The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient 3)

“You are.”

Her eyes turn glassy, and her mouth turns down at the corners. “I’m not. But I keep trying to earn things for real this time.” Her tears spill over, and I pull her into my arms and hold her, wishing I knew how to make things better.

“Why do you think you didn’t earn it before?”

“I got that solo spot because Daniel Hope got hit by a car, and all the violinists who would have been next in line, too. And then after that, the composer, Max Richter, invited me to tour in Daniel’s place because his ribs were broken and my video went viral, which was only because I tripped and talked to the music stand. That’s some horrible kind of luck, not hard work, and definitely not talent,” she says.

“Okay, yeah, I get what you’re saying. Luck had a lot to do with it, but you had to be a strong violinist in order to make success out of the opportunity. Not everyone could have done that,” I say, hoping cool logic will help her feel better. “And I don’t know anyone else who would have spoken to that music stand. That’s all you.”

She makes a half-laughing, half-sobbing sound. “That’s my true claim to fame—talking to things that aren’t alive.” Pushing away from me, she wipes a sleeve across her face. “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.”

Her smile immediately fades, but she takes my hand in hers and holds it to her chest, over her heart, as fresh tears track down her face and her chin wobbles. She doesn’t say anything, but I understand what she means.

I kiss her temple and her cheek, wipe her tears away with my fingers, trying to comfort her, trying to let her know that I care. She turns toward me so our lips meet, and the kiss is slow and aches with feeling. It says the things I didn’t say earlier.

You’re a big deal—to me. You’re amazing—to me.

This yearning for her, this craving, it’s sunk so deep into me that it’s part of me now. This is how Quan is now. He’s crazy about this one girl.

There’s a loud clanging as something hits the floor, and we both turn toward the sound. Anna’s mom stares at us in her floral-print old-lady pajamas, her short hair standing up all over like she just rolled out of bed. On the floor, sitting on its side in a small pool of water, is a large metal cup, the insulated kind that keeps things hot or cold for hours.

“Hi, Ma,” Anna says before she rushes to get a towel and clean up the mess while her mom watches without moving. “You’re up early.”

I smile at Anna’s mom like I wasn’t just caught kissing her daughter and kind of bow my head without saying anything. I don’t know how to address her. “Mrs. Sun” feels too formal, but even if I knew her name—which I don’t—I wouldn’t feel comfortable using it. She’s at the same level as my mom, and calling my mom by her name is the kind of disrespectful thing that would get me smacked in the mouth.

“Are you hungry? Quan brought food from his mom’s restaurant. I’ll heat it up for you,” Anna says quickly.

“Not yet.” Her mom finally moves and walks over to the island by the fridges and peeks inside the boxes. “From your mom?” she asks me in surprise.

“Yeah, the wontons freeze really well,” I say. “When you want to eat them, you just boil them until they float.”

“Tell her thank you for us, please,” Anna’s mom says, looking genuinely touched.

“Sure, she’ll—”

A shout from the other side of the house interrupts me. “Anna, I need help pulling Dad up.”

Anna sets her mom’s freshly washed metal cup on the table and hurries off. “Be right back.”

I can’t stand around doing nothing, so I start sorting through the food that didn’t make it into the fridges. “Priscilla said there’s another fridge in the garage. I’ll take this out there if you show me the way.”

“No, no, leave it there. I’ll take care of it.” Anna’s mom shoos me away from the boxes with her hands. Giving me a considering look, she asks, “Quan. How do you spell that?”

Immediately, I know she’s not asking because she wants to write me a letter someday. She wants to know where my parents came from and thinks she can guess it from the spelling of my name.

“Q-U-A-N. It’s Vietnamese,” I say, making it easy for her, and though she nods and smiles, I can tell that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. I’m the wrong variety of Asian for her daughter. We’re really not all the same.

Anna returns to the kitchen. “Priscilla wants to give my dad a bath, and I should help.”

“I’ll get going, then,” I say. I’ve only been here about an hour and it took just as long to get here, but I know when I shouldn’t hang around.

Her forehead wrinkles with worry. “Are you sure—”

“It’s no problem.” I squeeze her hand once so she knows I mean it, but when I sense her mom is watching us closely, and disapproving, I let her go.

“It was good to see you,” I tell her mom before Anna walks me back to the front door, where we stand in the doorway, not ready to part yet.