A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck

down my arms. Another anchor drops, forcing out the last bit of my air.
    â€œHoney,” the groom-to-be says, bending to one knee, “we don’t have a song.”
    â€œHow about ‘Love Me Tender’?” the bride-to-be suggests, gripping her hands with his.
    Elvis? They want Elvis? I gaze around for the nearest escape route.
    Skyler whispers, “You got any original love songs. Might as well launch your career tonight.”
    I shake my head. The word “no” is trapped somewhere in my nether regions.
    â€œWhat? No love songs?” She pats me on the back. “We’ll work on that.”
    Help me!
    Someone shouts, “‘Making Memories of Us.’”
    Another: “How ’bout ‘Breathe’?”
    Elvis? Keith Urban? Faith Hill? They want a cover show. They’re sadists. All of them. Cruel, cruel sadists. My hands are sweating, rusting the strings.
    Skyler sticks me with her elbow. “Sing. Everyone’s waiting.”
    Purple dots. I see purple dots. A third anchor slams down on me. Suddenly, there it is. A light. A thin line between a hippy and a blue-haired Goth girl. I thrust the guitar at Skyler.
    And run.
    Skyler barges into my apartment with sultry Blaire in tow. “What’s the matter with you?” She points behind her at nothing.
    Birdie pops her head in the door. “Robin, are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I fib with a dramatic flop down to the couch.
    â€œYou are not fine. What happened?” Skyler stares at me with her hands on her hips, tapping her toe. Birdie listens by the door, and Blaire picks at her manicured nails.
    â€œI just didn’t feel like singing, that’s all.”
    Skyler drops her hands to her side. “What? Since when? Last time I was in Freedom, your Granddaddy Lukeman shut off the porch light and locked the door to get you to end the show. Only ones listening were the dogs.”
    I press my hand over my eyes. “It’s not the same thing.” I lift my head, peeking at Skyler through my fingers. From the corner of my eye, I see Birdie quietly slipping away.
    â€œI’m terrified to sing in front of people.”
    Skyler screeches, “What? Kick-butt-and-take-names Robin McAfee? Does the family know this? How can a Lukeman be scared to sing in front of people?”
    â€œStage fright.”
    Skyler and I crane around at the sound of Blaire’s voice. “Stage fright. Happens all the time. Barbara Streisand. Donny Osmond. Judy Garland.”
    â€œYes, stage fright.” I waggle my finger at Blaire. “She’s right.”
    â€œI dealt with it when I started modeling.”
    â€œPlease.” I sit forward. “How’d you get over it?”
    â€œPicture people in their underwear,” Skyler offers.
    â€œGood grief, no.” Blaire rolls her eyes.
    Skyler bites the tip of her thumbnail, thinking. “Picture them all facing the back of the room?”
    Blaire responds, “What? No. Stop guessing.”
    I agree. “Right, no underwear. Blaire, what can I do?”
    She sits in the club chair and crosses her long legs. “Get plenty of sleep before a performance, cut caffeine, listen to soothing music, meditate.”
    â€œLike transcendental meditation?” Skyler wrinkles her nose.
    â€œWell, if you’re into TM.” Blaire picks a piece of lint from her slacks.
    â€œI’m not. What else?” I ask.
    â€œTherapy and medication for really severe stage fright.” She studies me for a moment. “Seems you’ve got a severe case.”
    â€œYes,” Skyler answers for me.
    Without a word, Blaire reaches down for her purse and dumps the contents. “I got herbs, vitamins, Lexapro, Zoloft . . .”
    â€œYou take all of these?” I ask, examining the pill bottles as she hands them to me. “This can’t be good, Blaire.”
    Skyler takes one of the bottles. “Her last boyfriend