The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient 3)

My throat locks, and I shake my head ineffectually. How can he expect me to speak up for him when I can’t even speak up for myself? I’m not allowed to. Why can’t he see that?

When I don’t answer him, his features droop with disappointment. “This isn’t working. I can’t do it anymore.”

A jolt of adrenaline makes my heart squeeze, and my senses stand at red alert. “Do what?”

“Us. You’re breaking my heart, Anna.”

I can’t bear the sadness in his eyes, so I look down at my feet and do my best not to make a sound as my tears fall. I hate that I’m hurting the person I love. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate how trapped I am in my life. There’s no winning for me. I’ll never be able to please everyone.

“I’m going to go,” he says.

Everything inside me rebels at his statement, and I bunch the fabric of my dress in my hands as I fight the urge to reach out and stop him. There’s an invisible barrier around him now, and I’m not allowed inside it.

“I don’t want you to go,” I say, and it feels like the words come from my very soul, they’re so true.

Instead of answering, he turns around and continues down the sidewalk to his motorcycle. Without looking back at me once, he puts on his helmet, climbs on, starts the engine, and drives away.

I watch him until he’s gone, and even then, I stare at the intersection where he turned and disappeared from view. That’s it. We’re over now. He’s broken up with me. I’m not ready for a future where I never see him again. Yes, I still have my family. But what do I have to look forward to now? Where is my safe place now?

He’s just a man. I shouldn’t feel so empty with him gone. But I know I’ve lost something important, something essential. Because I haven’t just lost him. I’ve also lost the person that I am when I’m with him—the person behind the mask.

I’ve lost me.

“Anna, are you out here?” I hear Faith call out behind me.

I can’t find it in me to move or tell her where I am. I don’t want to be found. It’s quiet out here, and I want to be alone.

But footsteps come my way, and soon she says, “Here you are. Are you okay?”

Feeling tired to the marrow of my bones

, I look at her over my shoulder and nod.

“Priscilla said it’s time for you to play,” she says hesitantly.

My throat is almost too swollen to speak, but I manage to say, “Okay.”

“You look so sad, Anna. Did something happen?”

I don’t have the energy to answer her question, so I shake my head and walk quietly to the house. As I’m opening the front door, I say, “Getting my violin.”

She flashes an uncertain smile at me and heads back to the party.

My feet feel impossibly heavy as I make my way up the stairs to my room, where my violin case is resting on the floor underneath a pile of dirty laundry. I kneel on the floor, brush everything off the instrument case, and after a small pause, open it. There’s my violin.

It’s not a Stradivarius and isn’t worth millions of dollars, but it’s mine. It’s good. I know its sound, the feel of it, the weight of it, even the smell. It’s a part of me. Running my fingers over the strings, I remember all the trials and triumphs that we’ve gone through together. Auditions, opening nights, my introduction to Max Richter’s recomposition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, my obsession with his recomposition, the performance that put me on YouTube, the circular hell of the piece that I can’t finish . . .

It’s a shame I have to break this violin tonight.

But I don’t see that I have a choice. I can’t play. If I try, I’ll just humiliate myself in front of my harshest critics—my family. The mental problems that I’m facing aren’t worthy of their respect or even a cursory attempt at understanding. In their minds, I need to identify the problem, find a solution, and get on with it. It should be that easy.

So I’m doing that now, just not in the way they’d prefer.

I take my violin from its case, relishing the familiar way its curves fit into my hands, and I hug it. I’m sorry, my friend, I whisper in the safety of my mind. I’ll fix you afterward.

After tightening the bow, I apply rosin. There’s no need. I won’t be playing tonight. But that’s part of the ritual. It has to be done.

Then I walk from my childhood bedroom, down the hall, to the top of the staircase. Gripping my violin tightly by its neck, steeling my heart, I prepare to throw it down the stairs with as much strength as I can muster. It’s a hardy instrument, and I can’t just dent it. It must be injured to the point where it’s unplayable. That’s the entire point of this.