by Helen Hoang
PRAISE FOR
The Bride Test
“With The Bride Test, Hoang has once again shown readers the importance of representation in literature, while also creating a sexy, compassionate story about the power of love and the enduring American Dream.”
—The Washington Post
“With serious moments offset by spot-on humor, this romance has broad appeal, and it will find a special place in the hearts of autistic people and those who love them.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Everything you want a romance novel to be.”
—NPR
“Hoang sheds light on a rarely represented segment of society, literally rewriting who is deserving of the leading role in a romantic novel.”
—Vogue Hong Kong
“The Bride Test is positively delightful. . . . It’s smart, honest, and achingly romantic, just as sexy as it is sweet.”
—Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of Daisy Jones and the Six
“Helen Hoang is a master of building characters that feel relatable.”
—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren
“Prepare to fall in love all over again. . . . The Bride Test is a charming love story that is equal parts sexy and sweet.”
—PopSugar
“Refreshingly real.”
—Marie Claire
“A heartwarming contemporary romance.”
—OprahMag.com
“A stunning, superior romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A winning love story that gives a voice to underrepresented characters.”
—Booklist
“We couldn’t get enough of Helen Hoang’s debut novel, The Kiss Quotient, so it’s no surprise her second book is at the top of our list.”
—Good Housekeeping
“From the author that rocked the lit world with her 2018 novel The Kiss Quotient comes an equally addicting read that is perfect for summer.”
—Women’s Health
“Hoang writes with the kind of humanity that we all should embody, the kind that makes you believe that there is still an abundance of good left in the world at any given moment.”
—Shondaland
“This new quirky, heartwarming romance will make you believe in love again.”
—Woman’s Day
“Hoang’s books are tenderly personal.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Hoang writes sensitively about underrepresented characters, while balancing heavier themes with light, sweet humor.”
—PureWow
“You’re not just reading a fun novel, you’re also reading a novel that’s giving visibility to groups that aren’t often written about.”
—Betches
“A charming novel about the different forms that love can take.”
—New York Post
“Helen Hoang’s books . . . are both delicious love stories and also deeply personal.”
—Glamour
“Refreshing, different, and uplifting.”
—The Everygirl
“This is one of the romance books of the year—deeply felt and beautifully written.”
—BookBub
Titles by Helen Hoang
THE KISS QUOTIENT
THE BRIDE TEST
THE HEART PRINCIPLE
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Helen Hoang
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Helen Hoang
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780451490841
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Berkley hardcover edition of this book as follows:
Names: Hoang, Helen, author.
Title: The heart principle / Helen Hoang.
Description: New York: Berkley, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2021016848 (print) | LCCN 2021016849 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593197837 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451490858 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3608.O1775 H43 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.O1775 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016848
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016849
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi
Title page art: Heart tracks © Tartila/Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for THE BRIDE TEST
Titles by Helen Hoang
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Before
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Two: During
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Part Three: After
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
Dedicated to all the caregivers out there: those who care because they want to, those who care because they have no choice, and especially medical professionals during the COVID-19 pandemic, every s
ingle one
Part One
Before
ONE
Anna
This is the last time I’m starting over.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I mean it every time. But then, every time, something happens—I make a mistake, I know I can do better, or I hear, in my head, what people will say.
So I stop and go back to the beginning, to get it right this time. And it’s really the last time this time.
Except it isn’t.
I’ve spent the past six months doing this, going over the same measures again and again like a rhinoceros pacing figure eights at the zoo. These notes don’t even make sense to me anymore. But I keep trying. Until my fingers hurt and my back aches and my wrist throbs with every pull of the bow on the strings. I ignore it all and give the music everything I have. Only when the timer goes off do I lower my violin from my chin.
My head is spinning, and I’m parched with thirst. I must have turned my lunch alarm off and forgotten to actually eat. That happens a lot more often than I care to admit. If it weren’t for the zillions of alarms on my phone, I might have accidentally ended myself by now. It’s out of consideration for life that I don’t keep any plants. I do have a pet. He’s a rock. His name is, very creatively, Rock.
The alarm notification on my phone screen says THERAPY, and I turn it off with a grimace. Some people enjoy therapy. It’s venting and validation for them. For me, it’s exhausting work. It doesn’t help that I think my therapist secretly dislikes me.
Still, I drag myself into my bedroom to change. Attempting to muddle through things on my own hasn’t helped, so I’m determined to give this therapy thing a try. My parents would be disgusted by the waste of money if they knew, but I’m desperate and they can’t mourn dollars they don’t know I’m spending. I remove the pajamas that I’ve been wearing all day and pull on exercise clothes that I don’t plan to exercise in. Somehow, these are considered more appropriate in public even though they’re more revealing. I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.
Outside, the air smells of car exhaust and restaurant cooking, and people are out and about, bicycling, shopping, catching late lunches at the cafés. I navigate the steep streets and weave through the pedestrians, wondering if any of these people are going to the symphony tonight. They’re playing Vivaldi, my favorite. Without me.
I took a leave of absence because I can’t perform when I’m stuck playing in loops like this. I haven’t told my family because I know they wouldn’t understand. They’d tell me to quit indulging myself and snap out of it. Tough love is our way.
Being tough on myself isn’t working now, though. I can’t try harder than I already am.
When I reach the modest little building where my therapist and other mental health professionals have their practices, I key in the code 222, let myself in, and walk up the musty stairs to the second floor. There’s no receptionist or sitting room, so I go straight to room 2A. I lift my fist toward the door but hesitate before making contact. A quick glance at my phone reveals it’s 1:58 p.m. Yes, I’m two minutes early.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, uncertain what to do. Everyone knows that being late isn’t good, but being early isn’t great either. Once, when I showed up early to a party, I literally caught the host with his pants down. And his girlfriend’s face in his crotch. That wasn’t fun for any of us.
Obviously, the best time to arrive somewhere is right on time.
So I stand here, tormented with indecision. Should I knock or should I wait? If I knock early, what if I inconvenience her somehow and she’s annoyed with me? On the other hand, if I wait, what if she gets up to go to the bathroom and catches me standing outside her door grinning creepily? I don’t have enough information, but I try to think of what she’ll think and modify my actions accordingly. I want to make the “correct” decision.
I check my phone repeatedly, and when the time reads 2:00 p.m., I exhale in relief and knock. Three times firmly, like I mean it.
My therapist opens the door and greets me with a smile and no handshake. There’s never a handshake. It confused me in the beginning, but now that I know what to expect, I like it.
“It’s so good to see you, Anna. Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.” She motions for me to enter and then waves at the cups and hot water heater on the counter. “Tea? Water?”
I get myself a cup of tea because that seems to be what she wants and set it on the coffee table to steep before I sit in the middle of the sofa across from her armchair. Her name is Jennifer Aniston, by the way. No, she’s not that Jennifer Aniston. I don’t think she’s ever been on TV or dated Brad Pitt, but she’s tall and, in my opinion, attractive. She’s in her mid-fifties is my guess, on the thin side, and always wears moccasins and handmade jewelry. Her long hair is a sandy brown threaded with gray, and her eyes . . . I can’t remember what color they are even though I was just looking at her. It’s because I focus in between people’s eyes. Eye contact scrambles my brain so I can’t think, and this is a handy trick to make it look like I’m doing what I should. Ask me what her moccasins look like.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say because I’m supposed to act grateful. The fact that I actually am grateful isn’t the point, but it’s true nonetheless. To add extra emphasis, I smile my warmest smile, making sure to wrinkle the corners of my eyes. I’ve practiced this in a mirror enough times that I’m confident it looks right. Her answering smile confirms it.
“Of course,” she says, pressing a hand over her heart to show how touched she is.
I do wonder if she’s acting just like I am. How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?
It starts then, the recap of my week, how have I been, have I made any breakthroughs with my work. I explain in neutral terms that nothing has changed. Everything was the same this week as the week before, just as that week was the same as the week before it. My days are essentially identical to one another. I wake up, I have coffee and half a bagel, and I practice violin until the various alarms on my phone tell me to stop. An hour on scales, and four on music. Every day. But I make no progress. I get to the fourth page in this piece by Max Richter—when I’m lucky—and I start over. And I start over. And I start over. Over and over and over again.
It’s challenging for me to talk about these things with Jennifer, especially without letting my frustration leak out. She’s my therapist, which means, in my mind, that she’s supposed to be helping me. And she hasn’t been able to, as far as I can tell. But I don’t want her to feel bad. People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves. So I’m constantly assessing her reaction and editing my words to appeal to her.
When a deep frown mars her face at my lackluster description of the past week, I panic and say, “I feel like I’m close to getting better.” That’s an outright lie, but it’s for a good cause because her expression immediately lightens up.
“I’m so happy to hear that,” Jennifer says.
I smile at her, but I feel slightly queasy. I don’t like lying. I do it all the time, though. The harmless little lies that make people feel nice. They’re essential for getting along in society.
“Can you try skipping to the middle of the piece that you’re struggling with?” she asks.
I physically recoil at the suggestion. “I have to start at the beginning. That’s just what you do. If the song was meant to be played from the middle, that part would be at the beginning.”
“I understand, but this might help you get past your mental block,” she points out.
All I can do is shake my head, even though inside I’m wincing. I know I’m not acting the way she wants, and that feels wrong.
She sighs. “Doing the same thing over and
over hasn’t solved the problem, so maybe it’s time to try something different.”
“But I can’t skip the beginning. If I can’t get it right, then I don’t deserve to play the next part, and I don’t deserve to play the ending,” I say, conviction in every word.
“What is this about deserving? It’s a song. It’s meant to be played in whatever order you want. It doesn’t judge you.”
“But people will,” I whisper.
And there it is. We always come to this one sticking point. I look down at my hands and find my fingers white-knuckled together like I’m pushing myself down and holding myself up at the same time.
“You’re an artist, and art is subjective,” Jennifer says. “You have to learn to stop listening to what people say.”
“I know.”
“How were you able to play before? What was your mindset then?” she asks, and by “before” I know she means before I accidentally became Internet famous and my career took off and I went on an international tour and got a record deal and modern composer Max Richter wrote a piece just for me, an honor like nothing else in the whole world.
Every time I try to play that piece as well as it deserves—as well as everyone expects me to, because I’m some kind of musical prodigy now, even though I was only considered adequate in the past—every time, I fail.
“Before, I played just because I loved it,” I say finally. “No one cared about me. No one even knew I existed. Other than my family and boyfriend and coworkers and such. And I was fine with that. I liked that. Now . . . people have expectations, and I can’t stand knowing that I might disappoint them.”
“You will disappoint people,” Jennifer says in a firm but not unkind voice. “But you’ll also blow others away. That’s just how this works.”
“I know,” I say. And I really do understand, logically. But emotionally, it’s another matter. I’m terrified that if I slip, if I fail, everyone will stop loving me, and where will I be then?
“I think you’ve forgotten why you play,” she says gently. “Or more precisely, who you play for.”
