A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck

I’m a cyclops—or worse, Millie Miner the day she wore so much makeup for our senior picture it looked like we actually had a class clown.
    â€œWhy are you looking at me like that?” Hands on my hips, I pretend to be brave, pretend this is the best idea since the Colonel invented Kentucky Fried Chicken.
    â€œBecause I’m wondering if you’ve lost your mind. Do you even know what it takes to make it as a songwriter?”
    â€œYes, well, a little.”
    â€œYou’re going to get lost in the sea of wanna-be Nashville songwriters. For every one that makes it, there’s a million more trying.”
    â€œI’m not one in a million?”
    He points his finger at me and laughs low. “Ah, clever girl. I’m not falling for that one-in-a-million bait. I’ll live to regret it.”
    â€œClever boy.” As I’m talking, I retrieve my little black notebook and a pen from my hip pocket.
    â€œLook, baby, all I’m saying . . . What are you doing?”
    â€œJust jotting some thoughts.”
    â€œWe’re in the middle of a discussion.”
    â€œHold on a sec.” I scribble one-in-a-million, clever girl, clever boy .
    â€œRobin—” He reaches for my arm, knocking my book and pen to the ground.
    â€œRicky!” I jerk away, stooping to pick them up. “Thin ice, bud. Very thin.”
    â€œYou weren’t listening.” He stares at me for a second. “Until Friday night, the only singing you ever did was on your grandpa’s porch. Songwriting is a long shot.”
    â€œOh my stars, you sound like Momma.” I tuck my notebook and pen in my hip pocket.
    Ricky gently tugs me close. The scent of stale cologne mingled with sweat and river water stings my nose. He brushes my lips with the tip of his thumb, then lowers his lips to mine. “Let’s get married, make a few babies.”
    His words electrify the hairs on the back of my neck. “You just want to have sex.”
    His grin is impish. “Do you blame me? Look at you. Cuddlier than a passel of pups and sexier than Shania.”
    â€œShania? You’re crazy.”
    â€œAsk any man in Freedom, Robin.”
    â€œWhat? You’ve talked to other men about me?” My entire body burns with embarrassment.
    â€œNo, but get your head out of the sand, Robin. Men know what other men are thinking.”
    I narrow my eyes and make a fist. “Look, I’m not marrying you just so you can sleep with me. Shoot, Ricky, what kind of woman would I be?”
    â€œVery happy.” He snickers.
    My protesting fades with a laugh. “You’re sure of yourself.”
    â€œI love you. I want to marry you. I want to sleep with you under the stars on the bank of the Tennessee River. I want twelve kids that look just like us.”
    â€œTwelve kids? What’re you thinking?” Sex on a muddy riverbank and having more kids than I got fingers. Ha! “Ricky, it’s taken me a long time to work up the guts to admit my dream, and you’re asking me to cash it in for a roll in the hay.”
    â€œNot one roll. Many rolls.” He tries to sound sultry, but it’s more like a tacky used-car salesman telling me, “She runs like a top.”
    â€œBesides,” he continues, “you can write all the songs you want right here in Freedom.”
    â€œNo one in Freedom is going to buy my songs.”
    â€œProbably no one in Nashville will either.”
    I stare toward the river. I hate that he’s half right. But more, I hate his argument against me.
    â€œLife’s too short to be chasing rainbows,” he says.
    I bristle back at him. “Life’s too short not to chase a rainbow or two.”
    â€œCome on, forget about Nashville.” In one deft move, he swings his leg around, knocking my feet out from under me. We tumble to the ground amid the tall grass as I hoot with laughter. I can’t help it. This is the irresistible