They’d only heard her version delivered with a beautiful smile and a glass of Chardonnay by a woman who could make a lie feel like a favor. A BBQ would put me in the room, in the yard, face-to-face with every person she had turned against me. And when they smelled the brisket and tasted Tommy’s burgers and watched their kids run through the sprinkler, they’d know the truth. That I wasn’t a nuisance. I was a neighbor.

I spent 10 days preparing, printed 50 flyers on cardstock. You’re invited. Neighborhood BBQ at 408 Magnolia Court, Saturday, June 14th, noon to dark. Bring nothing. Eat everything.

All welcome. I walked them door to door, 48 doors. I introduced myself to people who’d lived 100 yards from me for 3 years and never said hello. Some looked surprised I was normal, a regular guy in a T-shirt and work boots, not the menace Valerie had painted. A few looked guilty.

I left a flyer in Valerie’s mailbox. She never acknowledged it. Of course she didn’t. Acknowledging it would mean admitting I existed as something other than a problem she was solving. I also installed four security cameras, wireless, high definition, two covering the backyard, two covering the front.

Cloud upload. Motion activated. Mounted where the eaves met the fascia, small enough to miss, positioned to capture everything. Friday night I prepped. Trimmed the briskets.

Salt, pepper, garlic powder, the holy trinity. Firebox lit at 4:00 a. m. Saturday. Both briskets on by 4:30. Ribs at 7:00.

By 9:00 a. m. the smoke was rising in a thin blue column above my backyard. 82° not a cloud in the sky. The live oak was throwing shade. Table set. Coolers full.

Tommy pulled up at 10:30, dented tailgate, Yeti cooler. He pulled out his flat top griddle charcoal ground beef cheese and a brand new apron, bright red. White block letters, kiss the cook. “Really?” I said.

“It was on sale.” He set up the griddle next to the smoker, fired it up. The stage was set. The first guests arrived at 11:30. Dave and Linda Hoffman, potato salad and a case of Shiner Bock.

Dave shook my hand hard enough to reset a bone. Linda hugged me. Their kids ran straight for the sprinkler. By noon, 20 people. By 12:30, 35.

They came in waves. Families from the school drop-off line. A retired couple from the far end, the Petersons who brought homemade egg rolls worth the price of admission alone. A single mom named Tess who lived four houses down and told me she’d been wanting to come for months, but thought I only invited certain people. She’d heard that from somewhere.

I knew exactly where. Ray Castellano brought his speaker and a playlist that started with George Strait and ended near Selena. His wife brought a tres leches cake so good, I nearly proposed to her in front of Ray, and Ray said he wouldn’t blame me. Tommy was in his element. He stood at the griddle in the red kiss the cook apron flipping smash burgers with the precision of a man who’d been doing it for two decades.