The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(9)
This is really the last time I’m starting over.
But it isn’t. I’m a liar. I start over so many times that when my alarm rings, telling me it’s time for lunch, I’ve lost count of how many restarts I’ve had. All I know is I’m exhausted and hungry and on the edge of tears.
I put my violin away, but instead of heading to my kitchen to reheat the leftovers of yesterday’s leftovers, I slump down to the floor and bury my face in my hands.
I can’t keep going like this.
Something is wrong with my mind. I can see it when I take a step back and analyze my actions, but in the moment, when I’m practicing, I can never tell. My desperation to please others deafens me so I can’t hear the music the way I used to. I only hear what’s wrong. And the compulsion to start over is irresistible.
For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then?
I have to make a change. I have to do something and take control of this situation, or I’ll be stuck in this hell forever.
Jennifer said I need to stop masking and people pleasing, that I should start with small things, in a safe environment. Her suggestion that I try it with family, however, is ridiculous. Family is not safe. Not for me. Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you’re already bruised and berates you when you don’t heal faster.
If I’m going to stop people pleasing, I need to try it with the very opposite of family, which is … complete strangers.
Pieces click into place in my mind one after the other, like pin tumblers in a lock when the proper key is inserted. Stop masking. Stop people pleasing. Revenge on Julian. Learn who I am. Self-empowerment.
Reckless resolve grips me, and I push myself off the floor and march into my bedroom to yank open my closet door. I have fifteen different black dresses in here, no low necklines, no high hems, perfectly decent dresses for a concert stage. I shove them aside and look for something that will show off my cleavage and thighs.
When I see the red dress, I go still. I purchased it for a Valentine’s Day that Julian wasn’t here to celebrate with me. The way things are going, I’ll probably never get the chance to wear it for him. I’m not sure I want to anymore.
But I can wear it for me.
I take off my exercise clothes from yesterday that I’ve never actually exercised in and step into the dress. It’s tighter than when I tried it on last, but it still fits. When I turn around, my eyes widen at how my butt has grown. A pity. Julian would love this, though he wouldn’t approve of my methods. I didn’t drink protein shakes and spend hours in the gym doing donkey kicks and squats. These curves are made of Cheetos.
I reach under my arm and yank at the price tag until the plastic snaps. I will wear this dress out. Maybe not today. But soon.
After retrieving my phone, I search the App Store for “dating apps” and install the top three.
FIVE
Quan
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, AND I’M UNWINDING FROM A LONG WEEK, with an entire pizza to myself, a cold beer, and this documentary about an octopus. I haven’t had a social life in two years, so I’ve basically watched all of Netflix by now, even that series about the samurai assassin who gets paid to kill a cat. Lucky for me, the ocean fascinates me, and I think octopuses are cool.
But when the burned-out filmmaker befriends the octopus and they shake hand and tentacle, I don’t know, I’m … sad. I find myself scrolling through the dating apps that I neglected all week. I’ve been matched with a bunch of people.
Tammy. Light hair, dark eyes, great smile, great body. She wants to have a big family, loves craft beer, and is training to be a special-ed teacher. I sigh. She’s perfect—if I’m looking for a girlfriend. Which I’m not. Pass.
Naomi. Gorgeous brown eyes, mysterious smile, curves for days. A business executive who dreams of traveling the world with a spe cial someone. I like everything about her, but that has serious relationship written all over it. Pass.
Sara looks like an honest-to-God Barbie doll and just wants a fun time. My interest is definitely piqued. Until I read further and see she’s considering adding a seventh man to her harem. I’ve tried some wild shit in my day, but an eight-person orgy is not what I had in mind for my first time back, or ever, to be honest. Pass.
Savannah, pass. Ingrid, pass. Jenny, pass. Murphy? Wow, okay, Murphy is drop-dead gorgeous, volunteers at nursing homes, and—the kicker—is saving their virginity for true love. Pass.
Naya. Fran. Penelope. Pass. Pass. Pass.
I’m thinking I need to switch apps or narrow my search criteria when I come across Anna. Her picture is so sweet that I almost skip her on principle, but I keep looking because I can’t help myself. She’s got a self-conscious smile and dark eyes that manage to be soft yet penetrating. They draw me in.
In her profile, she says, “Looking to spend an uncomplicated evening with someone nice. Just one night, please.” Under occupation and hobbies, it says, “Not applicable.”
Her picture and profile seem so out of tune that I look back and forth a bunch of times, trying to understand how they belong to the same person. Based on her photograph, I’d say she’s the serial monogamist type who should be looking for flowers and forever, not a meaningless hookup.