A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck

Songwriter’s Association, I can sign up to audition for the Bluebird’s Sunday night Songwriter’s Night as early as tomorrow if I want.
    I think I’m getting hives.
    So, I make a Robin McAfee decision. And it’s forbidden to go back on one of my decisions. It’s my own weird rule, and somehow it works.
    Here it is: I’m going to kick fear in the patoot, dig up a mustard seed of courage, and sing at an open-mike night within the month.
    Besides, we don’t know when Jesus plans on coming back, and I sure-as-shooting don’t want to be caught holding my one dinky talent over a hole in the ground.
    â€œOops. Hey, Jesus, I’ve been meaning to do something with this . . .”
    On the napkin Jeeter gave me, scrawled in black ink, is Birdie Griffin’s address: 2120 Ashwood Avenue. It’s a boxy-looking three-story brick with a wide stone porch and tall windows. I turn into the drive and glance up at the third floor. Welcome home.
    I park behind an old blue Mercedes and step out. The rain has stopped, but my clothes are still wet from rescuing Mallory. I adjust my jeans, loathing the icky feeling of my skivvies sticking to me. I hadn’t figured on meeting my new landlady looking like a wet pup.
    To hide my wet hair, I reach behind the seat for the Auburn cap Eliza gave me for Christmas her freshman year. Mallory’s hair looked cute, my hair looks like a ragged mop. For the first time, I consider doing something with my hair. New town, new ’do?
    A car horn toots wildly down the street, and a hand waves out the window. I grin and wave back. Skyler. She whips in behind my truck and hops out of her . . . BMW? Wow, Music Row lawyering pays.
    â€œRobin! You made it.” She runs toward me with her arms spread wide, looking like a snapshot from Vogue . Then says, “You’re . . . wet.” She stops short, lowering her arms.
    â€œNice to see you too.” I tug on the Auburn cap. “What are you doing here?”
    Skyler’s one of those instant-connect cousins. No matter how much times passes between conversations, we always pick up where we left off.
    â€œI couldn’t miss your move-in day. Besides, Aunt Bit called Mom who called me. Yadda, yadda.”
    I shake my head. “Figures.”
    Skyler motions behind her. “My office is right over there off Music Row on 17th Avenue South.”
    â€œYou’re on Music Row?” I hoist my suitcase from the truck bed. Water sloshes in my shoes.
    â€œYep, well, not technically, but Music Rowish. A few doors down.” She poses with her hands on her hips. “How do you like me now?”
    Grinning, I hand Skyler the tote bag. “Toby Keith would be proud. Maybe if I can’t make it on Music Row as a songwriter, I’ll slim my way in as a lawyer.”
    Skyler laughs, following me toward Birdie’s front steps. “I always wondered why you never went to college. You’re the smartest of all the cousins.”
    â€œDon’t know about being the smartest,” I say over my shoulder, setting the suitcase down to ring the front bell. “But I couldn’t take another four years of sitting in a desk, facing forward. But next thing I know, I’m blowing out twenty-five candles and stacking shelves at Willaby’s.”
    Skyler adjusts the strap of my hanging bag on her shoulder. “Well, it’s all going to change now. I’m glad you’re here, Robin. We’re going to have fun.”
    â€œI have a lot to learn, a long way to go.”
    â€œSo, you can still have fun.” Skyler kicks me with her sword-toe shoes. “Now tell me, whose place is this again?”
    â€œBirdie Griffin.”
    Her eyes pop. “You’re kidding. Mom would die. She loved Birdie Griffin back in the day.” Skyler sings, “‘Are you gonna keep talking boy? Just kiss . . . me . . . now . . .’”
    â€œShhh, she’ll hear you.”