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

For a second, it looks like she’s going to say something, but she ends up touching a finger to her chin instead as she tilts her head to the side, looking at me from a new angle. “Why do you do that?” She points to her own eyes. “That thing with your eyes?”

My face blanches. I can feel my skin flashing hot and then going cold and stiff as all expression melts away. “What thing?”

“The eye wrinkling,” she says.

I’ve been caught.

I don’t know how I should react. This hasn’t happened to me before. I wish I could melt into the floor or squeeze myself into one of her cupboards and hold the door shut. “Smiles are real when they reach your eyes. Books say so,” I admit.

“Are there lots of things that you do like that, things that you read about in books or have seen other people do so you copy them?” she asks.

I swallow uncomfortably. “Maybe.”

Her expression turns thoughtful, and she scribbles something down on her notepad. I try to see what she’s written without looking like I’m peeking, but I can’t make anything out.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

She considers me for a moment before saying, “It’s a form of masking.”

“What’s masking?”

Speaking haltingly, like she’s choosing her words, she says, “It’s when someone takes on mannerisms that aren’t natural to them so they can better fit in with society. Does that resonate with you?”

“Is it bad if it does?” I ask, unable to keep the uneasiness from my voice. I don’t like where this is going.

“It’s not good or bad. It’s just the way things are. I’ll be able to help you better if I have a clearer understanding of how your mind works.” She pauses then and sets her pen down before forging ahead to say, “A lot of the time, I believe you tell me things just because you think that’s what I want to hear. I hope you can see how counterproductive that would be in therapy.”

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: parties, big dinners with our enormous extended family, school concerts, things that required me to wear itchy tights and a scratchy dress and sit still in silent suffering.

Jennifer sets her notepad aside and crosses her hands in her lap. “Our time is up, but for this next week, I’d like you to try something new.”

“Skipping to the middle and playing something fun,” I say. I always remember her to-do items, even when I know I won’t actually do them.

“Those would be great things to do if you could,” she says with an earnest smile. “But there’s something else.” Leaning forward and watching me intently, she adds, “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.”

“What’s the point of this?” It feels like going backward, and it doesn’t have anything to do with my music, which is all I care about.

“Do you think there’s a chance that maybe your masking has spread to your violin playing?” she asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but it takes me a while before I say, “I don’t understand.” Something tells me I won’t like this, and I’m starting to sweat.

“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. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing as you go in circles? You have to learn how to listen to yourself again, to be yourself.”

Her words overwhelm me. 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? I’m afraid she’s seen right through me. 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.

“What if I don’t know how to stop?” I ask finally.

“Start with small things, and try it in a safe environment. How about with your family?” she suggests helpfully.

I nod, but that doesn’t really mean agreement. I’m still processing. My head is in a haze as we wrap up the session, and I’m not entirely aware of my surroundings until later, when I find myself outside, walking back home.

My phone is vibrating insistently from my purse, and I dig it out to see three missed calls from my boyfriend, Julian—no voice messages, he hates leaving voice messages. I sigh. He only calls like this on those rare occasions when he’s not traveling for work and wants to meet for a night out. I’m exhausted from therapy. All I want to do right now is curl up on my couch in my ugly fluffy bathrobe, get delivery, and watch BBC documentaries narrated by David Attenborough.