking).

  “That little one has been eyeing Sam,” Jill says, just out of earshot. I crane my neck to take in “that little one.” Brown, stringy hair and a long flowing skirt that hangs low enough so we can all count ourselves lucky to see her bronzed abs. She’s, of course, wearing a flimsy vintage Foreigner concert tee. If I tried to re-create this outfit, I’d be picked up for a seventy-two-hour hold. On her it looks accidentally sexy. It’s not that I don’t think I’m beautiful. Maybe it’s that I don’t think I’m pretty. Beautiful implies there’s more going on than looks or that your looks are deeper than the features themselves. Girls like That Little One are pretty. Simple, undeniable; walk into an online date and that first hurdle is always cleared. Me? Not so much.

  Following That Little One’s gaze—sure enough, there’s Sam. He’s lounging back on the sectional, one leg extended fully, perfectly comfortable taking up as much space as he needs. Gray crewneck sweater over a plaid collared shirt, worn-in jeans and dress shoes. His white-blond hair is mussed just that much in the front to make me think he actually took some time on it. He’s got more stubble than he did previously.

  None of this is helping me push away my curiosity about Sam. I’ve replayed that night at Lucky Baldwin’s, as well as that day in the hallway, more times than I’m comfortable with. Now that I’ve come face-to-face with him once more, I have to laugh; for all of the yarns I’ve spun, I don’t know Sam at all. If I sat down next to him right now, I wouldn’t have anything to say to him. Maybe just to sit down next to him and get to know him better should be the first step. I know this is elementary (dear Watson) to most people, but for me the art of flirtation usually looks a bit more . . . unhurried. So far, my tried and true method is I befriend someone for years while they date other women and then I’m completely shocked when they finally condescend to date me. Obviously, you’d have to put in some time, but the benefits are pretty clear. You too could find yourself in a two-year relationship with someone who doesn’t know or satisfy you in any way. Win-win!

  “Peanut M&M’s?” Martin asks, beer in hand, as he takes a quick break from the Boston butt.

  “More protein,” I say, handing him the bag.

  “Yes, that’s what we’re in dire need of. More protein,” he says, giving me a quick hug.

  “That’s why they’re better for you than plain,” I say, on tiptoes.

  “I tried to tell her not to,” Martin whispers.

  “It’s adorable that you thought you could stop her from inviting Sam,” I say.

  “Sam?” Martin says, pulling out of the hug.

  “Yeah, I—”

  “You remember Jeremy Hannon, my friend from college?” Martin asks. I’m stunned. It’s actually stunning. I’ve said countless times before now “I’m stunned” and now I know that that was all hyperbole. Because right now . . . this? This is 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 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.