The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(74)

Right now.

Right. Now.

RIGHT. NOW.

Priscilla hurries down the stairs with a violin case in tow and holds it out toward me like it’s a prize. “There. Tune it up and come on out. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

I clench the remnants of my violin in my hands until the jagged ends pierce my skin and bite out the words, “I can’t play.”

Priscilla heaves an annoyed sigh and looks heavenward. “Yes, you can.”

“I can’t play,” I repeat.

“You’re so frustrating,” Priscilla says through her teeth. “You need to do it for Dad. It’s his birthday.”

“What’s going on in here?” my mom asks before she appears on the opposite end of the hall and walks toward us, followed by Julian and a handful of curious relatives.

“She’s refusing to play. She dropped her violin, so I gave her my old one. And she still won’t do it,” Priscilla explains.

“I can’t play,” I repeat again. “I told you why, but you won’t—”

“You want to know how to deal with your anxiety? You tune your violin, you take it out to the stage, and you play your song one note at a time until you’re done. That’s it. You just do it,” she says. She even smiles, like it’s funny that I don’t understand something so obvious. After extracting her old violin from its dusty case, she holds it out for me to take. “Go out there and do it, Anna.”

This is the end for me. I don’t wage any internal battles against myself. It’s not as simple as she says. Not for me. And she won’t even try to understand. She just wants me to do what she says, like I always do.

“No.” I say it firmly and deliberately despite how strange it feels on my tongue.

For the span of a heartbeat, two, she looks at me like what just happened defies comprehension. Then she hisses, “You’re being a spoiled little—”

“I’m not doing it,” I say in a raised voice so she has to listen to me.

Priscilla visibly recoils at my public show of disrespect, and my mom utters a sharp, disapproving, “Anna.”

“You see what I’m dealing with?” Priscilla cries.

“You won’t play for Ba?” my mom asks, looking bewildered at the idea. “You need to play his song for him. This might be your last chance.” Her expression collapses with pain, and tears shine in her eyes.

I shouldn’t be able to hurt more than I do, but I feel like I absorb her pain into myself and add it to my own. It’s unbearable. I can’t contain it all. I feel myself breaking open as I say, “My last chance was months ago. He’s not listening now. He doesn’t want any of this. We’re torturing him because we can’t let him go.”

“Don’t say ‘we.’ You don’t have that problem. You’re tired of taking care of him. You told me you want him to die,” Priscilla says, pointing a finger at me as that sneer from before twists her face.

My mom gasps and covers her mouth as she stares at me in horror. All the people standing in the room stare at me the same way. Shame and humiliation swamp me.

“I’ve been trying as hard as I can, but it’s not enough,” I say in a choked voice. “I can’t keep going on like this. I’m tired, and my mind is sick. I need help. Can we please get help so we don’t have to do this alone anymore? Why does it have to be just us?”

“You know what?” Priscilla says. “Since you’re so ‘sick and tired,’ why don’t you pack up and leave? You haven’t been doing anything anyway, and I’ve been cleaning up after you nonstop. You’ll make everything easier for me if you go back to your apartment and sit on your ass there.”

Her words feel like the worst kind of treachery, and wild hurting tears through me. I told her that I’m sick and I need help, and she threw my words in my face. There’s no recognition of what I’ve done or how hard I’ve struggled to be here for everyone, including her. It’s nothing to her.

Why have I been tormenting myself like this, then?

I shove the remains of my violin in the plastic container and run up the stairs to my room to pack my things. I have to get out of here.

“Hey, are you, uh, okay?” Julian asks from the doorway.

“I’m fine.” I don’t mean for it to happen, but my words come out as a shout.

He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me. He’s never seen this side of me before. No one has, not since I learned to mask. But now my mask is just as shattered as my violin is. I messed up. I talked back. I said no. People know about the awful thing that I told Priscilla.

You want him to die.

I’m no good anymore.

I can’t be loved anymore.

Working as fast as I can, swiping at the tears streaming continuously down my face, I shove my clothes, clean and dirty, into my bag. Then I move to the bathroom and get my toiletries. As I’m forcing shut the zipper on my bag, there’s a jingling sound as Julian pulls the keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll take you back to your place,” he says.

The thought of being trapped in a car with him for an hour right now is intolerable. There’s no way I can deal with that. “I need to be alone. Thank you, but no,” I say with what remains of my control.