Free More Like Her by Liza Palmer Page A

funny,’ ” I say.
    “Ha!” Sam laughs.
    “I’m quite fond of Mr. Earley’s accent,” I say, flushing immediately.
    Sam looks at me. A smile. Flipping wildly through my slide show of Sam Earley smiles, I realize this is one I had yet to see.
    I say to Harry, “Come on, sweetie. We’ve got work to do. Say good-bye to Mr. Earley.”
    “Bye, Sam,” Harry says, resituating the plastic bag filled with ice. I lay my hand on Harry’s shoulder and guide him over to the stairs. Harry begins up the stairs.
    “You’ll tell me later about the eye?” Sam asks, his hand reaching out just a bit.
    “It’s a long story that ends in me tilting at windmills,” I say, trying to joke about a situation about which I’m still equal parts confused and enraged.
    “That’s my girl,” Sam says, scanning the hallway.
    Um, what?
    “Yeah, well,” I say, looking from Sam to a very curious Harry. I motion to Harry with an apologetic smile and a wave.
    Sam waves back. Standing where he was. Unmoving. I look back and give him a smile. A little wave.
    He raises his hand, the hard hat held aloft.
    Ouuuuuuuuch.

Chapter 6
I Was Pretty Good, Too
    T hat’s my girl’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jill asks.
    “I have no idea,” I answer. Truthfully. So begins the exhausting analysis of the cavalcade of unknowable smiles and cryptic sentences uttered by someone you’re newly interested in. When everything boils down to a succession of enigmatic moments. Moments played and replayed from the perspective you attribute to your lover-to-be, but that are actually from the part of you that’s sure you’re far too flawed to be loved. Every action, every word, every inch of one’s body is judged. Life’s normal fluidity melts away and is obliterated by the roller-coaster-like ups and downs of a really bad electrocardiogram.
    Jill and I walk quickly up the long driveway to Emma’s house that night for the head of department mixer. We stop short of the house and take it in. Jill pulls out her phone and takes a quick picture. Emma and Jamie’s house is a midcentury modern. Two stories, lots of windows and clean lines. You can see the entire interior of the house from the driveway. No privacy at all. The minimalist staircase leading upstairs and the orange lacquered credenza and pair of Barcelona chairs that grace the main entryway are all clearly visible from the driveway.
    “There better be wine,” Jill whispers just as the front door opens. I shoot her the first of many disapproving glances of the evening.
    It’s Jamie.
    “Hi, it’s so good seeing you again,” I say, extending one hand to Jamie as I’m holding a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine with a name I can’t pronounce in the other.
    “Jamie Dunham,” he says, his icy fingers curling around mine.
    “Yes, I know. We’ve met,” I say, passing him the bottle of wine.
    “I know,” he says.
    “Good,” I say, looking into the living room.
    “Jill Fleming,” Jill says, passing Jamie a hostess gift: a basket containing far too many decorative soaps, bath salts and lotions.
    “Jamie Dunham,” he says, opening the door just enough to let us both walk in. He sets Jill’s basket in the hallway and takes my red wine over to the bartender.
    As usual, everyone is milling around the living room and not eating a thing. The bow-tied waiters thread through cliques of people with full trays from which no one partakes. A perfectly catered fete and no one is touching the beautiful food. Welcome to L.A. But, of course, everyone’s wineglasses are constantly being topped off. That’s something we certainly don’t skimp on. Carbs—sure. Wine— never .
    “Sam might have a woman back in Tennessee,” Jill says, taking a crab cake off a full tray.
    “You think I haven’t thought of that?” I say, waving off the waiter.
    Jill nods. An apologetic smile and a quick shoulder squeeze. She’s deftly treading water between giving me a pep talk and keeping my emotions in