1
KATE
LETTING GO
“This small towndon’t build my dreams/Just keeps ‘em locked up tight/With every pretty little picket fence/Sayin’ ‘Girl, don’t reach too high.” Kate Riggs
Sometimes I think I learned how to lie by watching my mother. She’s the queen of pretending—pretending we aren’t poor, pretending love shows up in a rusted-out pickup truck every other Friday, pretending a man’s hands mean more than the bruises they leave.
Back in Pine Hollow, Tennessee, it doesn’t take much to survive. A gas station coffee, a man with a working truck and a full wallet, and just enough lies to carry you through church on Sunday. Mama had all three. Still does, I bet. She stands behind that counter like it’s a stage, her lip gloss is too bright, her smile too eager. Every man who walks in smelling like diesel and disappointment gets a once-over.
She's not looking for love. She's looking for a way to afford propane and stay warm through winter.
I used to hate her for that.
She told me once, “Men don’t stay unless they get something for it. So make sure you give ’em a reason.” I was twelve. I nodded like I understood. I didn’t. Not then.
But I learned. Watching Mamma dress up and change her life around every man who had more than her was her plan. The only problem is that the men never lasted long. The men who blew through town were only using her. As soon as their plane left town, she never heard from them again.
I remember lying awake at night, counting the squeaks of her mattress through the paper-thin walls, listening to strangers unzip their jeans like it was the soundtrack of our house. Nobody ever stayed until morning. There was just a trail of muddy boots and the smell of cheap beer lingering in the hallway.
In the morning, she’d hum while making biscuits and gravy, smoking her cigarette, and flipping bacon like she wasn’t swallowing regret with every sip of her coffee. She never talked about them. It was like they were ghosts that just happened to bang her in the dark.
I tell myself I’m not her.
I don’t sleep with men for survival. I don’t trade my body for bills. I play the game, but I’ve sharpened it into a strategy. Never trust a man. I sell the fantasy, the allure of something more, but the bed stays cold. That’s the difference between Mamma and me. And that’s what I cling to like a prayer I don’t believe in, but I still need.
I want independence. I want a life out of Pine Hollow. To me, real success means never needing a man to pay the bills.
We’re similar, Mamma and me. But I think my brown eyes are filled with possibilities, and my mama’s are filled with regrets she never visits.
Still, I catch her in me. When I look in the mirror and tilt my chin just right, I have her smile. Mamma smiles too sweetly when a man stares too long. She sees opportunity, but I’m not that hopeful. I size a man up before he opens his mouth. It’s a reflex, but it’s become a learned behavior ever since Wade broke my heart in high school.
I promised myself that I’d never trust a man again. Who can trust the quarterback of the high school football team anyway? Athletes weren’t in my wheelhouse. Suffice it to say, I learned my lesson.
Tennessee is full of heartbreak and honeysuckle. The waterfalls are the only pure thing I know. I used to hike out to Pine Gorge, just to sitand listen to the water crash hard enough to drown out everything else—the moans, the lies, and the quiet shame of living in a trailer park.
Mamma’s probably going to spend the rest of her life using the checkout lane to lure every available man. Same register. Same lipstick. Still waiting on the next man with a steady paycheck and nothing to lose to walk by her. I should resent her. Maybe I do, sometimes.
But mostly, I understand her. She did what she had to do.
But I’m determined to make a living by doing what I want. It’s not easy, but the struggle is mine, and I’m not going to sacrifice it over a cheap pickup line or a pretty face.
I’ve always loved music. It’s in my soul, and the words to songs flow out of me like that waterfall. But I’ve only known one heartache, and I don’t want another one.
Wade is a reason to remain single. He was a star in our tiny town, all smiles for the cameras. But he wasn’t as nice when the lights dimmed. After him, I promised myself I’d never date another asshole. I’ve given up on love.
The only problem is that I’m pretty much celibate, because good men are few and far between.
I wish I had a man worthy of my love. But if wishes were dreams, we’d all be happy.
The only problem is—I don’t know what happiness looks like.
I never left Tennessee until someone else bought me a ticket. It was all hope and prayers until I landed an agent.
No lie—I was twenty-two the first time I got on a plane. I had a duffel bag full of Goodwill outfits, a cheap blowout from the only salon in town, and a sinking feeling that maybe I’d made a mistake. The guy who picked me up at the airport had teeth that were too white and shoes that were too clean. He called himself my agent. He said I had “that spark.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I nodded like I did.
He wasn’t even my real agent. Just one of those hustlers who takerisks on the girls nobody bets on. I fell between the in-betweeners—the almost-somebodies, and those that never make it that far.
