Grabbing my guitar, I leave, and drive to the club. I'm doing this. No one is going to stop me from reaching for my dream.
My grandfather used to tell me to shoot for the stars, and not the road in front of me. He said I'm the one who creates my path, and I shouldn’t rely on anyone else to lay it out for me.
I believe him, and that's why I'm standing outside the door of the club, my heart racing, my chest growing tight, my palms sweaty.
And then out of nowhere, the jerk across the hall pops into my head. The hot jerk, with big baby blues, and hands that are so big, fingers that are so thick, my body tingles all over just thinking about them on me.
No, he's an asshole. Forget him. You're in Nashville to sing.
Exhaling a heavy breath, I head inside and find the manager. There are two people in front of me, so I tuck myself off to the side. Nervously, I tap the body of my guitar with the tips of my fingers.
I can hardly stand still, I'm freaking out, and I'm trying to do my best not show it on the outside. I'm failing miserably. Sweat is beading up on my forehead, my stomach is knotting up, and there's a giant lump in my throat. My fingers are shaking, and no matter how much I try to stop them, they only tremble more violently.
“So, you're Heather,” a man says as he leans against the wall. “I'm Dave. I own the place.”
“Oh, hey. Yeah, I'm Heather. Thank you so much for this opportunity.”
Tucking his arms under each other, he gives me a smile as he rolls a toothpick between his teeth. “It ain't easy breaking out, but there are other ways I can help make that happen.” Flashing his brows, his eyes run up and down my body. “If you know what I mean.”
Cringing, the performer right before me comes down off the stage. “I do, and no thank you. Looks like I'm up.” Quickly, I walk away from the slimy owner, and head up on stage.
Grabbing the microphone, I pull the shitty stool closer and sit down. “Hey, how is everyone tonight?”
Looking out into the crowd, I get a few soft hoots, but mostly crickets.
Smiling, I lower the mic a little. “I'm Heather, and this first song is called “Carried.”” I strum the guitar lightly and adjust myself on the stool.
My fingers move along the neck of the guitar, and I gently pluck the strings. Inhaling a deep breath, I let it out. I do what I've always felt I was meant to do.
I sing.
“Every moment of my life I've been carried,
I've been shown the path to take,
Given the cup to drink from.
Lost along the way. . .”
I can feel the words as they pour out of me, smooth, loud, filled with everything I have. It's like I'm giving them a piece of my soul, sharing what I feel inside.
Hammering down on the guitar, my voice pushes out as I hit the chorus. “I don't want your help! I don't want your future!”
Suddenly there's a loud screeching noise and the microphone just shuts off. The speakers pick up some feedback, and the crowd falls silent. Everyone is staring at me.
I'm like a deer in headlights. Idly sitting there like a statue.
Keep going! the little voice inside me yells, kicking me in the ass.
So, I keep singing. Pushing my voice out louder and harder. I get off the stool and walk to the edge of the stage. Closing my eyes, I give everything I have.
But no one seems to care.
People are starting to get up and leave. Others are so invested in their conversations they don't even bother to glance up.
Am I that bad?
Tears start to bubble up over my eyes, wondering if I made a mistake. Maybe I should have just stayed home and worked with my mother. . .
My mind starts to run wild, wondering if I should have listened to her. I could have done anything, anything else in the world, so why did I choose this?
Standing on stage, the room begins to erupt with cheers and applause as people stand from their seats. A smile starts to slip up my face, and my cheeks flush.
They loved—
I'm bumped from behind, then on both sides. Glancing around, a group of half-naked dancers are taking their places. A stagehand runs up and grabs the mic, and techno music begins to play.
I'm still standing here, frozen and embarrassed, and not sure what to do. This isn't how it's supposed to go.
One of the girls bumps me with her hip, and snaps. “Time’s up, you can go.”
Backing away, my fingers are clutching the neck of my guitar, and I'm ready to burst into tears.
I'm a failure. What the fuck was I thinking?