The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient, #3)

by Helen Hoang

I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.

attractive. She’s in her mid-fifties is my guess, on the thin side, and always wears moccasins and handmade jewelry. Her long hair is a sandy brown threaded with gray, and her eyes . . . I can’t remember what color they are even though I was just looking at her. It’s because I focus in between people’s eyes. Eye contact scrambles my brain so I can’t think, and this is a handy trick to make it look like I’m doing what I should. Ask me what her moccasins look like.

How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?

“I know,” I say. And I really do understand, logically. But emotionally, it’s another matter.

“I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason . . . try not doing it.”

In the end, I neither yell nor cry. I sit there like a deer in headlights, which is my default reaction to most things—inaction. I don’t have a fight-or-flight instinct. I have a freeze instinct. When things get really bad, I can’t even talk. I fall mute.

I know this is one of those conversations that I’ll be replaying in my head for days and analyzing from different angles.

Something is wrong with my mind. I can see it when I take a step back and analyze my actions, but in the moment, when I’m practicing, I can never tell. My desperation to please others deafens me so I can’t hear the music the way I used to. I only hear what’s wrong. And the compulsion to start over is irresistible. For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then?

It’s such a signature piece that if it isn’t just so, critics can be vicious. I won’t give them an opening. I can outmaneuver them. I can be more vicious to myself than they are, and in so doing, I will win. Art is war.

If someone’s going to lie to make others feel good, it better be me.

I like knowing this thing about her. Some people collect stamps. I collect quirks, stowing away secret traits about people in my mind like treasure. It makes people real to me, special.

Telling Quan that I didn’t want to give him a blow job might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

He doesn’t know me, though. How can he, when even I don’t?

He shifts against me, pulling my thigh up along his side, and rolls his hips. I feel him, hard where I’m soft, and I know what’s coming. The good part of sex is ending, and the not-so-good part is starting. I don’t mind, though. This has been the best sex of my life.

“I can’t be autistic,” I say, interrupting her. “I hate math. I don’t have a photographic memory. I fit in. I have friends, a boyfriend, even my mom’s friends like me. I’m nothing like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory or—or—or the brother in Rain Man.”

She gets mad at me when I have an “attitude,” which is what she calls it when I disagree with her or express frustration or anger or any emotion contrary to what she wants.

You were smiling and laughing more. You were happy.” “Smiling and laughing doesn’t always mean happy.” “I can tell when you’re happy,” she says confidently. I shake my head quietly. There’s no way she knows when I’m happy, not when the things I say and do around her are specifically designed to make her happy.

“We’re family. I’m always here for you. It’s the pressure, right? Pressure is my life. I can talk you through it.” I squeeze my eyes shut and refrain from groaning. I know what’s coming. “Prioritize, break things into small achievable tasks, and make a to-do list. I do that every day,” she says.

I vividly remember a time when I was sick during grade school. My dad handed me a Tylenol bottle and instructed me to read the directions as he rushed out the door to catch a flight for a business trip, leaving me to manage my fever on my own. I was old enough that it wasn’t illegal to be home alone (I think), and clearly, I managed just fine. But I lost something that day. Or maybe I just grew up. I don’t know.

The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

“You can swear around me, you know. I’m a grown-up.”

When this numbness is gone, I’m sure I’ll have feelings about this.

When we reach my dad’s room, I release Quan’s hand and take a moment to gather myself. I shut my eyes and automatically reach for the appropriate persona. My posture changes. I change.

He quietly checked up on me when I got in trouble with my mom and often defended me, even though he was scared of her, too. I miss his full-bodied laugh. I miss his dry humor.

life. I’ve always had a take-it-or-leave-it attitude when it comes to people, meaning if they don’t like what they see, they can fuck off. But this is Anna’s mom. I have to make an effort and figure this out, even if it’s uncomfortable and frustrating and goes against who I am. Anna cares, so I care.

She scrutinizes all the records she can get her hands on, she gets copies of his brain scans, she dogs the nurses and doctors with so many questions and directions that I feel sorry for them. They look positively harassed, and her lack of confidence in their competence must be hard for them to swallow. They don’t understand that this is just her way, it’s not personal, but she’s already put one of the nurses in tears. To make up for it, I try to be as nice to everyone as humanly possible. I am kind, I am sweet, I am considerate, I buy the hospital staff pastries.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess. This can’t be fun for you.” She takes a breath and puts on a smile that’s bright and happy. It’s so convincing that I can’t tell it’s fake, and that’s kind of terrifying. “I didn’t come here to have fun. I just wanted to be with you,” I tell her. “I don’t need you to pretend to be anything other than what you are, even if you’re sad.”

Our mom nods in approval. “Anna could play his song.” I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from commenting on how both of them volunteered me for the night’s entertainment without bothering to ask me first. My compliance is and has always been a foregone conclusion with them. In these modern times, people are told that they have the right to say no anytime they want, for whatever reason they wish. We can let nos rain from our lips like confetti. But when it comes to my family, that word is not mine. I’m female. I’m youngest. I’m unremarkable. My opinion, my voice, has little to no value, and because of that, my place is to listen. My place is to respect. I say yes. And I look happy when I do it. Service with a smile.

she rambles on about who she’ll invite and what we’ll eat, how much fun it’ll be for everyone. Except for me. She knows parties are challenging for me, though clearly she’s not interested in why, and fully expects me to attend and be at my absolute best anyway. I’m not allowed to protest or complain or have an “attitude.” That’s unacceptable.

But I didn’t speak up when I had the opportunity. I never speak up. So this is our path now. We’re all trapped, just like he’s trapped. We have to see this through.

It’s what I’ve wanted, a chance to leave this house, but now that it’s here, I feel bad jumping at the opportunity. I shouldn’t want to leave. I should want to stay. A good daughter would stay.

Even as I think that, I find myself wondering, Do they really love me, though? Can they, when they don’t know who I truly am?

It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding. That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt. Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.

It has to be me, what I said. It’s always me. And like always, I don’t understand why.

He hates this. And so it resumes. I help change his diaper even though I know the process brings him shame. When we’re done, my mom leaves, and I feed him even though I know he doesn’t want to eat. I realize we’re the same, the two of us. Neither of us can speak. Our lives are both dictated by other people.

What they see is not who I am. It’s the mask that they love, the mask that’s suffocating me.

It’s the truth. I’m not mad. Anymore. And I moved on. But I don’t know how to tell him that. He’ll be angry. His mom will be angry. That will make my mom angry, which will make Priscilla angry, and they’ll start pressuring me, pushing me, making me feel worse and worse and smaller and smaller, all because they believe they know what’s best for me better than I do. I can’t deal with that. Not right now. Please, not now. I’ve fallen into darkness, and I don’t see a way out. But I’m fighting. I’m trying. I’m trying as hard as I can to do what’s right, to be what people need. I don’t have anything more to give. I wish I did.

She strokes my hair much like Julian did earlier, and I hold still and let her, even though it feels like ants are crawling on my scalp. It’s how she demonstrates affection for me. When I was young, I lashed out when people—my grandparents, aunts, uncles, et cetera—tried to touch me this way, and I was chastised and punished for it. It hurt people’s feelings and made them feel rejected, a terrible sin, especially between a child and an elder, so I learned, by necessity, to grit my teeth through it. I grit my teeth now.

I shouldn’t have said anything, I know that. But I’ve been doing that for so long that it feels like the words are piling up, pushing to get out, demanding to be heard. Please, please, I want to scream, please understand me. Stop judging me. Accept me.

Every minute, more guests arrive. The tables fill up. The noise escalates. Activity levels escalate. I shake hands with unfamiliar people and hug familiar ones. I make small talk, pushing my brain to its limits as I follow the conversations with careful attention, reason through what I think people want to hear as quickly as I possibly can, and then say it with the correct delivery, which involves facial expressions, voice modulation, and hand motions. I’m a marionette, hyperaware of all the strings I need to pull in order to give a convincing performance.