The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient, #3)

by Helen Hoang

Dedicated to all the caregivers out there: those who care because they want to, those who care because they have no choice, and especially medical professionals during the COVID-19 pandemic, every single one

This is the last time I’m starting over.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I mean it every time. But then, every time, something happens—I make a mistake, I know I can do better, or I hear, in my head, what people will say. So I stop and go back to the beginning, to get it right this time. And it’s really the last time this time. Except it isn’t.

If it weren’t for the zillions of alarms on my phone, I might have accidentally ended myself by now. It’s out of consideration for life that I don’t keep any plants. I do have a pet. He’s a rock. His name is, very creatively, Rock.

Some people enjoy therapy. It’s venting and validation for them. For me, it’s exhausting work.

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

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?

People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves.

I don’t like lying. I do it all the time, though. The harmless little lies that make people feel nice. They’re essential for getting along in society.

“But I can’t skip the beginning. If I can’t get it right, then I don’t deserve to play the next part, and I don’t deserve to play the ending,” I say, conviction in every word. “What is this about deserving? It’s a song. It’s meant to be played in whatever order you want.

It doesn’t judge you.” “But people will,” I whisper.

“You’re an artist, and art is subjective,” Jennifer says. “You have to learn to stop listening to what people say.”

Now . . . people have expectations, and I can’t stand knowing that I might disappoint them.”

“You will disappoint people,” Jennifer says in a firm but not unkind voice. “But you’ll also blow others away. That’s just how this works.”

I’m terrified that if I slip, if I fail, everyone will stop loving me, and where will I be then?

Because nothing is good enough now. No, “good enough” isn’t right. I must be more than “good enough.” I must be dazzling. I wish I knew how to dazzle at will.

My desire to crawl into her cupboard intensifies. I used to hide in tight places like that when I was little. I only stopped because my parents kept finding me and dragging me out to whatever chaotic event they had going on:

“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.”

“I think you’ve figured out how to change yourself to make other people happy. I’ve seen you tailor your facial expressions, your actions, even what you say, to be what you think I prefer.

And now, I suspect, you’re trying, unconsciously perhaps, to change your music to be what people like. But that’s impossible, Anna. Because it’s art. You can’t please everyone. The second you change it so one person likes it, you’ll lose someone who liked it the way it was before.

You have to learn how to listen to yourself again,...

Part of me wants to yell at her to stop spouting nonsense, to get angry. Another part of me wants to cry because how pitiful do I sound? ...

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 ...

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.

“I think we should see other people for a while. Just to make sure we’ve ruled out other possibilities,” he says.

this is bullshit

But big life events change people, and the truth is I’m different now. I’m still figuring everything out.

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.

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.

Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you’re already bruised and berates you when you don’t heal faster.

when I come across Anna. Her picture is so sweet that I almost skip her on principle, but I keep looking because I can’t help myself. She’s got a self-conscious smile and dark eyes that manage to be soft yet penetrating. They draw me in.

I was able to be myself. I didn’t pretend. For once, I feel like I’m in control of my life.

And I realize I’m playing, truly playing. This is the reason I breathe.

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.

What if in trying to be true to myself, I’m unkind to him? He looks tough, but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone. What if I hurt him?

He’s disastrously gorgeous when he smiles. Something wonderful radiates from the heart of him, realigning the features of his rough exterior and making him beautiful.

“Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away.

I need to run, to escape, to crumple up tonight like a ruined sketch and start with a fresh sheet. And he’s telling me not to. Worse than that, he makes perfect sense.

I mean I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I know there’s something and I’m not taking it personal.

She’s calling me. Not texting, but calling. The knowledge that she felt comfortable enough to take this step makes my chest light up.

I mean, she is special. But she’s not my someone special. I’m sure of this. Mostly sure.

When I’m done packing up my own stuff, I put my gear on the shelf in its assigned spot, and there our names are, side by side, LARSEN and DIEP, just like when our moms signed us up for lessons when we were in kindergarten. A lot has changed since then—I’m hardly the same person that I used to be, he isn’t either—but it’s still me and him. I think it’s always going to be this way, and the knowledge is deeply, deeply comforting.

I need to not care what people think. I need to overcome my insecurities.

“This is nice.” His chest rumbles on a chuckle. “I’m an expert hugger.” I burrow closer, pressing my forehead to his neck. “You really are.”

but I do know what it’s like to be teased. It’s part of why I go to such great pains to fit in and earn people’s approval.

Quan’s kindness and rough exterior make perfect sense to me now. They’re not contradictory. I wish I’d had someone like him in my life when I was younger.

For some people, their work is just their work, a means of survival. It doesn’t define them. But me, I’m a violinist. It’s my identity, who I am, what I am. It’s all that matters. Naturally, my favorite topic of discussion is music.

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.

My mom keeps two nail clippers attached to her key ring. It always makes me grin when I see that. Why two? How is she ever able to use them both? No one else I know does that. Khai has so many quirks that’s a quirk in itself. Michael won’t admit it, but I know he matches his outfit with his wife’s every day. When he has kids, they’re going to be that obnoxious family, and I can’t wait for it.

Now there’s Anna, and I’m excited to learn everything there is...