Free A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck Page B

I suppose.”
    Mallory props her elbow on the door’s arm and stares out. “My family was livid with me, but—” her shoulders rise and fall. “—I had to try.”
    â€œNothing wrong with trying.” The rain makes the day dreary, and I’m trembling from almost running someone over. “I’m terrified to sing in front of people.” The words come before I can think about them. “Yet I’m moving to Nashville to be a songwriter. What a hoot, huh? My momma and boyfriend think I’m crazy.”
    Mallory picks up my black notebook lying on the seat between us. “Ah, but it’s those mommas and boyfriends who inspire hit songs.” She flips through the pages without asking but without reading. For some reason, I don’t mind that she has invaded my private world. “My boyfriend—” She stops. “My ex -boyfriend was a songwriter. I do a little singing myself. At least I did.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œMr. Two-timer ran off with Miss Fake Boobs. Matt and I were in a cover band together. I paid the bills while he worked on his own stuff. Oh, we had big dreams.”
    I grin. By Mallory’s tone, I know she’s going to survive just fine. “How’d you meet this Mr. Two-Timer?”
    â€œHe wanted a backup singer for Songwriter’s Night at the Bluebird Café. A mutual friend suggested me, and next thing I know, I’m in love.” She laughs. “I was so whacked to fall for him.”
    â€œMallory . . .” I stop. What can I say to ease her pain? She just has to go through it and hopefully come out stronger. “At least you found out before you married him.”
    She cuts a sideways glance at me. “I suppose so.”
    â€œDo you have family in Nashville?”
    She nods. “Born and raised. Parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins.”
    The ring in her voice is familiar. “I have all that in Freedom, Alabama.”
    â€œMy mom hated Matt. She thought I was the one with all the talent and that he was using me.”
    â€œWas he?”
    She sighs. “Probably. It’s hard to admit.”
    â€œLove, for all it’s merits, can be confusing.”
    Mallory chuckles. “Sweet nothings make me weak.”
    A picture of Ricky flashes over my heart “Me too.”
    Raindrops still pelt the windshield, but I figure her engine is cooled by now. “Ready to water your car?”
    â€œLet’s do it.” Mallory dashes ahead while I grab the coolant from the toolbox in the truck bed.
    She ducks behind the wheel while I fill the radiator.
    â€œStart the engine,” I holler. Cold rain is running down my hair, into my jacket collar, and down my neck.
    The engine roars to life, and Mallory hops out of the driver’s seat. “Oh, yay! My hero. Thank you, thank you.”
    I twist the cap back on the Prestone. “No problem. Glad to help.”
    â€œSee you around Nash Vegas .” She pistols her fingers at me with a wink. “Hey, maybe I’ll catch you at the Bluebird Café. You’re gonna sing there, of course. I mean, if you want to be a songwriter, you have to do the ’Bird.” She scribbles her phone number on a ripped gas station receipt. “Call me when you’re going to be there. I’ll come and see you.”
    â€œSure.” Hope you’re not married with five kids by then.
    By the time I get back to my truck, Mallory’s little blue car has vanished behind the veil of rain. I shiver and reach for the last of the napkins. If you want to be a songwriter, you have to do the ’Bird.
    Mallory’s right. So focused on moving to Nashville, and not losing my nerve, I hadn’t planned beyond today.
    Anxiety and fear—evil twins, the two of them—buckle up in the seat next to me as I picture myself walking into an open-mike night or trying out for a songwriter’s night. As a member of Nashville