by Helen Hoang
I take and release a deep breath and unclasp my hands to give my stiff fingers a break. “You’re right. I haven’t played for my own enjoyment in a long time. I’ll try to do that,” I say, offering her an optimistic smile. In my heart, however, I know what will happen when I try. I will get lost playing in loops. Because nothing is good enough now. No, “good enough” isn’t right. I must be more than “good enough.” I must be dazzling. I wish I knew how to dazzle at will.
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.
I don’t want to call him back.
But I do.
“Hey, babe,” Julian answers.
I’m walking down the sidewalk alone, but I force a smile onto my face and enthusiasm into my voice. “Hi, Jules.”
“I heard good things about that new burger place by Market Square, so I made us a reservation at seven. Gonna try to make it to the gym, so I gotta go. Miss you. See you there,” he says quickly.
“What new burger pla—” I begin to ask, but then I realize that he’s already hung up. I’m talking to myself.
I guess I’m going out tonight.
TWO
Anna
Confession: I don’t like giving blow jobs.
That’s probably not a good thing to be thinking while I have my boyfriend’s dick in my mouth, but here we are.
Some women enjoy this act, and I figure their enjoyment drives them to excel at their craft. For me, however, it’s tiring, monotonous work, and I doubt I’m great at it. My mind often wanders while I’m down here.
For example, right now, I’m going over what Jennifer said in therapy earlier today. 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.
As Julian guides my head up and down, I think about how my jaw aches and I’m tired of sucking—is he even concentrating? It’s been a long day, and after smiling and being bubbly for him throughout dinner, my endurance is shot. But I keep going. His pleasure is supposed to be my pleasure. It shouldn’t matter if it takes forever.
Please don’t take forever.
Naturally, this train of thought leads me to remember that line everyone’s mom tells them at some time during their youth: If you keep making that face, you’ll look like that forever. Ladies and gentlemen, if I’m going to be stuck with this sucking face for the rest of my life, you might as well kill me now.
He finally finishes, and I sit back, rubbing at the blower’s wrinkles around my
mouth. They’re set deep into my skin, and I know from experience that it’ll take several minutes for them to go away. My mouth is full, and I force myself to swallow, even though it makes me shudder. When we first started dating, Julian told me that it hurt his feelings when women didn’t swallow, that it made him feel rejected. As a result, I’ve probably swallowed gallons of his semen to safeguard his emotional well-being.
He kisses my temple—not my mouth. He refuses to kiss me on the mouth after I’ve gone down on him, and tonight I don’t mind. When he kissed me earlier, he tasted like a hamburger. Tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up, he flashes a smile at me, grabs the remote to turn the TV on, and rests against the headboard. He is the picture of relaxation and contentment.
I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, making sure to thoroughly floss and use mouthwash. I don’t like the idea of having sperm stuck in between my teeth or wriggling on my tongue.
As I’m crawling back onto the bed to take up my regular spot next to him where I usually surf social media on my phone while he watches sitcoms, he pauses the TV and gives me a thoughtful look.
“I think we need to talk about the future,” he says. “About how we want to move forward.”
My heart jumps, and the fine hairs on my skin stand up. Is this . . . a proposal? Whatever excitement I feel at the prospect is outweighed by sheer terror. I’m not ready for marriage. I’m not ready for the changes that would bring. I’m barely handling the status quo.
“What do you mean?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice neutral so I don’t give away my ambivalence.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand affectionately. “You know how I feel about you, babe. We’re great together.”
I put on my best smile. “I think so, too.” My parents love him. His parents love me. We fit.
He caresses the back of my hand before sighting a bit of lint on my T-shirt, picking it off, and tossing it to the carpet. “I think you’re the one for me, the one I’m going to marry and have kids and a house with, all of that. But before we take that final step and settle down, I want to be sure.”
I don’t know where he’s going with this, but still, I smile and say, “Of course.”
“I think we should see other people for a while. Just to make sure we’ve ruled out other possibilities,” he says.
I blink several times as my brain struggles to shake off its shock. “Are we . . . breaking up?” Just saying those words makes my heart pound. I might not be ready for marriage, but I definitely don’t want our relationship to end. I’ve invested a lot of time and energy to make this work.
“No, we’re just putting our relationship on pause while we consider other options. We started dating exclusively when I was still in grad school, remember? Should you buy the first car you test-drive on the lot? Or should you test-drive a few more to make sure that first car is really as great as you think?”
I shake my head, quietly horrified that he’s comparing proposing to me with buying a new car from a dealership. I’m a person.
Julian sighs and reaches over to squeeze my leg. “I think we should really take some time apart, Anna. Not breaking up, just . . . seeing other people, too.”
“For how long? And what are the rules?” I ask, hoping that this will make sense if I learn more.
He focuses on the frozen image on the TV as he says, “A few months should be good, don’t you think? As for rules . . .” He shrugs and glances at me quickly. “Let’s just go with the flow and see where things go.”
“You’re going to have sex with other people?” An unpleasant feeling pools in my stomach at the thought.
“Aside from you, I’ve only been with one other person. If we’re going to get married, I want to do it without regrets. I don’t want to feel like I’m missing out. Doesn’t that make sense?” he asks.
“You’ll be okay if I sleep with someone else?” I ask, hurt and not even sure why. He makes it sound so reasonable.
He smirks slightly. “I don’t think you’ll sleep with someone else. I know you, Anna.”
I glower at his confidence.
“What? You don’t like sex,” he says with a laugh.
“That’s not true.” Not entirely. I’ve orgasmed with him twice. (Twice in five years.) And even when I don’t like the sex itself, I do like to be close to him, to feel connected to him.
It makes me feel less alone. Sometimes.
Smiling, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “I just need to know what else is out there,” he says, returning to the main point of this conversation. “Because when we marry, I want it to be forever. I don’t want to get a divorce two years later, you know? Can you see where I’m coming from?”
I look down at our joined hands. I know I should say yes or nod, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. His proposal makes me inexplicably sad.
“I’m going to leave,” I say, pushing his hand away from mine and getting up from the bed.
“Oh, come on, Anna. Stay,” he says. “Don’t be like this.”
I rub at the wrinkles around my mouth that still haven’t entirely gone away. “I need some time before—” I stop speaking when it occurs to me that he’s not going to wait until I’m ready to go through with this plan of his. He never asked for my permission. He’s already decided. I can be on board, or I can lose him. “I need to think.”
Against his continued protests, I leave. In the elevator, I sag against the wall, overwhelmed and on the edge of tears. I take out my phone and type a text message to my closest friends, Rose and Suzie. Julian just told me he wants us to see other people for a while. He thinks I’m the one he wants to marry, but before he settles down, he wants to be sure. He doesn’t want to have regrets.
It’s late, so I don’t expect them to answer right away, especially Rose, who’s in a different time zone. I just needed to reach out, to feel like I have someone I can go to when things are crashing down around me. To my surprise, my screen instantly lights up with messages.
OMG WTF?! I WILL KICK HIS ASS, Rose says.
WHAT A DICK!!!!! Suzie says.
Their instant outrage on my behalf startles a laugh out of me, and I cradle my phone close. These two are precious to me. That’s a bit ironic since we’ve never even met in person. We connected through social media groups for classical musicians. Rose plays violin for the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. Suzie, cello for the Los Angeles Philharmonic.
I’m glad you two are upset, I tell them. He acted like he was being so reasonable, and it made me question myself.
THAT’S NOT REASONABLE, Rose says.
It’s not! Suzie agrees. I can’t believe he said that!!!
The elevator door opens, and I rush through the posh lobby of Julian’s building (his parents bought him his condo as a graduation gift when he got his MBA from Stanford’s business school). I text as I walk home. I asked if he was going to sleep around, and he dodged the question. Pretty sure that means sex is on the table. Is it closed-minded of me that I hate that?
I would not be okay with that at all, Rose says.
Suzie replies, Me neither!!!!
I don’t know what to do now. Other than, you know, go out and have revenge sex with a bunch of random guys, I say.
I expect them to laugh in response, but instead, the group chat goes eerily still for several moments. Cars pass by, their engines extra loud in the quiet of night. Frowning, I check if I’ve lost cell reception—there’s one tiny bar. I hold my phone up higher just in case that will get me an extra micro-bar of connectivity.
I get a text from Suzie first. Maybe you should take advantage of this opportunity to see other people.
I agree with Suz. It would serve him right, adds Rose.
I’m not saying you need to sleep with anyone, but you could turn this around. See if HE is right for YOU. Someone else might be a better fit, Suzie says.<
br />
That makes so much sense, Suz. Think about it, Anna, Rose says.
I can’t help making a face as I type my response with my thumbs. Meeting new people isn’t my favorite. I haven’t dated in five years. I think I forgot how. To be honest, I’m scared.
Don’t be scared! Rose tells me.
Dating can be fun and kind of relaxing, Suzie says. It’s not an audition or anything. You’re just seeing if you and this other person are a fit. If you don’t like them or something embarrassing happens, you never have to see them again. There’s no pressure. Every time I dated a new person, I learned a little more about myself. There’s no incentive to try to be someone else, you know what I mean?
Also, from someone who’s done it many times, one-night stands can be empowering. It’s how I learned to demand what I want in bed and not be ashamed. 100% recommend, Rose says, adding a winking emoji at the end.
You almost make me regret getting married, Suzie replies.
Rose’s advice strikes a chord with me, though I’m not exactly sure what it is that resonates. I know this is one of those conversations that I’ll be replaying in my head for days and analyzing from different angles.
My old-fashioned apartment building comes into sight, Victorian rooftops and tiny iron balconies with well-tended planter boxes. Home. Suddenly, I’m aware of how drained I am on every level. Even my thumbs are tired as I type out a last set of messages. I need to think about this. Just got home. Going to call it a night. Thank you for talking to me. I feel better. Sorry to bother you so late. Love you guys.
It’s no bother. We love you! says Suzie.
Anytime! LOVE YOU! Good night! says Rose.
THREE
Quan
I might be an addict.
A running addict. If my mom caught me doing drugs, she’d chase after me with a clothes hanger—she wouldn’t catch me, though. I ran yesterday for three hours, and I’m at it again today even though my left knee’s been acting up. I just can’t seem to stop. Lately, it’s the only thing that keeps my mind off stuff.