“Looks like they forgot your guacamole. I’ll get that for you.”

I recognized the voice instantly. I had seen him coming with our tray of food, but thought if I looked away really quickly it wouldn’t be him. I just wanted to pretend I didn’t know him. So I did. I kept my head turned toward Jude as he came back with my ramekin of guac.

“So, you singing around these days?”

Damn.

“Oh my gosh! Hey, uh, please refresh my memory. Mommy brain,” I laughed.

“Dave.”

“Dave. Right, right. Krista,” I said as I put my hand to my chest, re-introducing myself to this long-lost acquaintance. “This is Jason, my husband, and Jude,” I said glancing at my two fellas. “Yeah, not really singing at all. We started a publishing company, so I’m doing a lot of writing. You, uh, you drumming?”

“No, no. Getting married in two months. Working here, too. It’s, well, it’s busy.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Congrats,” I said.

“Well, I’ll let you…” he nodded toward our food.

“Yeah. Good to see you.”

And there it was. The class of 2000 reunion for two Music City drop-outs.

As I devoured my baked potato at hungry momma speed, I thought about the shame that tags along with those of us who came to Nashville so many years ago with bright eyes and green hopes. It tags along unnoticed until we run into an old classmate, the guy who filled in on percussion for a couple of gigs. And then we get reminded of something old and gone, something that made us feel like losers. But, as I picked around chives and onions I thought to myself, why do I feel so meh?

In that moment I didn’t have an answer. I just glanced up to find Dave scurrying around, filling orders as fast as he could, trying to keep a bustling lunch crowd happy. We’ve both got “real” jobs now, families, new dreams. I suppose the fear is that when we drop-outs run into each other, we’ll begin to think that our new dreams, the things we’re so passionate about these days, will somehow end up just as lost and unfinished as our dreams of making it in Music City. That we’ll always just be dreamers. The kind of people who start things, but never finish them.

And then a bigger fear sets in. That, as a way to avoid the loss, we’ll stop dreaming. We’ll stop starting. Stop living.

Before I left with Jason and Jude, I looked up one last time to find Dave. He was behind the counter of the eat-in restaurant, managing the assembly line, hefting a bulky package of sandwich tissue paper over his head, a smile on his face. He was happy. I was happy, too. We are both far more content than any Nashville success could’ve made us. He has his bride-to-be and a job that makes him feel important. And I, well, I have more than I ever dreamed possible.

Maybe next time I see Dave (or any other drop-out, for that matter) I won’t be engulfed in “should haves” and shame. Maybe I’ll finally see my season as a Nashville singer/songwriter for what it was: a courageous and lovely attempt to connect with real people through a couple verses, a chorus and a bridge. Maybe next time we won’t talk about what we didn’t do, or what we aren’t doing, but what we are doing. Because sometimes dropping out is good. Knowing when to shut down the show is just as important as perseverance and tenacity. And some dreams are never ripe.

I kissed Jason and Jude as we made our way to the car. Yep. No doubt about it. I’m living the dream.