by Helen Hoang
When I turn onto my street, my head is calm and the only things I want are a cold drink of water and ice for my knee, but Michael is waiting outside my apartment building. He’s got sunglasses on, his hair is perfect, and he looks like he’s ready for a fashion shoot. It’s kind of disgusting.
“Hey,” I say, using the front of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. “What’s going on?” It’s a Saturday, and he’s always got stuff going on with his wife, Stella. It’s weird for him to be here.
Michael pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and gives me a direct look. “You haven’t been picking up, so I started to worry.”
“I must have forgotten it on Do Not Disturb again.” I pull my phone out of the holder strapped to my arm, and sure enough, there are a bunch of missed calls. “Sorry.”
“This isn’t like you,” Michael says.
“I forgot,” I say with a shrug, but I’m purposefully missing the point. I know what he’s getting at. I just don’t want to talk about it.
He doesn’t let me avoid the topic, though. “So, did you hear from the doctor? What did they say?” His face is creased, and I notice now that he’s got bags under his eyes.
I guess that’s because of me, and I’m sorry for it. He’s really tried to be there for me over the past two years. Some things I just have to do alone, though. I squeeze his arm and smile reassuringly. “It’s official, I’m good. Completely recovered.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you lying because you don’t think I can handle the truth?”
“No, I’m really all better,” I say with a laugh. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.” Aside from my rickety knee, I’ve never been healthier. Things could have been much worse, and I know how lucky I am. I’m more grateful than words can describe.
But big life events change people, and the truth is I’m different now. I’m still figuring everything out.
Michael surprises me with a crushing hug. “You motherfucker. You had me so scared.” He pulls away, laughs in between deep breaths, and swipes at his eyes, which are suspiciously red. The sight makes my own eyes prick, and we’re about to have some kind of emotional man moment when he grimaces and rubs his palms on his pants. “You’re all wet and gross.”
I smirk, relieved that the intense moment has passed, and barely resist the urge to smother him with my sweaty armpit. Two years ago, I would have done it without hesitation. See? I’m different.
He probably wants to talk, so I sit down on the steps outside my building and motion for him to join me, which he does. For a while, we sit side by side and enjoy the afternoon, the cool air, the rustling of the leaves in the trees that line the street, the occasional passing car. It’s kind of like when we were kids and used to sit on the front porch of my house and watch the homeless guy walk by in nothing but a T-shirt. Seriously, why wear a shirt if you’re going to leave your dick hanging out?
“I’d invite you up to my place, but it stinks. I think it’s my dishes.” I haven’t done the dishes in . . . I don’t know how long. Pretty sure they’re growing mold. Recently, I’ve been eating out a lot due to pure laziness and dish avoidance.
Michael chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe you should hire a cleaning person.”
“Eh.” I don’t know how to explain that I don’t feel like having to deal with a stranger in my apartment. I’m a people person. Strangers don’t usually bother me.
“What does your doctor say about dating . . . and other stuff? Are you cleared for that?” Michael asks, casting a carefully neutral glance my way.
I rub the back of my neck as I say, “I’ve been good to go for a long time. Some guys even get back at it a couple weeks after surgery, but that’s kind of extreme. That would hurt, you know?”
“You’re good now, though, right?”
“Yeah.” More or less.
“So are you seeing people again?” Michael persists.
“Not really.” From the look on his face, I know he understands that I really mean “not at all.” My body feels personal in a way it never did before. Getting naked with someone was never a big deal in the past. Sex was never a big deal. Plus, I was good at it, and that’s always a confidence booster. But now I’m scarred and slightly damaged. I’m not what I was.
Michael gives me a long look before he kicks at some rocks on the pavement. “I’ve thought about how you might be feeling. I can’t say I really know, because it’s not happening to me. But have you thought about maybe just ripping the Band-Aid off?”
“You mean like stripping down and riding naked through SF on Naked Bike Day?” I ask.
Michael grimaces like he’s in pain. “Can you even ride anymore after everything?”
I give him a disgusted look. “You’re doing it wrong if you ride sitting on your balls.”
He laughs and scrubs a hand wearily over his face. “Sorry, you’re right. And no, Naked Bike Day isn’t what I meant. I was thinking that maybe, if you’re uncomfortable about being with someone again, maybe it would help to just do something really casual that doesn’t matter. Like a one-night stand, you know? Just to get the first time over with. And by ‘first time,’ you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been thinking about doing something like that, too.” It’s just that the idea of it leaves me feeling hollow, which isn’t like me. Casual sex has always been my thing. No strings attached. No expectations. No promises. Just fun between consenting adults.
“I have a friend who—”
My whole body cringes, and I don’t wait for him to finish before saying, “Thanks, but no, thanks. I don’t want to be set up with anyone.” Least of all Michael’s female friends. They try to hide it because he’s taken, but they’re all in love with him. I don’t want to be some weird kind of consolation prize. And what kind of prize would that even be with me like I am? “I know how to meet people.”
“But will you actually go out and do it?” Michael asks. “From what I can see, all you do is work and run now.”
I shrug. “I’ll reinstall my dating apps. It’s easy.” And kind of boring. It’s always the same thing—messaging hot chicks, recycling the same witty lines, arranging a time and place, meeting and flirting and all that, the sex, and then going home alone after.
Michael gives me a skeptical look, and I make an exasperated sound and unlock my phone.
“Here, I’ll do it right now. You can watch.” I download a bunch of apps, some that I’ve used before, some that I haven’t.
Michael points at one of the apps and arches his eyebrows. “Pretty sure that one’s only used by prostitutes and drug dealers now.”
“You’re shitting me.” It’s a famous app that everyone was using two years ago.
He shakes his head emphatically. “There’s this whole code that they speak to avoid cops and detectives and everything. I wouldn’t really recommend that app for you. It’ll get awkward. Do you need tips on pickup lines or anything? You’re kind of scaring me.”
I delete the app and give him an insulted look. “I had cancer, not amnesia. I remember how to have a hookup. And how do you even know about that app? You quit dating before I did.”
Michael shrugs, cool as a cucumber. “People tell me things. You can tell me things. Anytime. About anything. You know that, right?”
“I know.” I release a tight sigh. “And I’m glad you came. I need to move on. This will be good for me. So . . . thanks.”
He smiles slightly. “I’m going to go, then. Stella’s parents are coming over for dinner, and I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet. Unless you want to come?”
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. Stella’s parents are nice and all, but they’re so proper and wholesome that hanging around them always feels like a trip to the principal’s office to me. I’ve spent too much time in principals’ offices as it is.
“Let me know how it goes, okay?�
�� Michael asks.
I feel stupid about it, but I give him a thumbs-up.
With a wave good-bye, he heads off. Only when he’s disappeared around the corner do I recognize the hollow pang in my chest. I miss him. It’s the weekend, nighttime is rolling around, and I’m super aware that I’m all by myself.
I open up one of my old apps and start editing my profile.
FOUR
Anna
The next morning, I awaken on my couch in the same exact position as when I collapsed last night, too tired to go the extra distance to my bedroom. I slept like a corpse, and I basically feel like one today. My head aches, and my muscles are sore. It’s like I have a hangover even though I missed the fun of actually getting drunk. Yesterday was too much. The looping hell of violin practice. Therapy. Dinner with Julian. The blow job. Our discussion.
Ugh, I’m in an open relationship now. I need to decide if I want to start dating. Groaning, I cover my face with a throw pillow. I should get up and start my day, but I have zero desire to do anything.
My purse vibrates against my thigh, and I plop a limp hand inside and half-heartedly fish for my phone. If my mom is yelling at me about something, I’m going to ignore her until lunchtime. I just can’t deal with her right now.
It turns out it’s not text messages from my mom. It’s a picture of Rose’s fluffy white Persian cat in a pink tutu. She’s only sent the picture to me because Suz is a late riser.
What do you think? she asks.
I laugh silently to myself as I reply, You take your life into your own hands every time you do that to her.
I know. I’m lucky I still have all my fingers. But she looks so pretty dressed up! she says.
She looks like she’s plotting your murder, I tell her.
But she’ll do it IN STYLE, she says, pausing briefly before she messages me again. How are you today?
I don’t have energy to go into it, so I keep things simple. I’m okay. Still processing. Thanks for asking.
I really do think you should try dating. I meant what I said about it helping to empower me, she says.
I’m considering it, I reply, and because I don’t want everything to be about me, I ask, Are you exhausted today? You were texting past midnight your time.
Yes, so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m supposed to hear back from the producers for that special project on TV this week.
I think you’re going to hear good news. You’re exactly who they need, I say.
I hope so! I really, really, really love this piece.
Envy sparks in my chest at her remark, and I dislike myself for it. I wish I still loved music like she does, that it brought me joy instead of this suffocating pressure. I will be happy for her if this opportunity pans out, though. I’m not a complete monster.
How are you doing on the Richter piece? Any progress? she asks.
I hate talking about my progress on the Richter piece—because there never is any—so I keep my reply short. Nope. But I’ll keep trying anyway. I should get to it.
Good luck! she says. One of these days, everything is going to flow right out of you. You’re just creatively constipated right now.
I don’t believe her, but I keep my reply light so that she doesn’t turn this into a long motivational chat. I hope so. Have a good one!
I don’t want to, but my bladder forces me to get up and plod to the bathroom. Bad instant coffee and half a bagel later, I drag myself to the secretary desk in the corner of my living room where my black instrument case resides. Rock sits next to the case, his painted smile aimed up at me, and I pet him once in greeting.
“You’re such a good boy,” I say. “The cutest rock I’ve ever seen.”
His smile doesn’t move, of course it doesn’t, but I can tell he’s pleased with the attention. If he had a tail, he wouldn’t be able to control his wag. I recognize that it’s possibly a bad sign that I’ve taken to anthropomorphizing a stone, but there’s something about his crooked eyes and mouth that gives him an extra splash of character. After a moment, I can tell he wants me to get to business, and I sigh and focus on the instrument case.
My life is in this box. The best parts. And the worst, too. The highest highs and the lowest lows. Transcendent joy, yearning, ambition, devotion, desperation, anguish. All right here.
This is the ritual: I run my fingertips over the top of the case, undo the latches, and open it up. I retrieve my bow and tighten the horsehairs, apply rosin. I shut my eyes as I breathe the pine scent into my lungs. This is the scent of music to me, pine and dust and wood. I pull my violin out and tune the strings, starting with the A. The discordant sounds relax me. Adjusting the tension of the strings relaxes me. Getting the notes to ring true relaxes me, the familiarity, the everydayness, the illusion of control.
I begin with scales. Critics can say whatever they want about me artistically, but when it comes to my technical abilities, I have always been a strong violinist. It is because of these scales, the fact that I practice them for an hour every day, rain or shine, in sickness and in health. I set my timer and run through my favorite keys, the sharps, flats, majors, minors, the arpeggios, the harmonics. The notes sing from my violin effortlessly, fluidly, as slow or as fast as I want them to.
At the end of the day, however, scales are just patterns. They aren’t art. They don’t have a soul. A robot can play scales. But music . . .
When the alarm on my phone rings, I turn it off and step over to the music stand that I keep by the French doors leading to my small balcony, which overlooks the street below. The sheet music is sitting there, ready for me, but I don’t really need to see it. I memorized the notes long ago. I see them in my sleep most of the time.
The top of page one reads “Untitled for Anna Sun, by Max Richter,” and that title alone nearly makes me hyperventilate. There are probably violinists who would commit murder if it would inspire Max to write them something, and yet here I am, letting these pages gather dust in my living room.
I glance at Rock, and his smile looks a little stretched now, a little impatient. He wants me to get on with it.
“Okay, okay,” I say. Taking a breath, I straighten my back, settle my violin under my chin, and bring my bow to the strings.
This is the last time I’m starting over.
Only nothing sounds right, and when I get to the sixteenth measure, I know that was all garbage. I’m not playing this with the right amount of feeling. I can hear it, and if I can, others will, too. I stop and start back at the beginning.
This is the last time I’m starting over.
But now I sound like I’m trying too hard. That’s a horrible criticism to get. Back to the beginning.
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.