The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(2)

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say because I’m supposed to act grateful. The fact that I actually am grateful isn’t the point, but it’s true nonetheless. To add extra emphasis, I smile my warmest smile, making sure to wrinkle the corners of my eyes. I’ve practiced this in a mirror enough times that I’m confident it looks right. Her answering smile confirms it.

“Of course,” she says, pressing a hand over her heart to show how touched she is.

I do wonder if she’s acting just like I am. 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?

It starts then, the recap of my week, how have I been, have I made any breakthroughs with my work. I explain in neutral terms that nothing has changed. Everything was the same this week as the week before, just as that week was the same as the week before it. My days are essentially identical to one another. I wake up, I have coffee and half a bagel, and I practice violin until the various alarms on my phone tell me to stop. An hour on scales, and four on music. Every day. But I make no progress. I get to the fourth page in this piece by Max Richter—when I’m lucky—and I start over. And I start over. And I start over. Over and over and over again.

It’s challenging for me to talk about these things with Jennifer, especially without letting my frustration leak out. She’s my therapist, which means, in my mind, that she’s supposed to be helping me. And she hasn’t been able to, as far as I can tell. But I don’t want her to feel bad. People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves. So I’m constantly assessing her reaction and editing my words to appeal to her.

When a deep frown mars her face at my lackluster description of the past week, I panic and say, “I feel like I’m close to getting better.” That’s an outright lie, but it’s for a good cause because her expression immediately lightens up.

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Jennifer says.

I smile at her, but I feel slightly queasy. 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.

“Can you try skipping to the middle of the piece that you’re struggling with?” she asks.

I physically recoil at the suggestion. “I have to start at the beginning. That’s just what you do. If the song was meant to be played from the middle, that part would be at the beginning.”

“I understand, but this might help you get past your mental block,” she points out.

All I can do is shake my head, even though inside I’m wincing. I know I’m not acting the way she wants, and that feels wrong.

She sighs. “Doing the same thing over and over hasn’t solved the problem, so maybe it’s time to try something different.”

“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.

And there it is. We always come to this one sticking point. I look down at my hands and find my fingers white-knuckled together like I’m pushing myself down and holding myself up at the same time.

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

“I know.”

“How were you able to play before? What was your mindset then?” she asks, and by “before” I know she means before I accidentally became Internet famous and my career took off and I went on an international tour and got a record deal and modern composer Max Richter wrote a piece just for me, an honor like nothing else in the whole world.

Every time I try to play that piece as well as it deserves—as well as everyone expects me to, because I’m some kind of musical prodigy now, even though I was only considered adequate in the past—every time, I fail.

“Before, I played just because I loved it,” I say finally. “No one cared about me. No one even knew I existed. Other than my family and boyfriend and coworkers and such. And I was fine with that. I liked that. 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 know,” I say. And I really do understand, logically. But emo tionally, it’s another matter. I’m terrified that if I slip, if I fail, everyone will stop loving me, and where will I be then?

“I think you’ve forgotten why you play,” she says gently. “Or more precisely, who you play for.”

I take and release a deep breath and unclasp my hands to give my stiff fingers a break. “You’re right. I haven’t played for my own enjoyment in a long time. I’ll try to do that,” I say, offering her an optimistic smile. In my heart, however, I know what will happen when I try. I will get lost playing in loops. 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.